Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The red neon lights blinked again, as if calling for someone’s attention. It did catch the interest of one overtired store clerk, who found the inconsistent lighting to be the main reason behind his current headache. Danny Jay Nightingale, or so his new ID claimed, sighed and walked over to the front window, slapping exactly three times on the “O” in the “Open” sign to get it fixed. He suspected a shade behind the trolling blink and filed the thought away to find the culprit for some serious scolding.

The shop was empty, the closing time so near the young man could almost taste the microwaved pizza rolls he would eat while he watched something on his ancient TV. The foot traffic that night had been no different from the last few months he had been working there, so there was no reason to believe that would change. Of course, that was a surefire way to jinx himself. The naïve certainty gave him some time to relax with random tasks around the shop.

Danny used the respite to observe the occasional shade that came curiously to greet the half-ghost, so to speak. It always made him feel some sense of nostalgia, of melancholy, knowing that no matter how much ectoplasm he tried projecting on them, none would be able to fully form to state their business clearly.

Unless someone with a close link to them came to ask for his help.

As the universe and the man’s self-jinxing luck had it, the bell by the door rang at that precise moment. Frantic footsteps followed to the counter. Danny walked out of the rows of bookshelves he had been dusting towards the newcomers to reluctantly greet them. A small family, from the looks of it, which included a pale middle-aged woman, a boy no older than ten, and a shade looking over them.

Danny mentally sniffed as the pizza rolls’ taste drifted further away.

“Hi, welcome to The Shadow Parlor,” Danny said with a tired tone that betrayed his small smile. The same brand of smile that had been passed through osmosis by a long line of exhausted retail workers before him. “What brings you to our store?”

The woman looked agitated, pushing her curly brown hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture Danny had seen too often. “Are you the medium?” she asked in a voice closer to a whisper while her finger pointed to the badly designed sign on the window.

The fake smile plastered on Danny’s face remained patiently there, mostly to force his good-natured attitude afloat. He should’ve known this was someone looking for his unique services. The shade had been right there. “Uh, yeah, did you find us through someone’s referral?” he asked, always wary about who kept spreading the word about this old and almost forgotten place in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city.

The woman sighed in relief and closed her eyes, the grip on the little boy in tow tightening in the process. “My neighbor. She told me you could help me say goodbye to—to someone who’s no longer here.” 

Ah, the hint of denial showing through.

The little boy’s eyes watered as a sob escaped his lips, a sight Danny was getting used to witnessing as he ventured into this pseudo-medium business. Dealing with the living’s feelings was never an easy part in his new role.

Danny nodded solemnly. “Sure, follow me.” He then led them to a room behind a curtain of wooden beads, where mother and child found their seats at a round table with a crystal ball. A cliché that Danny was not only willing to put up with at the insistence of the store’s owner, but one he would also encourage to give this medium charade a higher rank among the skeptics.

Both the farce and the real deal paid well either way.

Sometimes he would spend long minutes that led to long hours of wondering how he ended up in this unique position: building a new identity, pursuing a new job, and discovering a new hatred for the flowery aromas from the candles in stock that made his nose itch.  The red duck candles were the worst, but at least they could be offered as a complimentary gift with every purchase of over one hundred dollars and would, hopefully, be gone by the end of the week.

If only all of his past concerns were as expedite in their departure.

The medium, formerly known as Daniel James Fenton, had arrived in one of the less favored parts of Gotham City around eight months ago. He fled his hometown amidst a wave of confusion when the Fenton family found themselves without a legacy to continue building. After all, Danny had made sure to destroy all the portals and traces of ectoplasmic remains in his be-loathed city. He later followed the same course of action in Wisconsin, to the dismay of an easily-enraged fruitloop, who got locked away in the Infinite Realms while cursing in pastries. Or so Danny preferred to imagine.

As a result, ever since he cut all access to the Ghost Zone, the random ghost attacks or even the natural portals to the Infinite Realms were no longer an issue. It was as if ectoplasm dwindled and even fully depleted from the event. Most of his parents’ inventions had to be put in a special storage box so they wouldn’t waste what little purified ectoplasm they had left. Danny made sure to eliminate those as well before he ran away to start his new life in Gotham, the only closest place he could think of that had any semblance of lingering ambient ectoplasm to hide his ecto-signature.

He had roamed around the city to find a new place to call home, which led him to an area where all those who didn’t have anywhere else to go ended up in: The Cauldron. Once a vibrant area neighboring Old Gotham, it lost its charm and the ability to keep businesses open some years ago. It also became home to a smaller group of criminals who called themselves The Ghosts, which benefited Danny if the rumor-mill brought anyone dangerously close.

Upon his visit, an old woman shouted at him from the balcony: “Hey, kid! The Ghosts are looking for unsuspecting pockets to pick. Beware!”

That’s when Danny knew he had found his new home.

