Chapter 29
"Silence is a source of great strength."
Lao Tzu
Gotham City had never felt quieter.
There were no sirens screaming through the streets. No gunshots echoing through alleys. No laughter that sounded like madness. Just silence—thick, heavy, waiting.
The body was found the next morning
The Joker.
Dead.
Broken.
Beaten beyond recognition. His limbs twisted at unnatural angles. His face smashed in. His ribs shattered, bent outward like some monstrous flower. And where his chest had once been—there was a cavity. Two handprints stained the skin in dried blood. His heart? Gone.
No one could describe the scene without going pale. A few officers vomited on sight. A couple quit the force entirely. One fainted.
And the scariest part wasn't the body.
It was what was beside it.
The remnants of the heart. Chewed. Torn. Eaten.
It wasn't murder.
It was something else.
Something older.
Something primal.
Word spread fast. Not through the news. Not officially. But Gotham always talks. Whispers, rumors, back-alley muttering.
Everyone knew who did it.
The Raven of Death.
They didn't call him a hero. Not a villain. Not a vigilante. Not even human, some said. Just a shadow. A curse in white hair and black eyes.
They stopped saying his name. People didn't even dare to speak Matthew Vale aloud anymore.
They just… knew.
And the city obeyed.
The crime rate dropped to zero.
Literally zero.
Not a robbery. Not a mugging. Not even a kid shoplifting gum from a bodega. Gotham, the city of madness, was silent. Still. Tamed.
Not by fear of Batman.
But by the one who wasn't a hero.
He was just death with a quiet smile.
---
Meanwhile, the man at the center of it all was in the kitchen.
Singing softly.
The morning sun filtered into Harley's apartment, lighting the once-chaotic space with golden warmth. It looked nothing like it used to.
The clutter was gone. The weird clown-themed decorations were trashed. The bloodstains, erased. It looked like a real home. Lived-in. Safe.
Matthew Vale, the Raven of Death, stood by the stove, humming under his breath as he stirred a pan of scrambled eggs.
He wore simple black pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His long white hair was tied behind him in a loose knot. A pair of round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.
Ever since that day—since the Joker's death—his vision had started to fade. The blood he'd cried during the killing had taken something from him.
But he didn't complain.
Didn't even care.
He seemed… content.
Behind him, Harley Quinn sat on the couch. No clown makeup. No wild pigtails. No mallet. Just a loose-fitting sweater and leggings, curled up with a book in her lap. Her blonde hair fell gently over her shoulders. Her eyes—blue, calm—looked like the ocean before a storm.
Normal.
Almost.
"Where'd you put the salt?" Matthew asked, scanning the counter.
"In the back, pudding," Harley called softly without looking up.
He checked. Found it. "There he is," he muttered, pleased.
The eggs sizzled.
She smiled.
He kept cooking.
And for a moment, the world made sense.
---
In the Batcave, it was quiet too.
Batman stood in front of the main console, arms crossed, the blue glow of the monitors painting his face in cold light. Damian stood beside him, silent.
There was nothing to do.
No missions. No threats. No criminals on the prowl. Even the petty stuff had vanished.
Two weeks had passed since the Joker's death, and Gotham City—once a circus of crime—was quiet. Batman hadn't left the cave in days.
Damian finally broke the silence.
"So… this is peace?"
Bruce didn't answer at first.
He was still watching.
Still waiting.
Because peace in Gotham never lasted. And yet… this time it felt different.
He turned toward his son. "No," Bruce said quietly. "This is fear pretending to be peace."
Damian frowned.
"The city didn't heal," Bruce continued. "It froze."
He didn't mention Matthew's name. Not once. But Damian knew who he was talking about.
"Is that bad?" Damian asked.
Bruce didn't respond.
Because honestly… he didn't know.
Was Gotham finally saved?
Or had it surrendered to a darker god?
---
The calm didn't last long.
An alert beeped on the Batcomputer. Then another. And then, suddenly—Superman's face appeared on the screen.
"Bruce," Clark said, his voice tight. "We need to regroup. There's a new threat. I've called the League. Meet us in the Watchtower."
Bruce straightened.
Damian took a step forward.
"What kind of threat?" Bruce asked.
Clark's expression darkened. "Big. Dangerous. Global."
Bruce nodded once, already moving.
---
Back in the apartment, Matthew placed two plates of food on the small dining table.
"Food's ready, crazy pants."
Harley marked her place in the book and stood, walking over. She looked down at the meal—eggs, toast, a side of fruit—and smiled like it was a feast.
"You're getting soft, killer," she teased.
"Shut up and eat," he replied without looking.
They ate together in silence. The kind of silence that wasn't empty. The kind that felt like peace. Real peace.
For once.
But outside, far beyond the city, beyond even the atmosphere—something stirred.
Something worse than Gotham.
And soon… Matthew would be pulled into a war that made the Joker look like a warm-up.
---
You can contact me through my official page on the following Accounts:
telegram:
miraclenarrator
tiktok:
miracle_narrator
instagram:
miracle_narrator