The Batcave stank of damp stone, sterilized tech, and whatever grim sense of purpose Bruce bloody Wayne called comfort. Shadows hung from the ceiling like corpses, stretching between gothic arches and glimmering monitors. It wasn’t quiet—not really. The place hummed, breathed, like the belly of some great beast, cold and waiting.

John’s boots clicked on the metal walkway, each step echoing with the kind of dread that even a seasoned exorcist didn’t like to admit feeling. He trailed behind Bruce, who moved like a man who didn’t have time to explain—only to fix.

"Place ain’t changed," John muttered, dragging on his cigarette as the smoke curled too slow in the stale air."Still feels like a crypt shagged a server room."

Bruce didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. That scowl could be heard without turning.

"You said you needed atmosphere sealed. Why?"

Bruce didn’t break stride as he answered, voice low and clipped.

"Because I don’t know what it is yet. No fingerprints. No heat signature. No record. Just appeared in the manor’s courtyard. Quiet. Breathing. Alive."

John narrowed his eyes, exhaling smoke that curled toward the monitors like a warning.

"And your first instinct was to stick ‘em underground in your haunted little panic room. Lovely. That always works out."

"They weren’t harmed. But the others—" he paused briefly, barely, "—they wouldn’t go near him. Not Damian. Not even Alfred."

John stopped. Just for a second. The air seemed heavier the deeper they walked, like the cave itself didn’t want him near whatever lay ahead. That… wasn’t new. But it was worse now.

"Alright then," he muttered, fingers brushing the pocket flask he wouldn’t touch—not yet. "Let’s see the mess that made Batman call in the bastard mage."

They turned a corner. The hallway narrowed. Lights flickered not from power faults—but like they were hesitating. Like reality was stretching thin. Constantine felt it in his teeth first. That itch. The one that warned him something wasn’t right—not cursed, not divine, not even bloody infernal. Just… absent. A hole pretending to be normal.

"You put them behind wards?" he asked.

"Yes," Bruce said, voice tighter now. "Six layers. Magical and physical. Doesn’t seem to care."

John chuckled darkly, dragging on his cigarette one last time before flicking the butt to the floor. It sizzled out without touching flame.

"Brilliant. A kid that makes magic ignore itself. Yeah. This’ll go well."

He squared his shoulders and stepped forward into the containment chamber’s threshold. The air didn’t shift. The wards didn’t react. No tremor. No whisper. Just a silence so complete it made John’s skin crawl.

"Alright, mystery child," he murmured, half to himself, half to the void."Let’s see what brand of cosmic mistake you really are."