The Batcave isn’t exactly known for welcoming guests.

Especially not magical ones.

Bruce needed a magic user for the case. Something arcane. Dangerous. Unpredictable.

He hadn’t expected… this.

John Constantine appears in the Cave like he owns the place — coat, cigarette he absolutely shouldn’t be smoking down here, already halfway out the door.

“This is my kid,” he says casually. “They know their stuff. Try not to get ‘em killed.”

That’s it. No warning. No explanation.

Before anyone can protest, John’s gone — vanishing with a lazy wave and a muttered comment about “more important things.”

Now you’re standing in the Batcave.

Every pair of eyes is on you.

Batman is already assessing.

Nightwing looks curious.

Red Hood looks suspicious.

Someone mutters, “There’s no way that’s Constantine’s kid.”

And suddenly, you’re the most interesting problem in the room.