Chapter 4

"… Omen," Batwoman muttered as she stared at the computer screen.

It had been two days since Omen ran from her—two days since he'd disappeared into the night. And in that time, he had become something worse.

A serial killer. In the span of just two days, and that didn't even include the five women he killed the night he fled. Omen's kill count now stood at a staggering 80.

The old man who had run the orphanage Omen once called home? He had been tortured to death. Along with several others. Each of them had suffered a slow, agonizing end.

She had uncovered something horrific—evidence that the orphanage Omen grew up in had been involved in trafficking young males, selling them to older women under the radar. It painted a grim picture. And based on what she'd found… Omen had likely been one of the victims.

Now, she understood his rage. The people he'd targeted so far? Every one of them had dipped their hands in dirty water. On some level, Batwoman could see the twisted logic behind his actions.

But it didn't matter. Murder was still murder. Omen was working hard to avoid harming the innocent—she could see that. He was still trying. But Batwoman knew all too well… the longer this went on, the more fragile that line would become.

Sooner or later, Omen wouldn't care who bled.

Batwoman knew one thing with certainty. she would never forgive herself if Omen ever got his hands on a child. And deep down, a chilling thought had begun to settle in her mind, Omen might be worse than the Joker.

The Joker committed atrocities, yes—but there was a method to his madness. Everything he did was crafted for a punchline, a joke only he found funny. As twisted as he was, even the Joker had lines he wouldn't cross—because some things simply weren't amusing to him.

Random slaughter? Driving down the street, mowing people down for no reason? Anyone could do that. It lacked style, creativity. For the Joker, there was no fun in the predictable.

But Omen? He wasn't killing to prove a point or build toward a twisted joke. He just… enjoyed it. The screams. The panic. The raw terror in his victims' eyes was music to him. A rhythm he was beginning to crave.

And Batwoman feared it was only a matter of time before that craving pulled him toward the children, drawn by the same music, regardless of who was singing it… But he guessed Omen might not like the screams of children, but he couldn't be sure.

"He's going after the Joker," Batwoman muttered, the pieces finally falling into place.

There was no direct evidence—no message, no threat—but when she began to think like Omen, it made sense. Who else would he want to hear scream more than the Joker?

Omen wasn't just lashing out randomly. He was climbing up the food chain, slaughtering anyone who stood in his way, cutting a path toward Gotham's most infamous monster. What had appeared to be random acts of violence were actually deliberate, each target carefully chosen, each crime tied to those who served, protected, or enabled the Joker in some way.

And all the while, Omen had tried to cover his tracks, tossing in a few unrelated kills to throw investigators off. But Batwoman had seen the pattern.

Suddenly, she stood, eyes wide with realization. It was so simple. She knew where he was going. Omen was still a newbie; of course, he would make mistakes.

"S-Stop! I told you everything I know about the Joker!" the woman cried out, her voice raw with terror as she strained against the chains pinning her to the wall.

Omen sat nearby, relaxed, listening to her screams like one might enjoy a song. A calm, unsettling smile tugged at his lips.

"You have such a beautiful scream," he murmured, eyes slowly opening to meet hers. "What a unique story it carries."

She was a gang leader—well-known in the underground for drug smuggling and trafficking. But Omen didn't care about any of that. All that mattered was one detail, she had sold weapons and supplies to the Joker.

That made her valuable. Omen had carved a bloody trail through Gotham's underworld, closing in, piece by piece, on his true goal. With each scream, each death, he felt himself drawing nearer. And just the thought of her scream—the Joker's—sent a chill of anticipation down his spine.

What kind of story would that scream tell? He couldn't wait to find out.

"I don't know when it started," Omen said softly, holding a glowing hot rod in his hand, its heat warping the air. "But hearing a person's story through their screams… that's one of my powers."

The woman trembled violently, her eyes locked on the searing metal as she tried to press herself deeper into the wall.

"I don't just hear it," he continued, his voice calm—too calm. "I absorb it. Your experiences, your skills."

His grin stretched wider, more twisted. "The louder the screams… the more I can take. Combat training, gun handling, cooking—anything you've lived through."

He wasn't lying. That was his gift—if it could even be called that. This skill didn't give him the strength of the target, nor speed. Just techniques and skills they have learned through out there years..

"Please, please stop!" the woman screamed, her body straining violently against the restraints, trying to break free.

But it was pointless. The burning rod inched closer, glowing red with heat.

And then—crash! Glass shattered as a Batarang flew through the window, striking the rod with perfect precision. The metal clattered to the ground, harmless now. Omen didn't flinch. But his grin faltered.

"How did you find me?" Omen asked, genuine shock in his voice, as he watched Batwoman burst through the window.

Batwoman didn't answer with words—only a glare, sharp and full of fury. Omen's eyes dropped immediately, unable to hold her gaze.

"Turn yourself in," she said firmly, stepping toward him. "You need help."

Omen took a step back. There was a pause. A quiet, heavy breath.

"…I'm a monster," he said at last, his voice low but steady. "And I've come to accept that this is what I am… what I've always been."

He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers—not with defiance, but with grim acceptance. His heart hardened as he stood tall, bearing the weight of what he'd become.

"You're not a monster!" Batwoman shouted, her voice cutting through the thick tension. Omen froze for a moment, as if her words had pierced something deep inside him.

Then, slowly, he grinned.

"But it's fun playing the monster," he said, his smile dark and wild. In one swift motion, he snatched the burning rod off the ground and lunged at her like a bullet.