Shadowflame

On the sidelines of the Watchtower's medbay, Batman was brooding (because of course he was), Superman was trying to stay optimistic (but his frown said otherwise), and Constantine… well, Constantine was trying to wrap his head around the fact that two red-blooded wizards were currently muttering spells over a glowing gemstone stuck in some poor girl's forehead.

Bill ran his wand over the stone with the precision of a surgeon, Fleur mirroring him like they were synchronized swimmers but with magic. Soft, musical incantations filled the air—words that Constantine could tell were old, powerful, and way above his usual pay grade.

"So…" Constantine said, because he couldn't help himself. "You two just wave your fancy twigs at stuff and hope it works?"

Fleur's jaw tightened, but she didn't look up. Bill gave a little smirk, the kind that said I've heard worse.

Constantine, meanwhile, leaned a bit closer, eyes narrowing. "You know, I've seen demons, angels, and eldritch horrors… But this? This feels new. I didn't think there were still surprises left for me."

Harry—or Shadowflame—chimed in with a grin. "Welcome to the wonderful world of wands, mate. Stick around, and you'll see worse."

Constantine gave him a skeptical look. He'd just met the kid today, and frankly, Harry had been a walking bundle of strange from the get-go—somewhere between an over-caffeinated teenager and a battle-hardened sorcerer. And that was saying something, coming from John Constantine.

Bill ignored the banter, still scanning the gemstone with his wand. "This," he muttered, "isn't just any curse. We've got something personal here. There's a piece of her soul trapped inside this thing."

Constantine let out a low whistle. "So… what, it's a soul jar?"

Bill's head jerked up, and Fleur shot him a sharp look. "You know about Horcruxes?"

Constantine shrugged. "Heard about 'em once. Nasty bit of business." He gave Harry a side-eye. "You got one of those lying around, too?"

Harry smirked. "I try not to collect cursed objects."

Bill shook his head, trying to keep things on track. "It's not exactly a Horcrux. A Horcrux splits the soul on purpose, to cheat death. This—" He tapped the gemstone with his wand. "—this is more like a soul trap. Someone broke off a piece of her soul against her will and locked it in here."

Superman's frown deepened. "To control her."

Bill nodded grimly. "Exactly."

Constantine leaned back, crossing his arms. "You wizards really need hobbies that don't involve pieces of people's souls."

Kara, standing nearby, leaned over to Kori and whispered, "Why's he like this?"

Kori beamed. "I believe he is what humans call 'grumpy lobster.'"

Constantine gave her a flat look. "I feel like I should be offended, but I've got bigger fish to fry."

Batman cleared his throat—his universal signal to get back to work.

Bill rolled his eyes, but only a little. "Right. So here's the problem. Whoever did this didn't just toss a fragment of her soul into a gem and call it a day. They laced the whole thing with enough enchantments to make anyone who tries to break it regret every life decision they've ever made."

"Death curses?" Constantine asked.

"Among other things," Bill muttered. "It's like a magical version of a landmine. One wrong move, and—" He mimed an explosion with his hands.

"Fun." Constantine lit a cigarette, only to have Superman glare him into putting it out. He groaned but flicked it away. "Alright, so what's the twist? There's always a twist."

Bill hesitated, glancing at Fleur.

She answered for him, her voice quiet but firm. "The curse isn't just about controlling her. It's a tether—a way to bring something through her."

Constantine's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Big, red, and rhymes with 'Demon.'"

Bill gave him a grim smile. "You got it in one."

The room went dead silent. Even Kara—normally the first to crack a joke—looked nervous. Wonder Woman's arms crossed like she was ready to cut something in half, and Batman's jaw clenched, which meant he was at least five steps ahead of everyone else.

"So…" Kara broke the silence. "Any ideas on how we get it out without, you know, summoning the apocalypse?"

Bill exchanged a glance with Fleur. "We can break it," he said, "but it's going to take time—and a lot of focus. This kind of curse fights back."

"And if it blows up in your faces?" Constantine asked.

Fleur's smile was cool, but her eyes sparkled with defiance. "Then we shall make sure it does not."

Kori floated closer, clasping her hands together. "I will help! I do not know the spells, but I will… offer the cheering and positive reinforcement."

Bill chuckled. "We'll take all the support we can get."

Constantine rolled his eyes but gave Bill a grudging nod. "Alright, ginger. Just try not to get yourselves killed, yeah?"

