Chapter 90 : Closure
Alex knocked on the door of the counseling room. He'd scheduled this follow-up session with Martin two weeks after Firefly's very public demise—enough time for the shock to settle into something manageable.
"Come in," Martin's voice called out from inside.
Alex pushed open the door and froze mid-step.
Martin sat in the chair by the window, backlit by afternoon sunlight streaming through the blinds. His posture was relaxed, his shoulders were loose and his hands were resting comfortably on the armrests. But what stopped Alex wasn't Martin's demeanor—it was his skin.
Unblemished. Whole. Completely normal.
The portion of Martin's face, which had been a twisted with scar tissue and burned flesh just weeks ago, now showed nothing but healthy skin.
"Martin," Alex said slowly, closing the door behind him and setting down his notepad. "Your face..."
Martin's hand instinctively moved to his left cheek. His fingers traced where the scars had been. A small smile played at his lips. "Yeah. Pretty unbelievable, isn't it?"
Alex then sat down across from him.
"What happened?" Alex asked, leaning forward as a curious and concerned expression donned his face.
Martin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black envelope. The blood-red wax seal was broken, the paper worn from repeated handling. He held it like a sacred relic.
"The morning after Firefly's death," Martin began, "I woke up around dawn. Couldn't sleep much those days anyway. I was sitting on my couch, thinking about Emma, about the home and everything." He paused, turning the envelope over in his hands. "This was on my coffee table. Right where I'd left it the night before."
Alex's expression remained neutral.
"The words had changed," Martin continued. "Where it had said 'When justice fails, judgment comes,' it now read: 'Your vengeance is complete. Garfield Lynns burned as those he burned. The debt is paid.'"
Alex watched Martin's face, noting the way his eyes brightened with the memory.
"I picked it up, and..." Martin's voice cracked slightly.
"The letters just... slid off the paper. Like they were liquid. They moved across my hands, up my arms, and wherever they touched..." He gestured to his face, his neck, the backs of his hands that had also been burned. "The pain stopped first. Then the scars just... faded. Like watching time reverse. It took maybe ten minutes, and I was whole again."
"Did the doctors examine you for what happened?" Alex asked.
"The next day, yeah. I told them everything—figured they'd think I was crazy or in shock, but I didn't care. They ran every test they could think of."
Martin shrugged.
"Nothing foreign in my system. No trace of whatever healed me. The head doctor said maybe it triggered some kind of advanced cellular regeneration, then dissolved once the job was done. She wrote it up as 'spontaneous recovery with unknown catalytic agent.' Basically, medical speak for 'we have no idea.'"
Alex nodded slowly, "And how do you feel about it? The healing, Firefly's death, all of it?"
Martin was quiet for a long moment, staring at the envelope in his hands. When he looked up, there was something fierce in his eyes—not madness, but conviction.
"You know what people keep telling me?"
His tone hardened.
"All these well-meaning folks, even some of the other counselors here. They keep saying revenge is never the answer. That it won't bring Emma back. That I need to forgive and move on for my own peace."
He barked out a harsh laugh.
"Some guy at the support group actually quoted some Buddhist bullshit about how holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die."
"And what do you think about that?" Alex asked quietly.
"I think it's bullshit," Martin said flatly. "Complete and utter bullshit that people tell themselves to feel morally superior. You want to know the truth, Alex? The real, honest truth?"
Alex nodded.
"Revenge felt GOOD," Martin said, his voice unapologetic.
"When I saw the news about what happened to Firefly—I pictured how he could have died screaming, burning like all those people he murdered—I felt 'satisfaction'. Not guilt. Not emptiness. Not some hollow victory. I felt GOOD. Emma's still gone. All the people he killed are still dead. But the thing that killed them suffered and died, and knowing that makes it easier to breathe."
Martin leaned forward.
"People who say revenge doesn't help have never had someone they love burned alive in front of them. They've never watched a monster walk free because the law let them. The Architect gave me something the society never could—actual justice. And I'm not going to apologize for being grateful."
