Chapter 4
"The world is a fine place and not worth fighting for."
unknown
—
But not here. Not in Gotham.
The Gotham City Police Department swarmed the abandoned building with sirens howling, blue and red lights flickering against shattered windows and crumbling brick. Inside, the air was still thick with the silence that followed death.
Fifteen unconscious bodies were scattered across the dust-covered floor like broken dolls. Blood dripped slowly from bruised temples, twisted limbs, cracked ribs. Groans echoed from a few who were beginning to wake—but most lay there, utterly still, except for their rising and falling chests.
They weren't dead. But they would feel pain. A lot of it.
Commissioner James Gordon stood frozen in front of what remained of Jervis Tetch—the Mad Hatter. His face was stuck in a wide, permanent grin. Or maybe it wasn't a smile. Maybe it was just the last expression of a man who saw death and didn't understand it.
One eye socket was a black, hollow crater, with remnants of grey matter splattered across the floor behind him. The metal pipe wasn't still embedded in the front of his skull,
But they can see how it was over
.
"Jesus Christ," an officer whispered behind Gordon.
But Gordon said nothing.
He just stared.
For years, he had dealt with chaos in Gotham. He'd seen monsters with clown makeup and maniacs with ice guns. He'd seen psychopaths who danced with death and called it art. But this… this wasn't madness.
This was war.
The Raven of Death had made his mark.
And now, Gordon had a choice to make.
Hide this. Call it an accident. Blame it on another criminal. Protect the boy in black.
Or tell the truth.
The truth, Gordon thought bitterly, was dangerous in Gotham. But silence might be worse.
Because if this boy—this masked shadow in a hoodie—wasn't on their side… if this was just the beginning…
Then the next time he struck, it might not be a villain who died. It might be an innocent.
So, Gordon made the call. He stepped in front of the cameras the next morning with blood in his eyes and doubt in his voice.
"The Mad Hatter was found dead," he said. "His body showed signs of extreme force. The attacker—unknown—also incapacitated fifteen civilians under Tetch's mind control. Their lives were spared, but their injuries are severe."
He paused. Swallowed hard.
"We believe this was the work of a new figure… known only by the name whispered in alleys: The Raven of Death."
That was all it took. Gotham lit up like a fuse had been lit.
BREAKING NEWS: WHO IS THE RAVEN OF DEATH?
VIGILANTE OR THREAT?
MAD HATTER MURDERED IN BRUTAL ATTACK.
Every television, radio, and phone in the city screamed with the headlines. Citizens debated in bars and train stations. Children whispered the name with awe. Criminals—real ones—took pause.
Even Batman watched from the Batcave.
"Efficient," Alfred muttered dryly from the stairs. "But savage."
"He didn't even hesitate," Bruce said quietly. "He knew exactly where to strike. That wasn't guesswork."
"You think he's ex-military?" Robin asked.
Bruce shook his head. "Too young. But trained. Very trained."
Robin glanced at the screen again. The footage showed a blurry image taken from a broken security cam—just a glimpse of the Raven. A black hoodie. A homemade mask. A pipe like a weapon forged from nothing.
"Is he with us?" Robin asked.
Batman didn't answer.
---
Far from the noise of the city, tucked between two factories and a long-forgotten warehouse, there was a house. If you could call it that.
Its windows were boarded. The walls cracked. No light came from it unless a bolt of lightning dared to expose its frame. Inside, the air was thick with dust, iron, and silence.
A single bulb flickered from above, barely illuminating the center of the room. The floor was cracked cement. The furniture was almost nonexistent: a sagging couch, an old mattress in the corner, some weights, and a TV that hummed static when the signal faltered.
Matthew vale was on the floor, shirtless, his hands flat against the concrete. He pushed himself up slowly, then back down. One hundred push-ups. Not for strength. But for control.
His muscles were lean, hard like carved stone, every inch of him defined by violence. His body was a map of scars—cuts, burns, bullet grazes, and one deep line that split across his side like a reminder.
His black hair was messy, sweat hanging at the tips, falling into his eyes.
He stood up, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like a beast at rest.
On the wall behind him, a giant map of Gotham was pinned with nails. Red markers stabbed through the paper at specific names. Each one handwritten. Each one a target.
He walked over. Looked at one.
Jervis Tetch — X.
He scratched it out with thick black ink.
Then moved to the next name.
Victor Zsasz.
His eyes locked on the name. Something inside them flickered. Not anger. Not joy. Not even bloodlust.
Wrath.
Deep.
Buried.
Controlled.
The news droned on behind him. A reporter shouted his name again.
"The Raven of Death. Is he Gotham's new threat… or its salvation?"
Matthew didn't speak. Didn't smile.
He walked back to the couch, picked up his black hoodie, and pulled it over his scarred torso. Then he reached for the mask. The same simple black mask he'd made himself—stitched and shaped to hide everything.
He stared at it.
For a moment, the mask looked back.
Then he slipped it on.
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