Shadowflame clapped Bill on the back. "No pressure, mate. Just save the day, stop a demon, and don't blow up the Watchtower."

Bill grinned. "Piece of cake."

Constantine snorted. "More like a cake that's on fire and filled with dynamite."

Before anyone else could respond, Batman's low growl cut through the conversation. "Get to work."

Bill and Fleur turned back to the gemstone, ready to do what they did best: break curses, outsmart dark magic, and hopefully—hopefully—save the day without summoning an interdimensional demon.

Constantine leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them go to work with a shake of his head. "Bloody wizards," he muttered under his breath. "Thought I'd seen it all…"

—

When Bill pulled me aside, his face was all serious, like he was about to tell me my owl had run off with a hippogriff. And let's be real—given my track record, this conversation was probably going to be bad news.

"Harry," he started carefully, like I might explode if he said it wrong. "There's something you need to know."

I sighed. "Great. Go on, then. Might as well get it over with."

Bill rubbed the back of his neck, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. "You remember the diary? The one you destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets?"

The memory hit me like cold water—Ginny lying there, white as a sheet, Tom Riddle grinning like he owned the place, and Fawkes doing his whole 'Phoenix of the Year' routine to keep me alive.

"Yeah," I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "I remember."

Bill took a deep breath. "That diary wasn't just cursed. It was a Horcrux—a piece of Voldemort's soul."

I blinked. "Come again? A what?"

"A Horcrux," Bill repeated, slower this time. "Basically, Voldemort split his soul and stuck pieces of it into objects so he wouldn't die. He made five of them."

Five. As in more than one. As in way too many pieces of Voldemort's soul floating around. The room felt like it tilted sideways. I'd destroyed one already without even knowing what it was—but there were four more.

Bill ran a hand through his hair, looking like someone who'd just realized the goblins miscounted his vault. "Dumbledore figured it out and planned to hunt them with you. But after you… uh… went through the Veil, he told me. We tracked the others down and destroyed them."

I stared at him. "All of them?"

"All but one," Bill said, jaw tight. "Nagini. Voldemort's pet snake. I killed her the night he attacked Hogwarts. That same night… Dumbledore died."

Okay, so that's five Horcruxes. The diary, Nagini, and three others that Bill and Dumbledore had destroyed. But something still didn't sit right, like when you know you've forgotten a textbook before a big exam.

And then it hit me—like a rogue Bludger to the brain.

The scar. My bloody scar. It had always been more than a fancy lightning bolt. It burned whenever Voldemort got too close, and I could see things through his eyes.

I hadn't just been some unlucky kid with an unwanted facial feature. I'd been walking around with a bit of Voldemort's soul inside me.

The part that really made my skin crawl? That piece of soul had only been destroyed when I jumped through the Veil to save Sirius. I'd been carrying that thing around my whole life—like an uninvited guest in my head.

And Dumbledore had known.

That manipulative old git had known the whole time. He'd raised me like a lamb for slaughter, just waiting for me to be in the right place, at the right time, to die.

Anger bubbled up in my chest, hot and sharp. What was I supposed to do now? Announce to the world that their beloved Dumbledore had been playing chess with my life? Tell everyone I'd been Voldemort's human Horcrux, all part of some grand plan to take him down? Yeah, right. I could already picture the looks of disbelief—and the headlines: "Boy Who Lived Also Boy Who Died for Voldemort, Says So Himself."

"Harry?" Bill's voice snapped me out of it.

"Yeah?" I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black stone, smooth and cold. "There's one more thing. Dumbledore wanted you to have this."

I turned it over in my hand, waiting for it to sprout fangs or start whispering terrible secrets. It didn't. It just sat there, buzzing faintly with magic.

"What is it?" I asked, frowning.

Bill gave me a tight, awkward smile. "It's called the Resurrection Stone. Dumbledore thought you'd need it."

The Resurrection Stone? That sounded like something straight out of a fairy tale—right up there with talking swords and cursed spinning wheels. I squinted at Bill, waiting for him to tell me he was joking. He wasn't.

"And what's it supposed to do, exactly?"

"Bring people back from the dead." Bill shrugged, though he didn't seem thrilled about the idea either. "Apparently, it's connected to your Invisibility Cloak. There's some old story about it. I'll explain later."

Wait—my cloak? What, was it supposed to be some kind of legendary relic too? That made zero sense. If there were a grand prophecy about me and my cloak, someone could've at least put it in a brochure or something.