Once he sort of settled, the aftermath of his portal-destructive phase was very evident in this violent city. Instead of the ghosts he used to face when he started his career as Phantom about eight years ago, there were only opaque shades wandering around the streets, or inside of homes or offices, and the occasional bus to nowhere, silently haunting loved ones and enemies alike. Danny realized they didn’t have a way to connect to the living world, only phasing through their surroundings within an invisible layer of reality.

Approaching them was tricky. Danny’s self-sustaining ectoplasm had somehow kept most of his ghost abilities available, if somewhat dampened from the energy shift. Still, he couldn’t use any of his powers to make the shades stronger.

The half-ghost realized the paranormal laws were being rewritten as the dust of these ectoplasmic changes continued to settle. Despite his bad blood with academic endeavors, Danny began taking note of all the new things he learned along the way, with a rekindled desire to figure out what the shift had brought upon the world.

While all this newfound knowledge was an invaluable asset not to be shared with anyone, Danny looked for ways to make the best of his unique skills to provide some guidance to the shades, while also profiting in a way Amity Park had never allowed the ghostly hero to do.

And, boy, had he tried different job positions to fulfill that search for a balance between purpose and paying job. 

He had gone from calling people to offer funerary packages to prepare for the inevitable, to being a waiter at a café for lonely and heartbroken souls, to an insomniac ambulance driver, and even a shady gravedigger. Each of which was more life-sucking than the previous one, until he settled for the best approach when one desired to find errant souls to help: retail. Specifically, among people who were trying to find a new purpose through supernatural means at a semi-bankrupt magic shop.

As all serendipitous stories go, Danny found this particular shop while running away. More precisely, while hiding from what he thought were agents from the (hopefully) nearly-defunded Ghost Intelligence Ward (aka the GIW). Once inside the shop, he found a desperate store owner asking if he came for the job post, since he needed someone to help him run his business.

Aside from handling the register when the old owner was too tired to set foot in the shop, Danny also offered the rest of the already-advertised services, which everyone knew were more for show than actual connection to the spirit world. That’s how Danny started giving tarot readings, palm readings… actually, any kind of reading required in a magic shop. He even sprinkled it with Esperanto translations, which some customers required to understand the occult books they would otherwise buy blindly.

Leaning towards a supernatural route had been a hard decision to make, especially when all he had tried to do when he left Amity Park was separate himself from the ghost-hunting business. But this wasn’t entirely the same. Ghost magic was now scarce, so those who knew how to really connect with ghosts were likely to call him a charlatan. He didn’t exactly mind it, sometimes even willing to give inaccurate “readings” or “seances” as a way to seem less suspicious to anyone who decided to look his way. Working at a magic shop guaranteed that any alarms he raised in the spiritual or ectoplasmic sense, could be explained and even hidden by his new connection to this line of business.

But when he did tell the truth, when he connected with the shades to relay their messages, he found a way to give hope and closure to people who had lost it all when death took something dear from them. He helped shades and their loved ones to move on, to stop going astray. 

So that’s how he decided to carry on with this role as a medium.

Ah, yes, a role he had to fulfill once again that night before closing time.

The family of two, plus the blurry shade that followed them close, stared at the medium expectantly when they entered the séance room.

“Right, sorry. I might have taken an existential detour,” Danny apologized. He cleared his throat and settled his hands on top of the crystal ball settled in the middle of the wooden table.

A normal medium summoning would often have, as the owner often explained to his new 'apprentice’, tricks to sell the ritual; to make it look real. Like the way a medium dressed, for which Danny was provided a dusty cloak that still had a Party City tag the owner refused to cut, as well as cheap medallions that had seen better days. Ambiance was also a key factor, with the temperature set a few degrees below the rest of the shop in the darkened room, even as they sat surrounded by burning candles. The final touch was the voice, a vital element for the performance, providing certainty of the rituals with the deep and unwavering tone of someone who could call upon the dead.

Which, in all fairness, was the easiest part of the role, with Danny already growing accustomed to talking to ghosts that way when he took the throne of the Infinite Realms. Another detail he tried to sweep under the rug.

Danny closed his eyes and began chanting in Esperanto, the only uncommon language he knew perfectly, and included among the words something the shade next to the family would understand: “Get closer so I can help you,” he mentioned in subtle Ghost Speak.

The shade hesitated before drifting to Danny’s side, so close he would soon be able to whisper in his ear. Danny tried his best to ignore the shade’s trajectory and began his favorite real part of the fake ritual: establishing a link.

The owner had placed blinking lights beneath the crystal ball, which Danny sometimes helped glitch further with his ghostly aura. The two clients flinched as the temperature dropped colder, aided by Danny’s core. It took a moment before he gestured for the woman to get closer.

“Did you bring something your loved one treasured?” he asked softly, knowing this part could be difficult for the family.

The woman hesitated and nodded slowly. Her green eyes turned to her son and prompted him to give Danny his hand. This was by no means unusual to the medium, but it always sent a pang of sadness as he wondered if he would ever be someone’s treasured something again.

