Chapter 15
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
Edmund Burke
It began like thunder in a sky that had long been silent.
By the end of the next day, five more criminals were found dead—throats slit, eyes wide open, hands twisted in fear. And the next day, the same. Five more.
And the next.
And the next.
It didn't stop.
It was a storm. A calculated purge. A silent execution that struck only at night.
By the end of the week, Gotham had counted fifty-five bodies. Not a single one of them was innocent. Not a single one of them was missed by the people who lived in the corners they had once terrorized. These were men and women who had committed unspeakable crimes—rape, human trafficking, abuse, murder.
The city's dark heart skipped a beat each time the Raven struck. Not out of fear—but out of awe. The newspapers screamed. The media panicked. The police stumbled over each other trying to spin the narrative. But the people…?
The people cheered in silence.
They whispered in subways and shouted from rooftops:
"The Raven is watching."
"He sees what they hide."
"Justice has claws now."
The law had failed them. Again and again. It locked up monsters and gave them back their lives a few years later, clean and untouchable. The people had learned to forget. Had been forced to forgive.
But he didn't.
Matthew—the Raven of Death—did not forgive. He did not forget. He moved in silence, cutting through the rot with a blade too sharp for compromise.
He was no longer hunting.
He was cleansing.
And the city bled its sins out, one corpse at a time.
---
It was the seventh night.
And that's when it changed.
The next man to die was not just another low-life.
He was the son of power. A predator wrapped in privilege.
He had raped five women—five souls who would never be the same. The court sentenced him to life in prison. The city held its breath.
But it didn't last.
Because his father—a millionaire with deep ties and deeper pockets—bought him freedom. One week. That was all he served.
One week in a cell.
Then the monster walked free, smiling, suit pressed, sunglasses over his eyes like nothing had happened.
He thought it was over.
Until the Raven found him.
But this time, it wasn't a clean kill.
It was war.
The boy's head was cut off and sent to the home of one of the victim's families—wrapped in black silk, with a feather lying atop it like a signature.
His right arm was mailed to another.
His left leg, his left arm, his torso—each piece sent to the homes of the families this monster had shattered. Not to glorify violence. Not to scare them.
But to say: "I heard you."
To say: "Justice is real, even when the courts ignore it."
And the city erupted.
---
The news broke like glass. Headlines screamed murder. Politicians panicked. Wealthy families locked their doors. Talk shows debated morality. Social media caught fire.
But one voice rose above the rest.
A man, red-faced and shaking with rage, stood in front of the Gotham courthouse.
The millionaire.
The boy's father.
"My son was murdered!" he screamed into the cameras. "He was cut apart like an animal! And all of you just watched—cheered! Is this what we've become?! A city that praises a killer?! That lets a butcher roam free?! The Raven of Death must be stopped! He must be hunted down and killed!"
Cameras flashed. Journalists leaned in. The man's voice cracked as he shouted into the city air.
Until another voice answered.
A voice from nowhere.
Low. Cold. Icy as winter steel.
"Why should I be killed?"
The crowd froze.
Eyes scanned every direction. The millionaire twisted around, looking wildly—up, down, everywhere. But there was nothing. No man. No shadow. Just that voice.
Floating like smoke.
He shouted, "You killed my son!"
And the voice replied:
"And your son destroyed five families."
Silence.
"Tell me…" the Raven whispered. "If it was your daughter… if it was your blood violated, broken, thrown away like trash… and the man who did it spent a week in jail… would you stay quiet? Would you stand in front of cameras and shout for mercy?"**
The question hit like thunder.
Nobody answered.
Not the reporters.
Not the crowd.
Not even the millionaire.
"Your son was a monster," the voice continued, emotionless. "I did what the law was too weak to do. I sent a message to the ones who suffer in silence: you're not alone anymore. And I sent a message to the ones who prey on the weak: your days are numbered."
Then the voice hardened, sharp and final.
"If you really believe your son was innocent…"
A pause. The crowd leaned in.
"Look at the families he destroyed. Look them in the eyes. Tell Gotham City that your son was innocent. That what he did was normal. So Gotham can take turns at your daughter, just like your son did to theirs."
Gasps filled the square.
The millionaire paled. Trembled. His hands clenched, but he said nothing.
Not a word.
Because what could he say?
The crowd stared.
The families of the victims stood nearby, eyes wet, faces numb. They didn't cheer. They didn't smile. But they didn't cry either.
They felt seen.
And for once… Gotham understood.
---
That night, somewhere in the endless sprawl of alleyways and neon rain, Matthew sat alone beneath a broken streetlamp. The light above flickered. His mask was off. His face scarred. His eyes tired.
But he wasn't sad.
Not angry.
Just… still.
He lit a cigarette. Took a slow drag.
And for the first time in days, he whispered to himself:
"I did good."
Not perfect.
Not righteous.
But good.
Because someone had to.
Because monsters don't stop just because the law says so.
Because somewhere out there, a woman slept for the first time in years, her door unlocked, her window open, unafraid of the dark.
And that?
That was enough.
---
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