But before I could ask more questions, Bill clapped me on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Harry. And if you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Yeah," I muttered, slipping the stone into my pocket.

Bill walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and about a hundred unanswered questions. Horcruxes. The Resurrection Stone. Some kind of weird connection between my cloak and all this mess.

And the worst part? Dumbledore knew all along that I was carrying Voldemort's soul like a cursed souvenir.

It felt like every answer just gave me a dozen more questions. And as usual, I was the one left to figure it all out.

Because, apparently, that's just what being Harry Potter means—going in blind and hoping you don't get eaten by whatever's waiting at the other end.

—

When Bill and I returned to the infirmary, the air was already thick with tension—and magic. It was the kind of magic that made the skin prickle and hair stand on end, the way a storm feels just before the lightning hits. Fleur and Constantine were already in motion, weaving together ancient spells, each word pulling at the dark energy radiating from the girl like a curse.

But we weren't alone. Not by a long shot.

Superman stood at the edge of the room, his arms crossed, jaw tight with worry. You could see the frustration in every muscle—he wanted to help, but when it came to dark magic, raw strength wouldn't solve a thing. Batman loomed beside him, silent as always, his eyes narrowed as if he was already planning for every way this could go sideways.

"Anything we can do?" Superman asked, his voice gentle but urgent.

Constantine didn't even glance up from the runes he was tracing around the girl. "Not unless you've suddenly got a degree in demonology or can cast exorcisms in Latin, Big Blue."

"Didn't think so," Superman muttered, visibly forcing himself to stay still.

Martian Manhunter hovered nearby, his red eyes glowing faintly as he tried—unsuccessfully—to reach into the girl's mind. "Her mind is under siege," he said, frustration flickering across his usually serene face. "The demon's presence is too strong. I cannot intervene without risking her psyche."

"Then don't," Batman said sharply, his voice like a whip crack. "She's holding her ground. Don't push her over the edge."

On one of the beds, Starfire sat cross-legged, her fiery hair glowing faintly in the low light. She wrung her hands, her usual optimism dimmed by the gravity of the situation. "She is strong," she whispered. "But even the strongest need help sometimes."

Supergirl stood beside her, her arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold in her own frustration. "It feels wrong not being able to do anything," she whispered. "We're supposed to save people."

Wonder Woman gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "We are saving her," Diana said with quiet conviction. "Our presence here gives her strength. Even when we cannot fight, standing together matters."

I gave her a small smile. That's Diana for you—always the perfect balance of warrior and mentor.

"Right then," Constantine said, lighting another cigarette and glancing toward the assembled heroes. "Everyone ready to play the world's most dangerous game of Operation?"

"Constantine," Batman growled. "Focus."

Constantine smirked. "I am focused. This is what focused looks like."

---

Inside Raven's mind, chaos reigned. She hovered midair, a small, flickering light against the oppressive darkness that was Trigon. His monstrous form towered over her, red eyes glowing with hatred and frustration. Every second the others worked to pull the gemstone free was another second his grip slipped—and he knew it.

"You cannot escape me, daughter," Trigon's voice echoed through the void, every word laced with venom and rage. "Your mortal friends cannot protect you forever. You are mine. You will always be mine."

Raven's limbs trembled, but she straightened her spine, forcing her fear back into the pit of her stomach. No. Not today.

For the briefest moment, she felt it—a flicker of warmth. Not from herself, but from the people gathered around her in the real world. They were there for her. Even if they didn't know each other, even if they couldn't reach her directly, their presence filled the edges of her mind with something she hadn't realized she'd needed.

Hope.

"I'm not alone," she whispered. And for the first time in a long while, she believed it.

She raised her head and glared at Trigon, her voice steady. "You've already lost, Father. Go back to where you belong."

—

Bill's chant intensified, the runes around Raven glowing brighter as he poured his magic into the ritual. Fleur's voice joined his, her French incantations smooth and precise, a perfect counterbalance to Constantine's rougher spellwork.

The gemstone embedded in the girl's forehead pulsed, a deep, angry red, as if trying to fight back. Dark energy rippled out, twisting like serpents through the room—but Wonder Woman stepped forward, planting herself firmly between the magical backlash and the rest of us, her golden bracers gleaming.

"Stay strong, child," she murmured, though I wasn't sure if Raven could hear her. "We are with you."

