Chapter 18
It was night in Gotham.
The kind of night that swallowed sound and light alike. Moonless, breathless, and cold.
And in that darkness, he moved again—the Raven of Death, choosing his next target with surgical clarity.
His boots made no sound on the broken floors of the abandoned factory. He was a shadow in a black hoodie, face hidden beneath a homemade mask, eyes sharp, calculating, dead. In his hand: the pipe. His pipe. Sharp. Black. Familiar.
Inside the building stood two men, both monsters in their own way.
Scarecrow.
Two-Face.
They were facing each other, tense and expectant.
Two-Face sneered. "Why the hell did you call this meeting, Crane?"
Scarecrow blinked. "You called it, Dent. I came because—"
And then they understood. At the same time.
This wasn't a meeting. It was a setup.
But it was already too late.
A whisper of movement. A presence behind them. Out of the shadows stepped the young man known by criminals across Gotham in hushed, terrified tones.
"the raven of death," Scarecrow whispered.
Two-Face's face twitched—half sneer, half terror. "Shit."
Matthew raised the pipe casually, pointing it at Two-Face like it were a divine scale of judgment.
"Flip the coin," he said, voice calm. "Heads, you die. Tails, you walk."
Two-Face smirked, trying to mask his fear. "You serious?"
Matthew didn't blink. "Flip it."
Two-Face flipped the coin. It spun, flashing silver in the air like a sick little god deciding fate.
But Matthew didn't wait to see how it landed.
He lunged—not at Two-Face—but straight at Scarecrow.
The attack was a blur.
Scarecrow barely had time to scream. The sharp end of the pipe pierced flesh, cracked bone. Again. Again. Again. Each strike fueled by rage, each motion faster than the last. A whirlwind in a black hoodie, a storm of hatred and violence.
Within seconds, Scarecrow wasn't a man anymore—just torn cloth and blood. His body hit the floor at the same time the coin did.
Thud.
Two-Face looked down. Tails.
He'd lived.
Or so he thought.
Matthew turned to him slowly, blood dripping from the pipe. "What's it gonna be, Harvey?"
Two-Face couldn't speak. He'd faced Batman countless times, lived through Arkham's worst, but this... This wasn't fear. It was annihilation wearing a face.
He'd heard the rumors.
How the Raven of Death tore apart the Mad Hatter like paper.
How he killed the Riddler'
How he carved Victor Zsasz
But hearing and seeing were very different things.
And now, Two-Face saw him.
And he knew. He was standing in front of death itself.
He looked down at the coin—tails.
He'd won.
But before a word could form on his tongue, Matthew moved.
One clean motion.
The sharp edge of the pipe arced through the air.
SHHHK.
Two-Face's head left his body, hitting the ground with a soft, ugly sound.
Silence returned to the factory.
Matthew knelt. Cleaned the pipe on Two-Face's suit. Took one last look at the carnage.
He turned.
And the door exploded off its hinges.
A blur of motion. Metal groaned and screamed as the massive door crashed against the wall.
Smoke cleared.
They stood there. All of them.
Superman.
Wonder Woman.
The Flash.
Aquaman.
Martian Manhunter.
And last—Batman.
The heavy hitters. The gods of the earth. The ones everyone thought untouchable.
Matthew didn't flinch. He tilted his head. "I don't remember inviting you guys to the party."
They didn't smile.
Their eyes drifted to the corpses on the floor. The shredded remains of Scarecrow. The clean-cut corpse of Two-Face. A silence fell between them. Cold. Heavy.
Superman stepped forward, arms crossed. His voice was firm but low. "I told you to stop, son."
Matthew's head snapped toward him. His voice came out sharp as broken glass.
"First off, I'm not your goddamn son, so cut the father-knows-best bullshit. Second—why the fuck should I stop?"
They didn't answer.
Matthew's voice rose. "Seriously. Why should I stop? Because you don't like what I'm doing? Because it doesn't fit your holier-than-thou handbook of pretend justice?"
Wonder Woman's voice was calm, unwavering. "We don't kill."
Matthew laughed.
A short, bitter sound. "And look where that's gotten you."
He gestured wildly to the corpses at his feet. "They keep coming back. You toss them in Arkham, and they walk out next week. Then they kill. Again. And again. And again. And what do you do? Smile, pat yourself on the back, and say, 'Job well done'?"
No one answered.
"You think this is justice?" Matthew spat. "This system you cling to? It's a goddamn revolving door of death. People are out there dying, begging for help, praying for someone to actually stop the monsters. And all you ever do is react."
He turned to Batman.
"You. Of all people. You're human. You know what they do. You've lost people. You've bled. You've suffered. And still you keep putting them back in cages like they're gonna learn their lesson."
The Flash stepped forward, quieter. "There's a line, man. You crossed it."
Matthew looked at him with disgust. "Save me the hero sermon, Barry. You've been in Central City so long, you forgot what real crime looks like. I fight monsters. You fight bank robbers with freeze guns."
Superman spoke again. "You're not helping. You're escalating."
"No," Matthew snapped. "I'm ending it. One bullet. One pipe. One scumbag at a time."
Aquaman looked at the floor. Martian Manhunter's eyes narrowed, unreadable.
Matthew pointed at all of them. "You're gods. You could wipe every criminal off the map in a week. But you don't. Because you're scared of what it would mean. Scared that maybe—just maybe—you'd have to admit the truth."
He stepped closer.
"The truth is, I'm doing what none of you have the balls to do."
The silence cracked under the weight of his words.
Then Matthew turned his back on them. Began to walk toward the back door, pipe swinging loosely at his side.
He paused at the threshold.
"You all came here expecting a villain. Expecting someone who'd beg. Someone scared."
He looked over his shoulder.
"Well... I'm not scared. I'm done. Done asking for permission. Done playing by your broken rules. You can label me a threat. A monster. A killer."
He paused.
"I call myself... free."
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