Chapter 2

'I'm going crazy… I don't want to become a monster.' Back in his apartment, Omen sat on his bed, clutching his head as images flooded his mind—murders, crimes, all the horrors he'd witnessed in Gotham. Only now, they didn't look horrifying. They looked… fun.

He felt it—the urge to kill. The desire to watch the life drain from someone's eyes. And with every passing second, the feeling grew stronger, twisting inside him like a sickness.

It horrified him. This was far worse than any urge to watch porn or anything like that. This was darker. Deeper. Something truly wrong.

Tears streamed down his face, hot and endless. He had never known fear like this—not the kind born from danger or death, but the kind that clawed at the very foundation of who he was. This wasn't fear of someone else. It was fear of himself.

'I don't want to be the Joker. I don't want to be a monster.' He repeated the words in his mind like a prayer, like a lifeline, but they felt thinner each time. Fragile. Powerless. He could feel something shifting inside him, like a crack in the dam of his sanity widening by the second.

Panic drove him to the kitchen, where he snatched a knife with shaking hands. His breath hitched. Tears blurred his vision. His reflection in the blade didn't even look like him anymore—it looked too calm. Too curious.

He squeezed his eyes shut and plunged the knife into his neck. Pain exploded through him, sharp and drowning, but it wasn't the agony that shook him—it was the laughter. Not out loud, but deep inside. A part of him was watching this… and enjoying it.

The blood was warm and thick, spreading across the kitchen floor like spilled paint. And as he collapsed, his body trembling and weakening, he caught himself admiring the sight. The red was vivid, almost beautiful.

He hated that he thought that. 'Why… why do I feel this way?'

His only regret wasn't the pain. It wasn't the failure. It was that he had done this to himself, meaning he couldn't truly savor the moment like he wanted to. That thought horrified him more than the act itself.

He was slipping, not just physically, but mentally—descending into something he didn't recognize. And worst of all… a part of him liked it, a part of him believed he was being himself for the first time.

As his eyes closed, they opened once more, only now, he was standing beside his lifeless body.

He stared in stunned silence. Was this it? Was the Grim Reaper finally going to show up? Some spectral figure to guide him to whatever came next?

But deep down, he knew the truth. No one was coming.

He let the thought go and focused on the body lying at his feet. Blood pooled across the kitchen tiles, and on the corpse's face, there was a faint smile.

But it wasn't a smile of peace. It wasn't even from the pain. It was the smile of a killer.

That expression didn't belong to someone who had escaped suffering—it belonged to someone who had found joy in ending a life, even if it was his own. The act, the moment, the power of it… It had been fun.

And as that realization crept in, so did something darker. He wanted more.

The thought came uninvited, but it didn't feel foreign. It felt like a seed planted long ago, now taking root. He wanted to see more life leave more eyes. Wanted to feel that thrill again—only this time, not with himself as the victim.

He shivered, not from fear, but from anticipation. And that terrified what little part of him still cared.

Terrified, he took a shaky step back from his own corpse. His mind raced, his thoughts spinning in panic. He becoming a monster…

But he didn't get the chance to take another step. Darkness swallowed him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back on the floor, alive. Sitting in a pool of his own blood, the knife resting innocently in his lap.

He froze. 'No… no, no, no…'

Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet, nearly slipping on the slick floor as he rushed to the bathroom. He flicked on the light and stared into the mirror.

What he saw made his blood run cold. His neck, untouched. Not a single scratch to be seen, or a scar.

"I can't die?" he whispered, stunned. For a moment, he just stood there, overwhelmed by the realization. But then he shook his head and rushed off, determined to prove himself wrong.

He tried again. He hung himself, but after he died and became a ghost, he came back to life lying on the ground, the rope snapped as if the world itself had denied him death.

He drank bleach. He died but came back to life.. He stabbed himself in both the heart, brain at once. Again and again.

Every time, he came back to life fully healed. 

What began as desperation turned into something else. The fear dulled. The dread faded. And with every return, the thrill of self-destruction wore thin. It became routine, predictable, and boring.

And in that growing void, something darker took root. He didn't crave death anymore. He craved the act of death. Not his own… someone else's.