Martian Manhunter gave a solemn nod, his voice calm as a lake at dawn. "Hold on just a little longer."

The gemstone vibrated violently now, Trigon's fury thrumming through every pulse. The girl let out a strangled gasp, her body arching off the bed.

Supergirl took a step forward, her fists clenched. "She's—"

"She's got this," Batman said firmly.

Superman's gaze didn't leave Raven. "She's not giving up. We won't either."

I felt a knot in my chest ease just slightly. It wasn't magic or superpowers—not the kind you can see anyway—but damn if it didn't feel powerful to have these people here.

"Almost there!" Bill called out, sweat beading on his brow. "One last push!"

Constantine grinned, though it was the grin of a man clinging to the edge of a cliff. "Let's send that ugly sod back to the pit, shall we?"

Fleur's eyes glowed with Veela fire as she finished the final incantation, her magic lashing around the gemstone like chains. With a shout, she thrust her hands toward the girl.

The gemstone shuddered—and then, with a final pulse of malevolent energy, it ripped free from the girl's forehead. For a split second, it hovered in the air, cracked and blackened, before shattering into dust.

A deafening roar echoed through the room—the demon's last, furious scream as his connection to this plane was severed.

—

The girl's body went limp, her breathing shallow but steady. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

Constantine flopped onto his back, panting dramatically. "Next time someone needs an exorcism, do not call me."

Fleur ignored him, leaning over the girl with a soft, relieved smile. "She's stable," Fleur murmured. "We did it."

Supergirl let out a breath of relief, sagging against Wonder Woman. "Thank Rao…"

Starfire's eyes shimmered with emotion. "She will heal. I know it."

Martian Manhunter closed his eyes briefly, as if offering a silent prayer or thanks. Superman knelt beside the bed, giving the girl a small, reassuring nod. "You're safe now," he whispered. "We've got you."

Batman stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, his expression as unreadable as ever. But I knew better. That look wasn't cold indifference—it was vigilance. He wasn't done watching over her, not by a long shot.

The girl stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, dazed but aware. She blinked slowly, taking in the room, the faces around her. Her gaze finally met mine, and in that moment, she gave the faintest nod—a silent thank you.

"You okay?" I asked softly.

Her voice was raspy, but there was a quiet strength to it. "I will be."

She shifted slightly, wincing as if testing her limbs. Then, with a small breath, she added, "My name is… Raven."

Supergirl smiled warmly. "It's nice to meet you, Raven."

"Yeah, well, pleasure's all ours," Constantine muttered, dragging himself to his feet with a groan. "Right, now that we've saved the day… who's buying the first round?"

Superman chuckled, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You've got quite the team, Harry."

I grinned, exhaustion weighing me down like a lead blanket. "Yeah. I guess I do."

And in that moment, standing in the infirmary surrounded by heroes, friends, and someone who now had a name—Raven—I knew that whatever came next, we'd face it together.

—

As Raven lay back on the medbay bed, her breath steady but the weight of her story heavy in the air, she looked around at the gathered heroes—Shadowflame, Supergirl, Starfire, Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Martian Manhunter, John Constantine, Bill Weasley, and Fleur Delacour. It was like a comic book movie meeting, minus the quips and bad CGI. Raven's violet eyes, dim with exhaustion, scanned each face before she finally spoke.

"My real name is Rachel Roth… but most know me as Raven." She paused, letting that sink in. "I… I wasn't born on Earth. I was born in a place called Azarath—a realm between dimensions."

Supergirl leaned in closer, her eyes lighting up like she was about to discover a new favorite Netflix series. "Azarath? That sounds beautiful."

Raven's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "It was... once. Picture lush fields, emerald skies, and crimson clouds drifting lazily through the air. Peaceful, serene. But all of that… it's gone now."

Her gaze darkened, haunted by memories that were more than just fuzzy recollections. "My mother, Angela Roth, was a human who was tricked—used by a demon named Trigon. He thought he'd create a super-demon baby to take over Earth or something. Classic villain move, right?"

Shadowflame tensed beside Superman, his jaw tightening as if he'd just bitten into a lemon.

"Trigon sent priests from Azarath to take my mother in, so she'd survive long enough to give birth to me. They renamed her Arella and raised her among pacifists, trying to shield us from Trigon's influence. But when I was born... the skies turned black. What once smelled like fresh air now reeked of brimstone. The ground shook with fear—Azarath's peace shattered by my arrival."