The boy’s small hand trembled as it found its way to hold the medium. There was a small burst of brightness in the room’s lighting, as Danny’s powers reacted and reached through the shade’s liminal dimension, to build a small opening for their loved one to become more ghostlike to Danny’s eyes. The shade took notice of the shift, as the once shadowy figure began to take more human features. The person, of similar age to the woman sitting across from Danny, looked at their hands, touched their own short hair, and exclaimed a loud “Holy shit!” only the medium could witness.

The smile on Danny’s face was more earnest now. “What’s your loved one’s name?” he asked his client.

The woman blinked away tears. “Th-Thorn. Thorn Ansley?” she replied softly.

Danny closed his eyes as part of the spectacle the owner had briefed in the lengthy introduction to the medium services The Shadow Parlor provided. “Thorn Ansley—”

“Uh, yeah?” the former shade interrupted with their reply, not aware of the show the young man was trying to put on for his more lively audience.

The medium ignored the answer and continued with the practiced voice he had been lectured on using. “Come forward if you see the light!” As if on cue, the crystal ball glowed brighter thanks to the half-ghost’s power.

Thorn’s echoey voice came closer to Danny’s left. “So, should I just… sit ? Here?” they asked.

“Follow the light, come sit with your loved ones,” Danny intoned dramatically, hoping the former-shade would get a clearer hint.

“Oh, my baby,” Thorn whispered closer to the boy who still held Danny’s hand. “Thank you, Andy, for taking such good care of him. I love you both so much.”

Danny didn’t dare to open his guaranteed-glowing-green eyes. It always happened during the start of the connection, so he usually lingered on the instant before the reveal to the living family. A moment of realization for the undead that couldn’t be distorted by anyone’s words. It was always private. Almost quiet.

As he would usually do, the half-ghost waited for a few seconds before breaking what would seem like a silent minute for those still alive.  “Thorn Ansley, we welcome you to this safe spiritual space,” he lied. No spiritual space was ever safe, as he had learned from past experiences. “Can you please close your eyes?” he asked the family in a whisper.

After a moment, he slowly opened his eyes to find the mother and child following his instructions word for word. Satisfied for the job well done, he reiterated: “Please keep your eyes closed. Thorn can now hear you. I will give you any answers Thorn gives me.”

There’s a tried process and rhythm to these spiritual connections, some parts not defined in The Shadow Parlor’s unofficial induction. For instance, Danny knew to expect tricky and obscure questions that only the deceased would be able to answer, a way to ensure the verity of the séance. This was the part that helped cement the man’s reputation as a phony for some and a true medium for others. 

The three members of the family chatted for a few minutes through Danny, like a broken phone relaying messages from beyond. The trick always came during the farewell, where Danny would randomly decide if he would throw them off with a false response or provide a warning to keep the encounter a secret. The way this family looked, he leaned towards the latter, hoping he wouldn’t get five more referrals out of these customers.

Once all the goodbyes had been shared, Danny repeated a closing speech for the fake ceremony and finally released the shade’s glimpse into the liminal space closest to the living world, at the same moment he released the boy’s hand. After a few minutes left alone to recover, the family thanked Danny for his services, the mother paying more than what was requested in profound gratitude.

While Danny appreciated the hefty tip, he had an important tip of his own.

“Drink this tea tonight to sleep better,” he said as he handed his own mix of cleansing and sleeping herbs to the woman. “You’ll probably have some weird dreams. The… connection, ”—read: ectoplasm—, “can linger for a few days.” He then stared seriously into the eyes of both mother and child. “Heed my warning: if you speak of this, you keep the door open to the other side of the veil, bringing unexpected spirits to wander about.”

The pair of customers nodded and left almost in the same rush as they arrived. As the door closed, Danny could see the “Open” sign flicker again.

With a tired groan, he walked to repeat the same process, slapping the apparent letter that caused the blink.

“That wasn’t foreboding at all,” a man’s voice behind Danny startled him, although he was too proud to admit he released an undignified yelp.

Danny turned around to see a guy around his age holding a book from the shelves at the back of the shop. The half-ghost, convinced of this newcomer’s living and breathing status, wondered if the visitor had perhaps entered while the séance took place.

Of course, Danny would also never admit he paid close attention to the young man’s deep blue eyes.

“We’re closing,” the medium offered instead of a proper comment about his previous warning to the family. He walked back to the register hoping to get this customer out on his merry way. “If you’re ready to buy that, I can ring you up.”

It took Danny a moment to realize the customer was being followed by a shade. A weird shade at that, keeping a distance instead of almost clinging either lovingly or furiously to their living liaison, so to speak. Danny couldn’t help but question if this was a real connection, or if the shade was just wandering around, following people at random.

The man snapped the book shut, looking smug at the prospect of bringing his questions to the medium’s ears. “Actually, I came for information,” the customer replied.

“Séances and tarot readings start again tomorrow at noon,” Danny drawled.

The unexpected answer put the customer on edge, raising an eyebrow. “Noon?” he repeated.

The shrug that rolled from the half-ghost’s shoulders was not convincing. “What? I need my beauty sleep.”