That thought, once unspeakable, now felt inevitable.

Unable to resist, he picked up a knife. His grip was steady. And when night fell, he stepped outside.

The streets of Gotham at night were dangerous. Sure, Batwoman was most active around this time, but even she couldn't be everywhere.

"Hey, brat! Why do you have my wallet?"

Omen had been walking with his wallet openly visible, and in Gotham, that was practically an invitation. A group of four women loitering nearby noticed, and they weren't about to pass up a chance to score some quick cash, whether for drugs or whatever else they craved.

Without hesitation, Omen turned and bolted. The women shouted and gave chase.

But Omen knew the streets, really knew them. He weaved through the city's twisted paths until he made a sharp turn into a narrow alley.

The women laughed mockingly behind him. "Dead end, idiot!"

They thought they had him,

They closed in with cold, mocking smirks. But Omen simply turned to face them, a small smile playing on his lips. Ever since the Joker killed him, something had changed. He felt stronger. Sharper. And now, he was curious, curious to see just what he was capable of.

The four women slowed as they approached, their amusement briefly flickering into intrigue. Omen was good-looking—too pretty to be out here alone, especially in a place like Gotham. A defenseless guy walking the streets at night? That was just asking to get raped.

But that smile… That smile made them uneasy.

"Why are you smiling, punk?" one of them snapped, her voice tight with sudden suspicion. She drew a gun and leveled it at him.

Omen didn't flinch. Instead, the moment he saw the weapon, he pulled out his knife and shot forward. He was faster, easily rivalling the fastest females.

Death didn't scare him anymore. If anything… he welcomed it.

Bang.

Omen stepped aside at the last second, the bullet whizzing past where his head had just been. He wasn't faster than a bullet, his body simply moved the moment the trigger was pulled. It was strange. His mind operated at an unnaturally high speed, calculating the bullet's trajectory before it even left the barrel.

He saw the path of death and stepped out of it.

A mad grin spread across his face, one that could rival the Joker's in its twisted delight. Panic flickered across the shooter's face as Omen appeared in front of her in a blur, slashing her throat in one clean, fluid motion.

But he didn't stop there. As the other women raised their guns, Omen grabbed the dying woman's body and pulled her in front of him, using her as a human shield. Without hesitation, he pried the gun from her limp hand and opened fire.

The crack of gunfire echoed through the alleyway, then silence.

Omen stood alone, blood on his hands, his breath steady. Of the four women, only one remained alive. She lay on the ground, writhing in pain, clutching her stomach as blood seeped through her fingers.

He approached her slowly. Kneeling beside her, he grabbed her face and forced her to look him in the eyes. He watched, calm, almost fascinated, as the light began to fade from her gaze.

He thought that would be enough. That watching her die would satisfy the hunger twisting inside him. But it didn't. It only made it worse.

Her pained moans… they sounded like music. Twisted, haunting music. And he found himself wondering—did everyone have their own song to sing at the edge of death?

He wanted to find out. But then, he paused.

The moment dragged. He stood there, staring down at what he'd done. And reality caught up to him.

He had taken a life. No, lives.

The thrill drained from him like blood from a wound, replaced by something colder. Something heavier. Horror.

It settled over him all at once, suffocating and sickening. He staggered back, heart pounding, hands trembling.

'What have I become?'

Elsewhere, back at the McDonald's where Omen worked, Batwoman stood silently beneath the glow of flickering lights. The building was wrapped in yellow police tape, but she paid it no mind as she stepped over the line and approached the dried blood staining the floor.

She pulled out her Bat-Phone, quickly hacking into the restaurant's security system to review the footage.

But most of the recordings were useless.

One of the cameras had been completely destroyed—shattered in a burst of rage. What little footage remained was fragmented, distorted, and incomplete. Still, she caught a brief glimpse of something… the Joker beating his own sidekick to death, after he had killed Omen.

And then—static.

Apparently, the sight of himself being recorded during the act had sent the Joker into a violent frenzy, resulting in the destruction of the camera.

Batwoman's eyes narrowed. It wasn't every day you saw the Joker get angry over the death of someone else.