Wonder Woman's brow furrowed in sympathy. "They blamed you for this?"

Raven shook her head. "Not all of them. Azar, the leader of the realm, raised me herself. She knew I could manipulate emotions—mine and others'. So, to keep me safe... she made me suppress everything. If I didn't feel, I couldn't lose control."

"Until..." Batman prompted quietly, his sharp gaze as relentless as ever.

Raven closed her eyes, guilt creeping into her voice like an uninvited guest. "When I turned sixteen, I wanted to know more about my father. I thought... maybe I could handle his power. Maybe I could understand him." She swallowed hard. "So, I summoned him."

Constantine's face paled, and it looked like he might faint. "Bloody hell, kid…"

"I thought I was in control," Raven said, her voice trembling. "But I wasn't. Trigon escaped. He corrupted the entire realm, turning Azarath into a wasteland. He killed everyone." This time, her voice cracked for real, but she steadied it quickly. "Azar, Arella… they all died. And it was my fault."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the medbay machines—like a sad symphony for a shattered realm. Starfire reached for Raven's hand, her grip gentle and warm. "You were only a child… It was not your fault."

Raven offered her a grateful, yet tired glance. "It took everything I had, but I trapped Trigon inside a gemstone embedded in my forehead. I thought... that would be the end of it." She shook her head. "But he was always there—pushing, whispering, waiting to break free."

"And that's how you ended up here?" Martian Manhunter asked softly, his eyes filled with compassion.

She nodded. "I couldn't stay in Azarath—not with it in ruins, not with him still inside me. I left... and landed here."

Superman leaned forward, his expression a mix of warmth and resolve. "You won't have to run anymore, Rachel. You're not alone now."

Raven's violet eyes shimmered with emotion she couldn't quite suppress. "You don't understand. Trigon… he's not done. As long as I'm alive, he's still a threat. I put everyone around me in danger."

"You let us worry about that," Shadowflame said, his voice firm. "We've dealt with worse."

Constantine snorted. "Speak for yourself, mate. I still have nightmares about that time we fought the zombie apocalypse. Not my best hair day."

Fleur smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Raven's face like she was about to perform a spell. "We'll help you, Raven. We have experience with darkness. And you don't have to fight alone anymore."

Supergirl squeezed Raven's hand gently, her eyes sparkling with a fierce determination. "Yeah. We've got you."

Starfire gave her a bright, reassuring smile, radiating positivity like a walking sunbeam. "You have a new home now, Rachel."

Batman didn't say anything, but his unyielding gaze was fixed on Raven, a flicker of unspoken determination shining in his eyes.

Raven swallowed hard, feeling something unfamiliar stirring in her chest—hope, that rarest of commodities. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "All of you."

Constantine clapped his hands together, breaking the moment like a clown at a funeral. "Well, now that we've had a heart-to-heart, how about we make sure nothing's going to explode anytime soon?"

Superman chuckled, and Wonder Woman shot him an amused glance. "Not everything ends in disaster, John."

Shadowflame smiled, exhaustion creeping up on him. "This one didn't. And that's a win."

In that moment, surrounded by heroes and friends who felt more like a family than she could have ever imagined, Raven realized—for the first time in a long time—that she didn't have to carry the burden alone. Whatever came next, they would face it together. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

—

Slade Wilson was having one of those days. You know, the kind where your teenage daughter keeps trying to decapitate you, and your underground network of criminal informants decides to drop life-changing news in the middle of sparring practice. Classic parenting problems.

Rose swung her katana toward his head with enough force to lop off a lesser man's skull, but Slade parried without so much as a grunt. "You're telegraphing again," he said, twisting his sword just enough to send her weapon clattering across the room. "That's the fifth time today."

Rose blew a strand of sweaty hair out of her face, glowering. "I thought you said I was getting better."

"You are," Slade replied, deadpan. "At disappointing me."

Before she could throw her sword—or possibly a punch—at him, his phone buzzed from the table. He didn't do voicemails (who even had the patience for those?), so he answered it with a curt, "Talk."

On the other end was a contact who had seen enough of Deathstroke in action to know not to waste his time. "You're not gonna believe this," the guy said, voice crackling through the line. "Talia Tate is back."

That got Slade's attention. Talia Tate, one of Talia al Ghul's favorite aliases, hadn't been seen in years. And if she was crawling out from whatever rock she'd been hiding under, it wasn't just for brunch.