The customer shook his head with a smile. “As I said, I just came to ask you a few questions,” he disclosed, showing a badge dismissively. So dismissively in fact that Danny had no opportunity to fully read its inscriptions. 

He would later learn what a foolish mistake that had been.

“Oh, a cop,” Danny pointed out with a not-so-subtle grimace, repeating unsavory words for those in that line of work like a mantra in his head.

The customer-slash-cop huffed in response, a subconscious part of him probably aware of the vibe the medium was projecting against him, in the non-literal sense. “A detective ,” the detective-not-customer-slash-cop replied.

“ Riiiight , that does make a world of difference,” Danny replied, biting his tongue from releasing any snide remarks out loud.

The dark-haired detective stared at the medium straight in the eye. “So, the questions—”

“I've got one,” Danny interrupted, as he saw the shade drift next to the detective. “Why is a spirit following you around?” Danny refused to use the right terminology with a cop, aiming to appear as unreliable and fake as other mediums were, which worked well when one was trying to keep their identity hidden.

The detective scrunched up his nose. “You mean, like someone from beyond?” His tone was as dry as Danny’s ectoplasm emergency supply nowadays.

Danny’s lips curled upward, relieved to find a skeptic he could annoy enough to leave. And maybe even learn the shade’s intention in the process.

“Yeah, did you piss off anyone lately? Stolen from the dead? Killed anyone? Don’t answer that. Or left a big impression on a spirit that they’d commit to following you?”

The moment Danny saw a scoff at the mention of having pissed off anyone, was the moment all fake mediums and fortune-tellers seized as an opportunity. It was the sight of a fine thread to follow to get just the right amount of information to use in a psychic scam.

Even if Danny didn’t need it, he knew that using such methods would come in handy anyway.

“Oh, wow, you certainly got someone mad, didn’t you? The ghost sure looks ready to kill you. Didn’t follow through with a case or something?” Danny mused out loud, while the shade remained as docile and distant as before, now going through the bookshelves as if exploring the place like a regular customer. Of course, the yet-to-be-named detective didn’t have to know that.

A flurry of emotions hit the detective, his face finally deciding to settle for a small frown. “What can I say? Sometimes you can be the best at what you do, but you make one bad call and it’s suddenly the end of the world," his darker tone resounding loud and clear with Danny’s own angstiest moments in the solitude of the small room he now called home.

“Mood,” the medium muttered. 

And perhaps it was the desire to call it a day and eat cheap comfort food. Or maybe it was the way the shade ever so often seemed to stare at Danny. Or the feeling that maybe this expletive-deserving detective felt like a kindred spirit if only for just a moment. Whatever the reason was, the medium had decided to help in the end.

With a roll of his tired blue eyes, Danny sighed. “It wasn’t a joke when I said we’re closing,” he told the detective. “I can only answer some quick questions before the end-of-the-day rituals.” Which included the dull task of bookkeeping for the shop’s owner.

“I won’t take much of your time,” the detective said as he scrolled through his phone, finally turning the screen to show a picture. “Do you recognize this man?”

Danny did, in fact, recognize him. “He’s a regular. Usually comes to browse our books and leaves with a candle or some incense.” His eyes then drifted to the shade browsing the books in a very familiar pattern.

The astonished stare didn’t go unnoticed by the detective, who looked between the shelves and the medium with suspicion. “What, you’re going to tell me he’s here or something?”

He had to remind himself that the Gotham police were all either a) involved in the crimes they “solved”, b) eager to pin the blame on whatever poor schmuck they could use as a scapegoat, or c) plain ineffective. Hence the Bat parade that graced the rooftops every night.

The medium recovered and laughed as convincingly as humanly possible, not calculating his disadvantage as a half-ghost. “Buddy, I’m sure solving cases is not that easy. You’re not just getting the answers out of a ghost like that,” Danny exclaimed. “What, you want me to say ‘Yes, he’s here, he says you can find your murder weapon in the kitchen next to Professor Glum?’ Yeah, don’t think so.”

The stare the detective gave him could have made a spring flower field shrivel up and die. “It’s Professor Plum ,” he shot back in an unamused tone. “At least get your Clue names right.”

Danny wasn’t going to correct the detective with the story of how the half-ghost did leave once an anonymous tip that solved the case of a murdered shade, who led him to the murder weapon, and pointed to one Professor Edvard Glum’s kitchen as the answer to the high-profile whodunit the Gotham Police had been looking into for weeks.

No, Danny merely glared. “It was so not the point I was trying to make,” he replied instead. “Anyway, you said you had questions. In plural. I only heard one about this fascinating case.”

Detective Unknown-Name closed the picture of the probable murder victim and slipped his phone into his coat. “Your shop is the last place this guy was seen alive,” the man revealed, gauging Danny’s reaction to the statement. “Do you remember anything peculiar from the last time you saw him here?”

The shade moved from the customary look through the bookshelves to the candle table. Except, he didn’t stop at the table. The shade continued to the window and then turned insistently to look at Danny, if he was reading the glowing white eyes on the faceless shadow right.

