Bat-family Magic

The Batcave wasn't built for magic. Its strength was control: systems, technology, calculated precision. But tonight, none of that could help them.

Something had followed Jason back from a mission. Something old, cold, and from another plane. Lights flickered, shadows moved on their own, and Damian swore he heard whispers in languages ​​no one had taught him, not even the League.

Bruce hated asking for help. Especially his own.

But when the temperature dropped ten degrees and Tim's reflection stopped matching his movements, Bruce picked up the phone.

Now, John Constantine stood in the center of the Batcave, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his coat dripping onto the polished floor, and a smile that said "I told you so" before he even opened his mouth.

"Damn it, Bats! Did you really let those bugs get in here?" he said, looking around. "Although it's a good spot. A little damp."

But it was the woman beside him who truly transformed the room.

His wife—serene and enveloped in magic like a second skin—stepped forward, her eyes gleaming faintly as she surveyed the Cave with studied calm. Where John was chaos and sharp edges, you were control: ancient, firm, powerful.

Dick crossed his arms. "Are we sure this guy isn't going to make things worse?"

Jason scoffed. "Worse than what? Our walls bleeding?"

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Tch. I could have handled it."

Tim paled. "You were shouting, Damian."

Constantine chuckled, kneeling at the edge of the summoning circles he had formed.

—Okay, kids. Let the adults handle this.

And for once, even Bätman remained silent.