Chapter 24
> "We're all a little crazy. Some of us just hide it better than others. And when the crazy ones love… they love like fire. They burn everything in their path — including themselves."
— Unknown
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The towel clung lazily to Harley's body as she stepped out of the bathroom, her wet skin glistening under the pale yellow light. Steam followed her like a ghost. Her bare feet padded across the dusty wooden floor, and she hummed some sweet and broken tune as she stood over a small pile of mismatched clothes.
She looked at the garments like she was solving a murder. Eyes narrowed. Lips puckered. She crouched down and poked at a pair of fishnet stockings like it might bite her.
Matthew, leaning against the wall shirtless, spoke up in a dry voice.
"You got any men's clothes? I need a shower."
Harley spun around, smiling like a devil in lipstick. "Sure thing, pudding. I do keep a few of my ex's… things."
She wiggled her hips as she walked across the room and pulled open a dusty suitcase. Her hands dove in. Clothes flew like confetti — bras, red corsets, a feather boa, and then—
Thwap.
A black lace panty landed squarely on Matthew's head.
He didn't flinch. Just sighed. Peeled it off his face and dropped it to the floor without a word.
Harley cackled. "Oopsie."
After another minute of digging, she tossed him a pair of black pants and a tight red shirt.
He looked at the shirt briefly.
"Fits?" Harley asked.
Matthew didn't answer. He simply walked toward the bathroom, disappearing into the steam and shadows.
---
Fifteen minutes passed.
The sound of water stopped.
Then came footsteps — slow, heavy. When he stepped out, the world paused for Harley
The red shirt clung to his muscles like it had been painted on. His skin still gleamed with water. His black hair was slicked back. His chest moved with calm, even breath — the kind a lion takes right before it strikes.
He looked like rage sculpted into flesh.
Harley bit her bottom lip and let out a low whistle. "Well, hello Greek god of violence."
Matthew gave her a quick look. "What's the plan?" she asked, bouncing on her toes. "Whatever it is, I'm in."
He studied her face — really looked. "You cross the line," he said coolly, "and I'll kill you. No hesitation."
Harley's smile widened. "Good to know. But don't worry, sugar — I don't kill innocent people. Hell, I don't even like most people. You tell me what to do, I'll do it."
Matthew gave a rare grin. "Perfect. Because we're going to kill a lot of bad people."
He walked around the room briefly, scanning the layout. Cracked walls. Moldy corners. Stained ceilings.
"I need to grab my map and supplies," he said, grabbing a black hoodie. He pulled the hood over his head. "While I'm out… clean this place up. It smells like your armpits."
Harley gasped. "You love my armpits!"
Matthew didn't respond. He simply walked over, shoved her lightly onto the couch, pulled the hood over his head, and stepped outside.
Harley grinned, watching him go. "He's so romantic," she said to no one, then sniffed her pit. "Huh. Okay… maybe a little ripe."
She rolled up her sleeves. "Let's clean this dump."
---
Gotham. Late morning.
Matthew walked the streets in silence. His hood shadowed his face, but his eyes scanned everything.
Laughter echoed from alleyways. Couples kissed under neon signs. Street artists painted murals of a black raven with wide, blood-streaked wings.
Children ran down sidewalks screaming, "I'm the Raven of Death! I kill the bad guys!"
Matthew saw it all. Heard it all.
The city wasn't afraid anymore. It was celebrating. They saw him as a hero — as a force that ended what Batman never could.
But Matthew wasn't here for love.
He was here to cleanse.
---
Four hours later.
He returned.
The house was quiet, too quiet. The door creaked open.
He stepped inside — and dropped his bag instantly.
There were five large men in the room. One had Harley by the arm. Blood dripped from her forehead and mouth. Her other hand clutched a bat, but she was breathing hard. Struggling.
Matthew's expression didn't change. He didn't ask questions.
He moved.
The first man never even saw it coming — his neck snapped with a sharp crack.
The second turned in time to get a brutal punch to the spine. He dropped.
The third tried to run — Matthew grabbed a dirty, rusted knife off the floor and drove it into the man's chest, twisting until blood gurgled out.
The fourth screamed and reached for a weapon — Matthew tackled him and crushed his throat under his forearm, choking until there was silence.
Only one remained.
The fifth man stood frozen near the door. He trembled.
Matthew stepped over the bodies. His boots soaked in blood.
His voice was calm.
"Did Joker send you?"
The man didn't answer. He just breathed heavy, eyes darting.
Matthew tilted his head. "Did he send you to kill me… or her?"
The man still didn't speak.
Matthew moved closer, slowly.
"I'll only ask once more," he whispered. "Because I'm feeling merciful today."
The man opened his mouth to lie — but Harley, still panting, lifted her bat and smashed it into the side of the man's skull. He dropped instantly.
Blood sprayed the wall.
She wiped her mouth and spat out red. "No need to ask. Those were Joker's dogs. Smelled like his cheap cologne."
Matthew looked at her. Her lip was split. A bruise bloomed on her cheek.
"You okay?"
Harley nodded. "Little rattled, but hey — nothing a girl like me can't handle."
Matthew walked over and picked up his bag. Then he grabbed the map.
Harley looked around the room — now bloodstained and chaotic again. "Guess I'll have to re-clean the place."
Matthew nodded. "And this time, lock the damn door."
Harley grinned, licking blood from her teeth. "Y'know, pudding… you kill people with such style."
He didn't respond. Just unfolded the map and spread it over the blood-soaked coffee table.
"We start here," he said, pointing. "East End. The Slaughterhouse. Joker's safehouse. If he wants a war — we give him one."
Harley stared at the map, her excitement barely contained.
"We're going to burn this city," Matthew muttered. "Street by street. Name by name."
---
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