The memory of the last visit came to Danny’s mind. The victim had seen something, cursed under his breath, and left without buying anything, which had struck the medium as odd.

“Uh, it was Tuesday. I think he got mad at something outside. Didn’t buy anything,” he shared with the other man. “Maybe look for any cameras outside? Or don’t. You know how to do your job.”

The detective went to the window and stood eerily close to the shade, staring at the neighboring buildings. “Yeah, well, that novel tip would work if there was any surveillance available.”

Danny, the runaway, had forgotten that had been one of the reasons why he chose to live in The Cauldron.

“Anything else that might be useful?” the detective asked, walking back to the counter Danny was leaning on. “Any other shady customer around that time? Anything the victim mentioned?”

The shade moved next to the detective and looked at Danny with a reinvigorated insistence that led him to believe he wouldn’t be left alone tonight.

“No, sorry,” Danny answered perhaps too quickly. “I mean, I’ll be on the lookout for anything else.”

The second mistake Danny would come to regret: leaving the door open for future questioning.

The detective pulled out a card and prompted Danny to take it. “Call if you remember anything else, please,” said Detective Alvin Draper, according to the name on the card.

“Sure, will do,” Danny answered, absentmindedly leaving the offending piece of paper on the counter. He turned with a determined look towards the man he would undoubtedly compare with a chipmunk from now on. “Anyway, I gotta close now.”

“Right, I’ll leave you to it,” Detective Draper replied before rapping his knuckles on the counter and moving towards the entrance.

Danny was preparing to sigh in relief when he heard a voice from the door. “Oh, by the way?” the Draper guy exclaimed. “I don’t believe in ghosts, so find better ways to spook me, Nightingale.”

As the bell rang and the door groaned to signal the detective’s departure, Danny was left wondering: how did the stranger know his name?

Among the many disadvantages of living in The Cauldron, not having a direct line of transportation was perhaps at the top of Danny’s list. If he wanted to get anywhere, he had to walk or use a bike to move around until he reached a bus. But when Danny was following a shade’s last wishes, their pending business, their need for closure—etcetera, etcetera, the journey always became much longer.

In a way, taking a shade with him across the river to reach their murderer made Danny feel like an Uno-reverse Kharon. He wondered if the mythological being had as much trouble as Danny had to communicate with the dead.

Danny had spent most of the night asking the shade questions that could be answered with a combination of methods. He always kept a diverse array of items, like a Gotham map, available social media photos of the victim, the white noise on the TV, a string of lights lined with an alphabet on his wall (since Ouija boards could be quite expensive and he had just watched that one show…), or even, when desperate, charades.

He hated charades the most out of all these methods.

The first approach, using a map, was how he figured out where the shade needed Danny to go to figure out the truth about the victim’s untimely demise. The rest of the communication flowed less gracefully. Eight hours and roughly three cups of terrible coffee later, Danny found himself on a bus (or three) that would lead him to Gotham Heights in the end. The ride was almost uneventful, save for a few head gestures from the shade sitting by his side, most likely worried about the traffic jams along the way or even the couple of motorized goons that had passed too close. None of these movements had revealed anything other than boredom from the otherworldly apparition.

The shade made Danny follow him to their final destination: the probable house of the murderer.

For someone who was adamant to return to his life as a hero, something that weighed terribly among his reasons to close the gates to the Realms, Danny did have a knack for helping others whenever they were stuck. He figured a shade who had no means to go and resolve their pending business was a great way to apologize for the lack of hindsight after closing the portals, and help out those who were left stranded in the fold left between worlds. One could argue that the living were who benefited the most from his newfound role, letting go of loved ones and finding some closure to carry on. But the indirect, if rather extremely complicated, path to the afterlife was promising for restless and wandering souls as well.

The house where the shade stopped seemed to be empty that early morning. The medium would later have enough time to lament on the few hours of beauty sleep he had gotten. The young man looked around and found no signs of surveillance or inhabitants around. Even the neighbors couldn’t get a good enough look in, with the tall trees and tall wooden fence keeping the property from view.

The faceless victim led Danny to a door that led to the basement from the backyard, which he gently pried open with a discreet use of intangibility on the lock. Upon opening, the basement smelled like mold and dust, making him grimace at the vague undertones of death he could perceive.

The underground room was not very spacious or clean, but it did show signs of life being recently there. Perhaps it was due to the sight of muddy boots that hadn’t dried up enough or the dusted furniture. The shade then gestured to a small shoebox on a shelf, which was otherwise packed with jars containing what looked like teeth, marked with letters and numbers. Could those labels be someone’s date and initials? A secret code? A Discord username?

The shade’s attention continued pointing to the shoebox that seemed out of place. Covering his fingertips with a thin layer of ice, Danny picked up the container, hoping no one would jump out screaming “Beware!” out of it. Instead, he noticed a collection of class rings from Gotham University. When he passed his fingers over them, he saw the tell-tale sign of a shade gaining a more ghostly presence.