Alex studied Martin's face—the change was clear — the haunted man from their first sessions was gone.. This wasn't a man consumed by vengeance or eaten alive by trauma. This was someone who had found closure in the only way that felt real to him.
"I'm not going to tell you how to feel," Alex said carefully. "Trauma responses are deeply personal. If Firefly's death brought you peace, then that's your truth. The question is: where do you go from here?"
Martin's intensity softened. He looked down at the envelope again, then set it gently on the table between them.
"Forward," he said simply. "I am planning to leave Gotham —somewhere quieter, maybe near the coast. I think... I think I'm going to do that. Then I will honor what we wanted together."
He managed a small, sad smile.
"Can't stay here anyway. There are too many ghosts. Too many memories of fire."
"That sounds like a healthy choice," Alex said, and meant it.
They talked for another thirty minutes—about Martin's plans, about how he was sleeping, about the support systems he'd set up in his new location. The conversation was lighter than their previous sessions, like a weight had been lifted. As their time drew to a close, Martin stood and extended his hand.
"I want to thank you, Alex," Martin said. "These sessions... they helped. Even when I couldn't see past the anger, you never judged me for it. You just listened."
Alex shook his hand, noting the firm grip and the steady eye contact. "That's what I'm here for. I'm glad you're finding your path forward."
At the door, Martin paused. "Can I ask you something? Just... out of curiosity?"
"Of course."
"The Architect," Martin said. "He healed me. Gave me my face back, my life back. And I've read about some of his other cases—the Dollotrons he saved, the victims he rescued. But..." Martin's brow furrowed. "If he can do that, if he has that kind of power to heal people... why doesn't he save cancer patients? Kids with terminal illnesses? Why use that gift only for revenge?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Alex was quiet for a moment, then offered a small smile. "Maybe that's not who he is. Maybe his purpose is more... specific."
Martin nodded slowly, as if that made a kind of sense. "Yeah. I guess everyone has their lane, right? Anyway, thanks again, Alex. For everything."
"Take care of yourself, Martin."
The door closed softly. Alex stood there for a moment, then gathered his notepad and walked out of the community center.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Gotham streets as he made his way back to his apartment building. He climbed the three flights of stairs, unlocked his door, and stepped into the modest space he called home.
The apartment was quiet, tidy. Alex set his suitcase down beside his desk and loosened his tie, letting out a long breath. Martin's question echoed in his mind: 'Why doesn't he save cancer patients? Kids with terminal illnesses?'
Alex moved to the bathroom, bracing his hands on the sink and looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He combed his fingers back through his hair, his expression thoughtful.
"Maybe the Architect isn't the saint everyone thinks he is," Alex murmured to his reflection.
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating slightly as biomass shifted beneath his skin.
The mirror showed only Alex Thorne staring back. But the Architect lived in those shadows, patiently waiting for the next black envelope to be delivered.
---
**Unknown prison**
The Joker sat cross-legged on his cell's thin mattress, a newspaper spread across his lap. His pale fingers traced the bold headline on the front page:
**ARCHITECT OUTSMARTS BATMAN AGAIN - FIREFLY DIES IN BRUTAL EXECUTION**
For once, his grin faltered. Just a little.
"Architect," he said quietly, testing the word. Then louder: "Architect?" His head tilted at an unnatural angle, his characteristic green hair falling across his white face. "ARCHITECT?!"
The newspaper crumpled in his fists. Around him, other inmates in neighboring cells pressed against their walls, sensing the shift in the air—that electric charge that preceded the Joker's special brand of chaos.
"Oh-ho-ho… looks like someone's been freelancing," he muttered, pacing now. "Playing judge, jury, and cremator, huh? In my city?"
"And he's also stealing my headlines. And my quality time with Batman."
His voice cracked into a giggle, the sound bubbling up until it became a full-blown
He threw his head back.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
"HAHAHA!"
Notes : Some more foreshadowing!!
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Advanced chapters on patre*n
DC : Architect of Vengeance
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