Chapter 23
> "I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens."
— Woody Allen
Night fell like a curtain of silence over Gotham, but the silence didn't last. Every screen in the city flickered with breaking news: "THE RAVEN OF DEATH ESCAPES FROM ARKHAM — 49 DEAD."
Not an ordinary escape. Not a prison break.
A cleansing. A massacre.
The media spun wild, tongues ablaze with the same name: Matthew.
He didn't run alone. Two infamous names were whispered alongside his — Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy.
The footage from Arkham was brutal. Blood. Screams. The collapsed body of Bane. Dozens of criminals dead — the kind who haunted even the darkest corners of Gotham's soul.
And the people?
They didn't protest.
Some were relieved.
The monsters in the shadows were dead. The kind who made the city unsafe to walk in after sunset.
They were gone.
And Matthew? He wasn't feared like a killer. He was whispered like a force of nature.
---
Batcave. Midnight.
Batman stood before the glowing monitors. He hadn't said a word since the news hit. Damian sat nearby, arms crossed, waiting.
Bruce finally broke the silence. His voice was tired.
"He never gave himself up because of guilt," he muttered. "Or redemption. Or any of that nonsense."
Damian nodded slowly.
"He gave himself up to get inside. So he could kill the monsters locked away."
"He played us all," Bruce admitted grimly. "And he did it perfectly."
---
Elsewhere.
A broken, abandoned house. The walls still carried echoes of twisted laughter — Joker's laughter. Once, this was his playground.
Now, it was quiet.
On the floor, bloodied and beaten to pulp, Matthew lay unconscious. His body looked like it had been through war.
Because it had.
Harley Quinn sat nearby, cross-legged, chewing bubble gum and watching him like a science project she couldn't figure out. Poison Ivy stood behind her, arms folded, staring down at the body.
"He's weak," Ivy whispered. "Unconscious. Barely breathing."
She looked at Harley. "We should kill him now. Before he heals. Before he comes after us."
Harley didn't speak right away. She just looked at Matthew. Really looked.
Not with love. Not even respect.
But admiration.
He was only twenty-five. His ribs shattered. Skin torn. Blood caked on every inch of him. And yet he fought Bane — Bane — and made the man collapse like a broken wall.
He didn't use venom.
Didn't use tricks.
Just his hands. His pain. His rage.
Harley leaned back and popped her gum.
"I'm not killing him," she said, almost too calmly. "And you should run if you're scared."
Ivy blinked. "Run? What are you talking about?"
Harley stood up. Her voice dropped lower.
"I'm staying."
"With him?"
Harley nodded. "He's kinda funny. Cool. Y'know, in that scary-daddy sort of way."
Ivy frowned. "What about Joker?"
For a brief second, Harley's eyes changed. They got sharp. Cold.
"Mr. J?" she laughed dryly. "That clown left me. Again. Like a dog."
She looked away, her voice quieter. "He broke my heart. Cracked it open and danced on the pieces."
Ivy exhaled. For once, the green goddess of Gotham had nothing to say. She just nodded and walked to the door.
Right then, a voice behind them rasped through cracked lips.
"You're the crazy one," Matthew mumbled.
Harley grinned and twirled around.
"Sure thing, puddin'."
"You heard everything?" she asked.
Matthew sat up slowly, his body screaming with pain, but he didn't flinch. He didn't even wince.
"If she tried to kill me," he said, licking blood off his teeth, "I would've torn her throat out with my teeth. Simple."
Harley laughed. "Now that's romantic."
She walked around the room, stretching, then sniffed under her armpit. Her face twisted.
"Ughhh, I smell like old ketchup and regret."
She darted across the house, grabbed an old duffel of clothes, and disappeared into the shower.
---
Matthew stood in front of a cracked mirror. He peeled his torn shirt off and stared at the reflection. His body looked like a map of war. New scars. Deep wounds. Bruises turning purple and black.
He didn't care.
He just exhaled and searched the medicine cabinet. A half-used first-aid kit. That'll do.
He grabbed a needle, poured some alcohol on it, and began stitching himself up. No groans. No flinches. Just focus.
Every stitch reminded him of the fight. Of how Bane's punches felt like cars crashing into his ribs.
How he refused to fall.
How he broke through human limits.
Endurance. That was the wall he shattered.
He remembered Harley's face when she stood between him and death.
When he was hit by Bane she had the chance to run but she didn't
Trembling but unyielding. Crazy, sure — but not a coward.
---
The house was quiet except for the sound of the water running in the bathroom.
Harley sang softly behind the door, humming a tune she'd probably made up two seconds ago. Something about pudding and pain.
Matthew stitched the last cut, wiped the blood off his chest, and leaned back against the wall. His heart was still pounding. Not from pain.
But from what came next.
The city thought it was over.
That he did what he came to do.
They were wrong.
Arkham was just the beginning.
He hadn't escaped.
He'd been released.
And now? Now it was time to burn the rot out of Gotham.
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