“Oh, thank you!” the customer Danny saw in a picture the night before called from behind him, staring at his ethereal hands with fascination. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m dead .” He then turned his glowing green eyes to the half-dead man by his side. “And I can’t believe you were a real medium all along.”

Danny snorted in response. “Yeah, that’s me. A box full of surprises.” He continued staring at the class rings, wondering if each belonged to a victim. He turned to look at the ghost and smiled with sympathy. “Sorry about the whole dying thing, man.”

The medium knew there were not many tactful ways to ask for a victim to help solve their murder. He still had to sit down to write his own ‘Murder Whispering for Medium Dummies’ guide. Hence how Danny opted for a more casual route.

“So, what’s your ‘True Crime’ story, if you don’t mind me asking?” Danny asked the still-awestruck apparition.

The former customer turned to look at the medium and then scrunched up his nose as something behind Danny caught his attention.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” a voice coming from the basement’s entrance called.

When Danny turned around, he cursed himself, which wasn’t much of a stretch after having jinxed himself repeatedly in less than twenty-four hours.

Because, out of all people to jump-scare him twice in that same timeframe, he would have never expected the detective named like a cartoon chipmunk.

Chapter Text

The red light remained static, as if taunting him with the long wait. It didn’t help the rising sense of rush in the detective’s nerves, who considered for just a moment running over the light to catch the bus he was tracking. Maybe the lack of over-the-top heroics had sent his starving adrenaline eager for more. Cold cases were not expected to prompt a chase around the city, after all.

When the light finally turned green, the detective was the first to go.

The streets in Gotham didn’t make his transit easy, despite his motorcycle’s impressive speed. The roads were too full with the usual early traffic, as people rushed to get to work or school. Or elsewhere, as it was the case of one suspicious Daniel Nightingale, who took a long ride away from his usual haunts.

After the late-night visit to The Shadow Parlor, the detective was convinced there was something suspicious about the so-called medium. A suspicion that had started when Nightingale was revealed to be the last person to see the victim alive, and that was later fueled by his strange behavior.

While the detective already knew where Nightingale lived,—a small studio close to the magic shop in a cramped and crowded building—, he slipped a discreet tracker on the man’s jacket to figure out any other unusual whereabouts.

When the early morning came, the tracker alerted the detective to movement outside of The Cauldron’s limits. Most importantly, to an area too far away from the shop Daniel Nightingale worked at. It occurred to the detective that his mark would not make it in time for the shift he declared to start at noon.

While the detective preferred to work discreetly and under the cover of the night, he couldn’t let this lead alone, so he soon had his motorcycle ready for this kind of pursuit. He followed Nightingale’s location until he reached the bus he rode, or one of three so far.

The suspect was sitting by a window, unaware of the biker following close. From the looks of the dark bags under his eyes, the beauty sleep had been effectively forgone. It struck the detective as odd to see Nightingale talking to himself at times, muttering and scowling in muted discussion. Which made his pursuer unsure if the troubled medium was taking his performance too seriously in every other aspect of his life, or if this was a case of hallucinations manifesting closely.

The detective would know a thing or two about being troubled enough to feel all sense of reality slip past his fingers. And those moments would make him wonder about the series of events that led to his new life, his past becoming each day distant and foreign.

The detective, known as Alvin Draper, had always kept an enigmatic air about him. There wasn’t much anyone knew about the young man, beyond some vague and at times fantastical stories in his informants’ grapevine. The rumor mill was full of ideas of his murky past, sharing how he once joined a martial arts Training Camp in his youth to hone new and dangerous skills; or how he had built quite the reputation abroad when he stole works of art. Those who knew of Draper heard how his absence after high school was related to a small rehabilitation phase, before he joined the Gotham City Police Department. While his life on paper had left quite an impression, Alvin Draper believed in second chances and was ready to turn over a new page.

Or at least that’s the story his creator had fabricated to find a vicarious redemption through a different name.

Behind Detective Alvin’s unique and absolutely fake life story, was none other than Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, former businessman, tech genius, and adoptive son of the one-and-only Bruce Wayne.

Tim, as he was more commonly known, had a brilliant mind, always keeping a sharp eye on the world around him. Until, one day, he failed to be more vigilant and cost a victim their life.

This, of course, had happened during one of his lesser-known activities and not while he was being the photogenic socialite, nor the admired young Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises. The mishap had occurred while he wore a different mask, one donned for over a decade to protect the city of Gotham as Red Robin.

For Tim, being a vigilante had been a job that required precision and focus, aided by a sharp eye and attention to detail that allowed him to trace the connections even between the most impossible of cases. His strategic and analytical skills even allowed him to partake in different projects at the same time. That’s how he had taken on The End Of The World, as his multiple siblings had renamed the failed case.

Eight months before his motorcycle persecution, Tim had been looking into a group of cultists that had been operating in Gotham for some years. The Cult of Pariah, who worshipped the Ghost King, had established a failed ritual pattern, which led Tim to classify them as fake and not worthy of closer inspection. He would later come to regret this.

