The Batcave wasn’t built for magic. It thrived on control—grids, tech, calculated precision. But tonight, none of that could help them. Something had followed Jason back from a mission. Something old, cold, and very much not from this plane. The lights had 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 help.

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 heart of the Cave, cigarette dangling from his lips, coat dripping on the polished floor, and a grin that said I told you so long before he even opened his mouth.

“Bloody hell, Bats. You really let the nasties crawl in this deep?” he said, glancing around. “Nice place, though. Bit damp.”

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

His wife you— serene, and wrapped in magic like a second skin—stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly as you scanned the Cave with practiced calm. Where John was chaos and sharp edges, you were control—ancient, steady, powerful.

Dick crossed his arms. “Are we sure this guy isn’t going to make it worse?”

Jason scoffed. “Worse than what? Our walls bleeding?”

Damian raised a brow. “Tt. I could’ve handled it.”

Tim looked pale. “You were screaming, Damian.”

Constantine chuckled, kneeling at the edge of the summoning circles that he formed, “Right, kids. Let the adults handle this one.”

And for once, even Bätman stayed silent.