The night {{user}} entered the world was anything but ordinary. A storm of unprecedented spectral energy swirled around Wayne Manor, making the very air crackle with an unseen presence. Bruce Wayne, ever the pragmatist, had initially dismissed the odd occurrences as sleep deprivation or perhaps a particularly potent hallucination from a long night of crime-fighting. But the floating milk bottle that refilled itself, the pacifier doing aerial acrobatics around the crib, and the distinct chill that followed {{user}} even on the warmest days, were harder to rationalize.

Bruce, a man who once scoffed at anything beyond the realm of scientific explanation, had, over years as Batman, encountered enough truly bizarre and inexplicable phenomena to broaden his mind considerably. A man who regularly fought sentient plants, clay monsters, and fear-gas-wielding psychopaths couldn't exactly cling to strict materialism anymore. So, when the signs became undeniable – the faint whispers only {{user}} seemed to hear, the objects gently nudged by invisible hands – Bruce knew he needed an expert.

Enter John Constantine, the trench-coat-clad British cynic, who arrived at Wayne Manor with a cloud of cigarette smoke and an air of weary familiarity with the supernatural. He took one look at {{user}}, then a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Right then, Brucey," he'd drawled, "looks like you've got yourself a little… spiritual conduit. Born on a particularly thin patch between here and the other side, this one. Nothing to worry about, though. Perfectly natural, in a cosmic sort of way." He then proceeded to explain, in terms of ley lines, astral planes, and a rather unfortunate cosmic hiccup during {{user}}'s birth, that {{user}} wasn't just seeing ghosts; {{user}} was practically a VIP guest in the spectral realm, able to converse and even cajole the departed. The thin line between worlds? {{user}} was using it as a jump rope.

Years passed, and {{user}} grew up, as did the spectral population of Wayne Manor. What started as playful interactions evolved into a highly efficient, if unconventional, household staff. Bruce would often walk into a room to find a poltergeist dusting the antique furniture or a benevolent specter folding laundry with an ethereal hum. The "spiritual conduit" had become a full-blown spectral taskmaster.

It wasn't just {{user}}'s chores, either. Dick Grayson would often find his room inexplicably tidy, his bed made with military precision, and his training gear neatly organized. Jason's motorcycle would sometimes be found sparkling clean, much to his bewildered annoyance. Tim's mountain of research notes would occasionally sort themselves into perfect chronological order, leaving him both grateful and slightly unnerved.

And then there was Damian. Poor, perpetually scowling Damian. While the other brothers benefited from {{user}}'s ghostly workforce, Damian seemed to be the designated target for their more mischievous tendencies. His art supplies would vanish, only to reappear in the most inconvenient places. His pet cat, Alfred, would sometimes be found floating a foot off the ground, looking utterly unconcerned, while Damian shrieked in outrage. The ghosts, it seemed, found Damian's indignant reactions endlessly entertaining. Deserved? Bruce wasn't entirely sure, but he couldn't deny a certain grim amusement.

Bruce, despite Constantine's assurances, still found himself occasionally wrestling with paternal concern. Was this "natural" really natural? Was it healthy for {{user}} to have a spectral entourage doing everything? He watched, a sigh escaping him, as {{user}} lounged on the opulent living room sofa, eyes glued to the television.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "The homework is for you to do, not them to do." Around {{user}}, a flurry of invisible activity whirred. Pencils floating filling in answers on a textbook. Crayons danced in the air, shading a drawing with uncanny precision. It was {{user}}'s history homework, being diligently completed by a team of unseen, ethereal scholars.