While Tim found out the cult would attempt another ritual to call upon their King in the next full moon, it also coincided with a hostage exchange between rival gangs at Robinson Park, which could spiral into a full war between the two groups if things went south.

While multiple cases called for multiple hands on deck, Tim was confident all the lines of investigation he had worked on the cult had shown they were never successful in their summoning attempts, considering as well how they only tried to offer their own souls for some their so-called King through a blood ritual that left no casualties.

Tim, very wrongly, assumed the cult investigation could wait.

He would later find out from one furious John Constantine and a disappointed Batman how badly he had “fucked up”.

While the lack of ghost magic had prevented the end of the world from actually happening, the life of the sacrificed victim was not one they could save.

Red Robin had failed his mission. Tim Drake had allowed his ego to get the best of him.

Tim’s confidence dwindled from there, overanalyzing the multiple ways he could have predicted the outcomes, the new modus operandi, the supernatural factors he still didn’t understand, all the signs and patterns that had been slightly skewed to the left, and a large etcetera that extended ad infinitum down through the rabbit hole he buried himself into. Anything that could have spared an innocent life.

His family and friends tried to assure Tim he had made the right call. They pointed out how he had followed his instincts and saved Gotham from having a gang war out in its streets. They also tried to find new ways to get him involved, asking for his “invaluable input”, showing their appreciation, and even inviting the young vigilante to hang out and get his mind off of things. But all efforts had been fruitless after the incident.

Tim became a stark shadow of his former self, until one day he decided to leave the group of vigilantes he called a family to find his own place in the world. Robin had always been something temporary anyway. He made a silent promise to work harder, to work better, and smarter, but he closed himself to the world and decided to find new ways to help.

One day, he found his answer when he stumbled upon a series of True Crime podcasts and videos, where he realized there were many cases in Gotham that remained unsolved. Pulling some of his remaining vigilante strings with the Commissioner, he was allowed to review some of the cold cases piling up at the GCPD. After all, he had promised Gordon he'd provide closure to these victims’ families.

His newfound purpose gave Tim plenty of ideas for new techniques and methods that could be applied in some of these cases, some that weren’t available or as efficient back when the investigation was still open. This would help him improve his skills. This would help him learn how to look for answers through a new perspective. And perhaps, even keep him from putting anyone else in danger by lowering the stakes.

As part of his cover and a way to keep his mind busy after the lack of board meetings or stuck-up galas, Tim decided to follow the example of his first source of inspiration. He decided to open a blog. A True Crime blog, to be precise, where he provided publicly available information about some of the cold cases he decided to work on, as a way to find new leads and potential informants.

Fast-forward to eight months after the incident that broke his spirit and nearly caused the End of the World, a message caught his attention:

NightCrimeShenanigans: Did you notice there’s a new murder that looks similar to the old Trophy Case case?

Using his renewed identity as Alvin Draper, which the vigilante had inserted as a valid detective active in the GCPD database, Tim sought the new victim’s information through the official police reports. It all pointed to a connection with the Trophy Case case, a case left unsolved ten years prior in which prize-winning alumni from Gotham University had been found posing with their awards for a picture, their pulse, smiles, and class rings absent. There had been no connections among the victims except for attending the university between 2004 and 2007.

There had not been any other known victims connected to the case in a decade, so this could point to a possible copycat, too.

As he asked his way through clues and leads, posing as Detective Alvin Draper, Tim found an intriguing detail to pursue his next piece in the puzzle: the latest victim had gone to a magic shop that for some reason had survived the diminishing ghost magic that affected all mediums and fortune-tellers across the city, legitimate and otherwise. A shop that was also the workplace of one very suspicious Daniel Jay Nightingale, who had such a clean record it made all the Bat-alarms in his head blare with reckless abandon.

As fate would have it, the series of events months in the making led to the current chase across Gotham, following the bus the medium was riding that early morning. After reaching a residential area far away from The Shadow Parlor, the list of Nightingale’s suspicious behaviors now included breaking and entering a basement. Tim would confirm in the small computer he passed as a phone that the property was in no way related to the medium, making Nightingale more likely to be an accomplice to murder or a copycat.

The suspect walked inside and Tim could hear the young man’s voice as he approached the stairs to the basement. The words had been concerning, mentioning a box full of surprises, lamenting someone’s death, and even asking in a nonplussed and casual way: “So, what’s your ‘True Crime’ story, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Having enough evidence to pin the blame on the medium, Tim stepped through the threshold to face the young man. The scene before him confused the renamed detective.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Tim exclaimed to get Nightingale’s attention, who froze up on the spot, staring at the detective with wide eyes.

Tim marked the behavior as additional evidence of his guilt. A part of him, however, tried to remind himself to act fast but not to jump to conclusions, lest he desired to leap before he thought.

Nightingale fearfully stared at the detective, then at the box in his hands, then at the jars on the shelves behind him, which made his already pale face blanch further as his eyes widened. “Oh, no. Nononono, this isn’t what it looks like!” he said quickly, starting to panic.

