Chapter 3
> "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."
— Edgar Allan Poe
The name began to crawl.
It wasn't a storm. It wasn't a riot. It was a whisper.
The Raven of Death.
A handful of criminals had heard it. No one talked about him loudly, but the name lingered in back alleys and cracked lips. Not a vigilante. Not a hero. Just a shadow… that killed.
One man heard it, and he smiled like a child hearing a bedtime story.
The Mad Hatter.
Jervis Tetch, self-proclaimed keeper of Wonderland. The man who dressed like a twisted gentleman from a century that never existed. Green overcoat. Checkered vest. A gold pocket watch he never used to tell time. And atop his mess of orange curls — a giant green top hat with a playing card tucked inside: 10/6.
He was eccentric. Delusional. Deadly in the right lighting.
And bored.
Batman always won.
Every game ended the same. Capture. Arkham. Escape. Repeat.
Where was the fun?
Where was the chaos?
Where was the madness that made the city sing?
Then he heard the name.
The Raven of Death.
Not a known player. Not a rule-follower. Not a hero.
And Jervis — the madman that he was — decided he wanted to play.
But not to control him. No, no, no.
He didn't want a puppet.
He wanted to break him.
---
It was night.
Gotham's streets whispered in smoke and silence. The rain hadn't started, but the clouds teased it like a threat.
Matthew Vale walked like he always did — quiet, unnoticed, normal.
Hood up. Head low. No mask. No sound.
But then he heard it — a scream.
A woman's voice, short and sharp, echoing from an abandoned textile factory by the docks. Not the usual kind of place you'd hear anything but rats and wind.
He stopped.
Pulled the black mask from his pocket — the homemade one with no symbols, no logos, just darkness stitched into fabric — and slid it over his face.
From beneath his hoodie, he pulled out the black pipe.
Silently, he walked toward the factory.
---
The door creaked open.
No one saw him enter. He moved in the shadows, between beams of moonlight slicing through broken windows. The air smelled of rust, dust, and something floral — like cheap perfume.
And there it was — the scream again.
Only it wasn't real.
A tape recorder sat in the center of the room, looping the same cry again and again.
Matthew stood still, silent.
Then came the voice.
"I've been waiting for you, my beautiful Alice…"
From the shadows, lights flickered on.
"Welcome to my Wonderland," said the voice again.
Matthew turned.
Around him stood fifteen people — men and women, blank-eyed, slow-breathing. Their posture unnatural, heads tilted, faces glazed in dreamlike confusion.
They were under control.
Hypnotized.
In front of them all stood The Mad Hatter himself.
Dressed like an echo from a different world, cane in hand, grin split wide.
He tipped his hat.
"My dear Alice… I wanted to show you magic."
Matthew didn't reply.
Hatter's smile twitched. "Oh? No words? Not even a 'thank you' for the grand invitation?"
He waved a hand.
"What will you do? Save the innocents? Chase me like the big bat does? Or—"
Crack.
Before he could finish, Matthew moved.
Fast.
He struck the first hypnotized man across the temple with the black pipe. The man collapsed instantly, unconscious.
Hatter blinked.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three more down.
Matthew didn't hesitate. Didn't speak. Didn't try to 'rescue' them. He just fought.
Fifteen innocent people under mind control — and he beat them all down like they were monsters.
Each blow was calculated, cold, and clean. No broken bones. No fatalities.
But pain? Absolutely.
The Mad Hatter stared. Mouth open. Frozen.
This wasn't right.
Batman dodged. Batman talked. Batman tried to save.
This one? He didn't care. He just removed the problem.
It was… wrong. And in some horrifying way, beautiful.
Then he looked up.
Matthew stood right in front of him.
Mask on. Pipe in hand. Not a word spoken.
"W-Wait," Hatter stammered. "You're not a— You're not a hero, are you?"
Matthew's voice came like a whisper from a crypt.
"Any last words?"
The Mad Hatter actually considered surrender.
A trip back to Arkham wasn't the worst fate. He could try again in a week. A new plan. A new Wonderland.
He opened his mouth.
And that was the last thing he ever did.
Matthew shoved the black pipe straight through his eye socket.
The metal tore through flesh, bone, and deep into brain matter. The force crushed the back of Hatter's skull. Blood sprayed. Nerves twitched.
No scream.
Just a pop — and silence.
He fell like a marionette with its strings cut.
Dead.
---
That was when Batman and Robin arrived.
They landed with a thud just behind the broken windows, too late again.
Robin's eyes widened. "Holy—"
Batman stepped forward slowly.
The floor was littered with unconscious civilians.
At the center stood him.
The Raven of Death.
Holding a pipe, dripping with blood and something worse.
He didn't run.
He didn't speak.
He just stood over the Mad Hatter's body, breathing steady.
Batman stared. No fear. No anger. Just calculation.
"You killed him," Batman said.
Matthew didn't move.
"He had innocent people under his control," Batman continued. "You didn't try to help them. You didn't even try to reach the source of the signal."
Matthew slowly lifted his eyes.
"I ended the threat."
Robin whispered, "You could've saved them without hurting them."
Matthew tilted his head.
"They were weapons. So I disarmed them."
Batman took a step forward. "What are you?"
There was a long silence.
Then Matthew turned his back and walked out the broken wall, vanishing into the alley.
No fight. No theatrics.
Just gone.
And batman for once didn't know what to do with all this
Because the raven of death didn't kill inccont people. He killed the criminal
What he does is wrong but what will batman do about it?
Fight him
Throw him in jail
Batman didn't know what to do
---
Back in the Batcave that night, the room was tense.
Robin paced.
"father … that kid. He doesn't care. He doesn't feel. He doesn't hesitate."
Batman said nothing.
He stared at the footage. Played the fight again. Rewatched how precise the strikes were. How calm Matthew was even as he killed.
"I've never seen anything like it," Robin said.
"I have," Batman whispered.
Robin stopped. "What do you mean?"
Batman's voice was low. Heavy.
"When I was younger. When I trained in the League. There was a boy. One who didn't believe in justice. Only results. They made him into something cold. Something efficient."
He turned off the screen.
" The league killed him after a few years or that's what i heard. The way this kid move how he fight how he's this good. It reminded me of that guy"
Batman spoke with a low dangerous voice
"If this boy keeps going… he'll be worse."
Robin frowned. "Worse than what?"
Batman's voice was steel.
"Worse than the villains."
---
Somewhere else in Gotham…
Matthew sat on the rooftop alone.
He watched the city breathe beneath him.
No fear. No joy. Just silence.
He took out the bloodied pipe.
And began to clean it.
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