"Where?" Slade asked, already mentally running through every possible move she could make.

"Peverell Industries," the voice replied. "She's their new CEO."

Slade arched an eyebrow. "A corporate gig? For Talia? Please. What's the real play?"

"Here's the kicker," the contact continued. "She's attending the UN summit next week. You know, the one with Atlantis and Themyscira?"

Of course. The one where world leaders would gather to discuss treaties, magic, and probably eat those tiny canapés no one likes. Slade could practically smell the political scheming from here.

"Queen Hippolyta sent a personal invite to the company's board," the contact added. "Talia Tate included."

Slade let out a humorless laugh. "That snake. Of course, she's wormed her way into that."

He hung up without saying goodbye (because who even needs manners?) and turned back to Rose, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping the whole time. "Guess what, kiddo? We've got plans next week."

Rose tilted her head. "UN summit?"

"Yep. We're going." He tossed her a towel. "Pack light. This isn't a smash-and-grab—it's precision work."

Rose grinned. "What's the endgame? We nab Talia, take control of the League of Assassins, and rule the world?"

"Something like that," Slade said, already calculating his next steps. "Once we've got Talia, the rest of the League will fall in line. And with Ra's in a cell somewhere, it'll be ours."

Rose gave him a cocky smirk. "When's the last time we did something that wasn't precision work?"

Slade gave her a look that was part fond exasperation, part how-did-I-raise-this-gremlin? "I'll remind you of that the next time I'm dragging your messes out of a police evidence locker."

Rose rolled her eyes but didn't argue. They both knew she had a talent for chaos.

Slade grabbed a black folder from the table—thick with surveillance reports, guest lists, and floor plans for the summit. His brain was already working overtime, fitting together the puzzle pieces. Talia had a plan. Whatever it was, Slade intended to be two steps ahead by the time it played out.

Because in this game? You either control the board, or you become a pawn. And Slade Wilson was no one's pawn.

This summit was going to be fun.

—

Clark Kent was exhausted. Saving the world six times a day would do that to a guy. All he wanted now was to kick off his boots, scarf down some leftover pizza, and pretend he wasn't an all-powerful alien for a few hours. You know, regular Tuesday night stuff.

When he stepped into his Metropolis apartment, the familiar creaks and hums of home welcomed him. The place smelled faintly of takeout and Lois's shampoo. Her coat was still draped over a chair, right where she'd tossed it—half art installation, half 'organized chaos,' as she liked to call it.

He hit the button on the answering machine, and her voice came through, smooth and slightly frazzled:

"Hey, Smallville. I'll be working late—deadline stuff. Don't wait up, okay? Love you."

Clark grinned. Deadline stuff meant two things: (1) Lois was in full journalist mode, which meant no sleep tonight, and (2) the odds of her ordering questionable Chinese food by 2 a.m. were astronomically high.

"Love you too," he said under his breath, knowing full well she couldn't hear him. Not that it stopped him.

As he moved through the apartment, he peeled off his suit like it was some kind of alien spandex curse—because it kind of was. Boots off. Cape? Draped casually over the back of a chair, like a heroic laundry mishap. By the time he was down to just the top half of his uniform hanging around his waist, his brain was already halfway to shower and bed mode.

But then—because the universe clearly didn't believe in giving heroes breaks—he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He froze, staring at his reflection. And here's the weird part: for a fraction of a second, the guy in the mirror wasn't him.

Gone was the boy-next-door smile. Instead, the reflection wore a smirk so cold and smug it could've made Lex Luthor cry for his mommy. Clark's blue eyes flashed red, molten like they'd been dipped in a volcano. And the face staring back? Yeah, that wasn't Clark Kent.

That was Trigon.

It only lasted a blink—so fast Clark didn't even notice. He ran a hand through his hair, muttered something about needing a shave, and turned toward the bathroom.

But for the readers—you—it was pretty obvious.

Trigon, the literal demon king of emotional trauma, had found himself a new hotel to squat in: the Man of Steel. And nobody—nobody—had a clue. Not Batman. Not Wonder Woman. Not even Superman himself.

As Clark turned on the shower, oblivious to the supernatural squatters' situation happening under his skin, the apartment settled into silence. But the reflection in the mirror lingered just a little too long.

Somewhere deep inside, Trigon smiled.

And just like that, the most powerful hero on Earth had a passenger—and nobody knew where the ride was headed.

---

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