Matthew Stafford seemed to be related to Black Mask even more than Ethan initially thought.
By the way, the Black Mask of this universe was a bit different than the one from the regular stories. His head was much, much larger. Almost abnormally so, like it had grown with the weight of cruelty and psychosis over time. He led the Party Animals—not for profit, not for fear, not even for chaos, but something in between. They wreaked havoc without a shred of monetary gain, which Ethan found... weird. But at the time, he dismissed it.
...
Ethan stood inside the bedroom of his modest apartment. The lights were dim, blinking occasionally with a sickly flicker that cast haunting shadows on the peeling walls. His breath was quiet, focused. The walls before him were covered—completely overtaken—with a chaotic collage of maps, notes, strings, and pinned photographs. Gotham's map was in the center, scarred with pen marks and red thread. Every known location Matthew had been seen in. And every recorded sighting of this universe's version of Batman.
He stood there, eyes moving like slow radar across the pattern. The dots connected in his head like puzzle pieces aligning to whisper a theory.
"Bruce is hunting him too," he muttered under his breath. The thought lingered, warm and satisfying.
His eyes shifted to his phone.
2:56 PM.
A grin cracked his face, but it was hollow—like a skull smiling.
He looked beside him. On a table lay a group of orange syringes.
These syringes were filled with a chemical that he had made that will make it easier to interrogate.
Dark particles rippled across his limbs like reverse ash, forming plates and plates of dead-black armor until he stood no longer as Ethan, but as the Dead Knight.
The forearm compartment opened and he packed the syringes there.
...
Bruce's POV
Matthew is getting a shipment through Gotham Port tonight. Something feels off. The patterns have been leading here for weeks. The dots aligned.
He crouched atop a massive rusted cargo crate, his form almost entirely obscured in the long shadows of the industrial yard. His suit—homemade, rugged, cloth and metal woven by necessity—flickered with shades of grey and pitch black. Goggles clung to his face, cheap but effective. Through the lenses, he watched the ship arrive.
People disembarked. Cargo crates rolled out. Men barked orders in hushed tones. One man, tall with an average build and in his 40s, wore a long black coat and paced near the edge of the platform.
Matthew Stafford.
Bruce gritted his teeth behind the cloth mask. He couldn't act yet. He needed to wait.
...
Matthew watched his men unload the shipment. There was a twitch in his eye, the kind of tick that came from too many stimulants and too many lies. His voice was cheerful, too cheerful.
"Let's move it quick, boys. No dawdling, I want everything moved before sunset. Don't want any… interruptions."
A man approached, whispered something to him. Matthew's smile faded.
"What do you mean, someone's watching?"
Before the man could finish his reply, a shadow dropped from above with the weight of thunder.
A massive armored figure landed on the concrete behind them.
Matthew whipped around and pointed a gun at the figure's chest.
But there was no Bat-symbol. No cape. No cowl.
Just a monstrous blend of knightly armor and sci-fi exo-tech.
"You… you're not the Bat," Matthew whispered, voice trembling.
"No," the figure replied, voice distorted, mechanical, low like a growl from a crypt. "I'm the Dead Knight."
He raised his hand, not for a punch—but to summon his weapon. A black broadsword materialized, singing with power.
Matthew screamed and tried to fire, but Ethan was already in motion. The sword came down in a clean, brutal arc.
Steel met flesh.
Blood erupted.
Matthew dropped his weapon, fell back screaming in agony, staring in horror at the stumps where his hands used to be.
"AHHHHH—GOD—GODDAMNIT!"
His screams filled the air, echoing across the port.
Ethan remained cold, his movements precise. His sword slashed across Matthew's legs—not deep enough to kill, but enough to sever tendons.
Matthew collapsed, twitching violently.
Gunfire erupted behind them.
Around thirty to fifty guards flooded the dock, weapons drawn, shouting incomprehensible threats.
They fired.
The bullets pinged harmlessly off Ethan's Dead Knight armor.
He didn't flinch.
He pulled back his sword and charged into the swarm like a machine of war.
Slashing—not to kill, but to maim. Cutting tendons, slicing arms, breaking knees.
"I advise you run," he growled, voice echoing in that distorted metal rasp. "Run for your lives. Literally."
The guards did just that.
Screaming, sobbing, slipping on blood as they scattered.
...
Bruce watched from afar.
This wasn't just brutality. It was strategy.
"This guy's holding back," Bruce murmured to himself. "He could have killed them all. He could've killed me."
He narrowed his eyes.
"But he didn't."
...
Ethan turned back to Matthew.
The man lay in a pool of his own blood, hands gone, legs twitching, eyes swollen from crying.
Ethan knelt beside him.
"I—I didn't do nothing man—nothing worth this! I was just doing my job!"
"Your job?" Ethan tilted his head. "You trafficked weapon-grade chemicals to the docks. You smuggled kids under crates. You passed messages to men who gunned down innocent shop owners. That's not a job. That's evil."
"I—I didn't know!"
"Yes, you did."
Ethan pulled out a glowing syringe from his forearm compartment.
"What is that?! No—NO!"
"It's not poison. Not yet. It's a nerve stimulant. Lie to me, and your spine burns. Truth gets you less pain. Maybe even a hospital."
He jabbed it into Matthew's neck.
Matthew screamed, body writhing as the chemical took hold.
"Where is Black Mask?"
"I—I—I don't know where he is! I don't! I've never met him in person! I swear on my mother's grave!"
"Then who gives you orders?" he asks with a deadly tone to his distorted mechanical voice.
"Vick! Vick from 6th Street, he handles the shipments and meetings. I just get told where to go and when—I swear to GOD that's it!"
"What's in the next shipment?"
"I—I think it's tech. Some kind of experimental explosives. Imported. Party Animals use it to cause chaos. I don't know more!"
Ethan studied him. The man was sweating bullets, writhing, on the verge of blacking out. But that was mostly because of Ethan,if the nerve stimulant activated he would've acted as if he had been shot by lightning.
"Do you know where Vick will be next?"
Matthew blinked furiously, panicked. "T-Tomorrow! 4 PM! Old Foundry near Falcone Warehouse. That's where they move stock on Fridays."
Ethan nodded.
Then he dragged Matthew across the ground to the edge of the dock. Found some rope. Tied him to the steel railing.
The river's water lapped just beneath.
He hoisted Matthew up, tying the rope tight. His body hung partially submerged.
"Stay here. The cops will find you. If they don't get here soon you'll die of Hypothermia. And when they come tell them Dead Knight paid you a visit to send you to hell."
Matthew gurgled something. Ethan didn't wait.
He turned. Vanished into the shadows.
And so did Batman.
He had gotten the info he needed and didn't need to interrogate.
Something he was salty about.
...
When the police finally came—drawn by reports of gunfire and a frantic anonymous tip—they found the port littered with injured men and one whimpering, frostbitten criminal tied to a railing.
"Who did this to you?" a cop asked.
The man's lips trembled.
"D-Dead Knight… came to send me to hell…"