Chapter 19
"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice — unless someone breaks it first."
Paraphrased from Martin Luther King Jr., as whispered by the shadows of Gotham.
The dust hadn't even settled around the corpses of Scarecrow and Two-Face when the words cut through the heavy silence.
Before Matthew could walk out of the abandoned building, Superman took a step forward, his voice commanding yet somehow… reluctant.
"You're not going anywhere, son."
Matthew stopped mid-step. The word "son" echoed like an insult. Slowly, he turned his head, dark eyes meeting the world's strongest man without flinching.
"So what?" he muttered. "You're actually going to throw me in prison? Lock up the man who kills the killers? That's your code now, Superman?"
Superman didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward Matthew, one heavy footfall at a time. His hand reached out and gripped Matthew's shoulder.
Firm. Controlled. Final.
Matthew tilted his head back, looking up at the Man of Steel with something between defiance and disbelief.
"You know I'm human, right?" Matthew said, voice low. "I can't fight you. I'm not Batman. Sure, I'm smart—but I'm not a billionaire. I don't have a utility belt, or Kryptonian strength, or Atlantean blood. I don't even have enough money to buy a decent jacket that isn't covered in blood."
He laughed once—dark, sharp, bitter.
"So go ahead," he said. "Take me to Arkham Asylum. Let the monsters run free while the guy who slaughters them gets locked away in a padded cell."
Superman's expression faltered just slightly, something between guilt and pity creeping through. "You are broken, son," he said quietly.
That was when it happened.
They all felt it.
It wasn't a scream, or a flash of light, or some power they could scan or measure. No, this was something older. Something darker.
Something primal.
The air grew heavier than steel. The shadows thickened around them. The world itself seemed to dim, as if existence was recoiling from the boy standing in the center of them all.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't technology.
It was killing instinct.
Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Pure.
Like the void itself had taken root inside Matthew Vale and decided that he would be the vessel to show the world what justice without mercy looked like.
Wonder Woman stepped back without realizing it.
The Flash's heart skipped two beats—unthinkable for someone with his metabolism.
Martian Manhunter blinked and whispered something in Martian that translated roughly to: "He has no soul left."
Aquaman's grip on his trident tightened instinctively.
And Batman… Batman said nothing. But his face—usually stone—held something that looked dangerously close to regret.
Superman stood in the eye of it.
And he felt it the most.
Because for all his strength, his alien origin, and his unshakable moral code—he was standing face-to-face with something he couldn't punch or reason with.
It was death.
Not the kind that takes your breath—
The kind that rips out your meaning before it even touches your body.
Matthew raised his hand slowly and pulled off his mask.
The silence deepened.
They had seen photos before.
Batman had shown them files. Surveillance footage. Images of a younger Matthew Vale—before everything fell apart. Before the night his parents died. Before the boy inside him was butchered.
But this wasn't the boy in those files.
This was the man that pain forged in an alleyway soaked in blood.
This was the raven of death unmasked.
His face was young—but it was worn.
His eyes were haunted—but they burned.
His soul?
Gone.
They all saw it now.
Matthew Vale was not afraid of death.
He was death.
Superman's grip faltered.
Matthew stared straight into his eyes, voice quieter than before but sharp enough to cut glass.
"You ever call me broken again… I don't care if you're a god, an alien, or some golden boy flying hope out of his ass…"
He stepped closer. Inches away from the Man of Steel.
"I'll find a way. I'll make a way. And I will kill you."
The words didn't echo.
They didn't need to.
They just stayed.
Hung in the air like nooses waiting to tighten.
Nobody spoke.
Even Superman—heart of the League, symbol of the world—felt it in his bones:
This wasn't a threat.
It was a promise from someone with nothing left to lose.
Matthew pulled his hoodie back up, slipping the mask over his face again. Calmly. Slowly. Like it was part of a ritual.
He looked once more at the heroes—if you could still call them that.
"Next time you want to stop me," he said, "bring more than words and capes."
Then he turned and walked out of the building.
No one stopped him.
No one moved.
They just stood there—surrounded by corpses, swallowed by a truth none of them could deny any longer:
Justice had changed.
And Matthew Vale was the one rewriting the definition in blood.
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