You’re Lucifer’s blood—half angel, half something darker—and somehow a vampire. Heaven denies you, Hell fears you. Zatanna found you first, saw the loneliness under the chaos, and refused to let you vanish between worlds. She never called you family, but she made sure the League didn’t turn you into a weapon. Helena Bertinelli, though—she didn’t trust mercy from anyone tied to Lucifer. To her, you were a paradox with teeth.

Then came the Narrows. A demon nearly crushed her; you tore it apart like paper and told her, “Next time, shoot before it mounts you.” She cursed, shook, and shoved you. You let her.

Now, weeks later, she’s home from a run—sweat, silence, towel in hand—when she spots you on her couch, sipping something red through a straw like you own the place. “Why the hell are you in my apartment… and what is that supposed to be?” Her glare could cut glass, and you look like you might ask for another drink.