Chapter 21
It all happened that night.
The guards came in like ghosts. Silent. Cold. Merciless. They unshackled Matthew Vale from his cot in Cell 13 and dragged him down the long, narrow hallway. No words were spoken. No orders given.
Everyone already knew.
They were taking him to the room again.
A place darker than sin. A room where the lights flickered like dying stars, and screams were absorbed into the walls like perfume into skin.
They called it "therapy."
They said it would heal the criminal mind.
But everyone in Arkham knew better.
The room wasn't for healing.
It was for hurting.
The doctors didn't believe in reform. They didn't care about change. They just liked the sounds—the screams, the gasping, the twisted symphony of agony.
It made them feel powerful.
And Matthew?
He never screamed.
Not once.
They strapped him to the metal chair with worn leather and rusty bolts. The air stank of burnt flesh and madness.
Electrodes were clamped to his head.
The doctor, wearing a smile too wide to be sane, pressed the button.
The current surged through Matthew's body like a bolt from the heavens.
His spine arched. His hands clenched. His eyes shut tight.
But he made no sound.
Not even a whimper.
The doctor waited for something. Anything. A grunt, a flinch, a whispered plea.
He got nothing.
Only silence.
Finally, he sighed and waved his hand. "Get rid of him."
The guards moved in to unstrap him—but the doctor leaned close to one of them, whispering something too low to hear.
The guard nodded.
A wicked grin forming on his face.
Two of them dragged Matthew again—this time, not toward Cell 13.
But a different door.
A room that wasn't his.
They opened it. Threw him in like garbage. Slammed the door shut behind him.
Matthew landed on the floor, unmoved.
He pushed himself up slowly and looked around the dark room.
There were two women inside.
One of them, tall and green, leaned against the wall with vines etched like veins beneath her skin.
Poison Ivy.
He'd never met her before. But he knew her face.
The other?
She leaned forward the moment she saw him.
Bright blue eyes.
Two messy pigtails.
A voice like candy laced with arsenic.
Harley Quinn.
"Oh Matty," she said, "I missed you so much."
He stared at her for a long, silent moment.
Then, he smiled.
Small. Cold.
A smile that turned the air frigid.
Even Ivy shifted uncomfortably.
That smile was not for joy.
It was a smile of a man who had planned everything—and was now watching the world fall into place.
Matthew walked forward, soft steps, no rush.
He reached Harley and placed one hand beneath her chin.
"You're still crazy as ever," he whispered, voice like broken glass.
"And that's what I want."
His fingers brushed against her neck. Not tight. Not rough.
Just enough pressure to remind her: he could kill her if he wanted to.
Harley didn't flinch.
She didn't giggle either.
She simply stood still—heart racing, hands trembling—not because she was crazy, but because she was scared.
And somehow… she loved it.
Matthew tilted his head. "The Joker left you here like trash?"
She nodded. A soft, almost shameful movement.
Matthew leaned closer.
"How about we play a game," he said softly. "Where I kill everyone here… and you and I walk out alive?"
Harley's eyes widened.
And in that instant, she understood.
It was never about surrendering.
It was about hunting. From the inside.
Matthew Vale had walked into Arkham to slaughter Gotham's underworld.
And now, the bloodbath was ready to begin.
"You heard the news," Matthew said. "I already killed Mad Hatter. Victor Zsasz. The Riddler. Two-Face. Scarecrow."
He paused.
"But some are still breathing."
He turned his head slowly, eyes gleaming with fire.
"Killer Croc. Clayface. Bane. Mr. Freeze. The Penguin."
"Some are here. Some ran. Doesn't matter."
He looked at Harley again.
"So what do you think, love? Are you in?"
Harley smiled slowly.
Then she stepped forward and kissed him on the lips.
It was not a gentle kiss.
It was madness crashing into chaos.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wide and wild.
"Yes."
Matthew turned his head toward Ivy.
"And what about you, green one?" he said. "You interested in some blood and chaos?"
Poison Ivy studied him. Her tone wasn't flirty. It was cautious. Curious.
"I would be… but these things," she gestured to the oversized cuffs and collar bolted around her wrists and neck, "suppress my powers. I can't control plants. Can't do anything."
Matthew looked at the restraints calmly.
"I studied those before I came here."
He crouched and examined the mechanisms.
"I can break them in forty seconds."
Ivy raised an eyebrow.
Harley blinked.
Matthew stood back up.
"So again," he said. "Are you in? Or out?"
Poison Ivy stared at him, green eyes narrowing.
"I'm in," she said slowly. "But what says you won't kill us too? After your little killing party is over."
Matthew stopped smiling.
He looked at both of them, voice flat and sharp.
"Because out of everyone in this circus of insanity…"
"You two haven't killed anyone."
"Not yet."
Harley and Ivy said nothing.
"You steal. You scheme. You dance with chaos—but you don't kill. Not like them. Not like the monsters."
He stepped closer.
"So here's my promise."
"I won't kill either of you while we're inside. I need you. And frankly… you make good company."
Harley smirked.
Ivy stayed still.
Matthew continued, tone colder.
"But once we get out… once this is done… if I see you hurting people. Killing. Being stupid…"
He leaned in.
"I'll kill you both."
Silence.
Then Ivy smiled, slow and venomous.
"Fair enough."
Matthew turned his back and sat on the floor.
"Good. We start tomorrow. Arkham will burn. The villains will fall. And Gotham…"
He looked up at the flickering light above.
"…will remember the night the monsters were hunted by one of their own."
Harley sat next to him, curling against his shoulder.
Ivy leaned back into the shadows, watching with a cautious, curious smile.
In the distance, screams echoed.
But none of them came from Matthew.
Because in this hell—
He was the devil they feared.
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