The nervous action led to a series of events none of the two men were prepared for. In his commotion, Nightingale backed away and stumbled against the shelf, which made him drop the box in his hands in surprise and scattered all its contents in the process, metallic sounds clinking on the cement floor. Rings, Tim realized.

Likes the ones that were missing from the Trophy Case case victims’ belongings.

Thankful that he was still wearing his gloves, Tim picked up one of the rings and turned it over in his hand, noticing the engravings of the Gotham University logo as well as a very familiar year: 2004. A year he had seen on several documents about the case.

It didn’t make sense. Nightingale was too young to have committed any of the previous murders. Or was he? In any case, the detective had to accept this wouldn’t be a normal investigation, and thus he would have to keep his mind open for other more impossible explanations.

Tim’s cold blue eyes moved to glare at the nervous man in front of him. “So, it doesn’t look like you were holding damning evidence that connects you to a serial killer?” the detective asked with a sharp tone.

Nightingale turned to face something next to him, muttering under his breath until his words became louder. “Well, why didn’t you—You know what? Fine!” He then said something unintelligible, though it sounded like he was scolding someone who wasn’t really there.

Or so Tim believed.

“Drop the act, Nightingale,” the detective said sternly, his eyes scanning for any signs of a weapon or any other kind of danger. “Better start explaining. Now.”

With one last curse under his breath, Nightingale kept a weary look on Tim. “This is going to sound so weird, but—” he paused, as if mentally dissecting his next words, although his body language revealed his intention to lie his way out of it. “I just… followed a hunch.”

The reply didn’t fit whatever Tim thought the medium would try to use as an excuse. It made him wonder why Nightingale wasn’t trying to blame ghosts for this, after the ominous claim that they had been following the detective. Something that had to be entirely impossible, if Constantine’s scolding had taught him anything.

“A hunch,” Tim repeated dryly.

He received a firm nod in reply. “Yeah,” came Nightingale’s not-so-firm voice. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but… there was this mark on a map that told me to come here and I just followed the vibes.”

Tim’s patience was wearing thin, but he knew he couldn’t exactly arrest the man in front of him. While his Draper alias was an official part of the GCPD (according to their system at least), he didn’t want to risk being recognized by anyone. He would have to find another way to turn him in if he got a confession.

“I know you’re not telling the truth. Your face is an open book, Nightingale.”

The medium scrunched up his nose. “Dude, how did you even know my last name before we met?”

“I know how to do my job, even if you think you can give me pointers,” Tim answered darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Fess up, Daniel.”

“It’s Danny,” Nightingale drawled in response.

The detective just raised an unimpressed eyebrow and kept his expectant stare trained on the suspect.

With a tired sigh and a glare, Danny tried to mimic Tim’s posture, which came off as guarded. “A spirit told me,” he mumbled after a moment.

The impossible answer showed no hints of falsehood, of lying through his teeth. If anything, Nightingale seemed reluctant to provide said explanation. This had to be nonsense. It couldn’t be an exception to the dwindling ghost magic in the world. He asked whatever higher powers out there, if there were any left, to give him enough patience as he humored the suspect.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Tim replied with condescension, rolling his eyes. “What did this spirit tell you, then?”

Danny scowled and averted his gaze. “What’s the point of telling you the truth when you won’t even believe it?”

There was something almost forlorn about his look, a bitterness in his tone, and an anger that seeped through the suspect’s shoulders. This was caution; self-preservation. Just as guarded as before. If the medium was guilty of anything, this picture didn’t scream murder.

Tim had known this was going to lead to more impossible answers, so he might as well get some evidence of what leaned more towards reality. “Just try to explain. We’ll see where to go from there,” Tim replied as the tiredness colored his words.

The two stood in tense silence, Nightingale’s gaze shifting to see the rings on the floor and something on the walls around them, until he dropped his shoulders in resignation.

“Look, I really like my job and my life here,” Daniel croaked, voice almost a whisper. “I don’t want to have to start all over again elsewhere, okay?”

Tim perked at the admission that would sure be important to follow through. He tried to latch on any hint he could get, memorizing gestures, words, slang in particular, and even accents he could pick out to gather as much information as he could from the suspicious medium. Information that wouldn’t be found on any paper trail.

The detective had figured Nightingale had just gotten “installed” into the Gotham matrix, so to speak. A new player from whatever other city (or town) he was from. While he was the prime suspect in this particular murder, Tim knew just from that background alone there were things that wouldn’t fit with the rest of the victims, such as Danny’s age or his time in Gotham.

If Danny had a fresh start when he arrived in the city, what had gone rotten in his previous life to seek refuge in a seemingly hopeless city?

“If you’re really innocent, then it’s just a matter of telling the truth,” Tim said, paying close attention to Danny’s reactions. “I have no reason to ruin your life. And I can understand the need for a new change of pace. A second chance.”

After a moment of consideration, Nightingale took a deep breath he released slowly. “My job isn’t as bullshit as it looks,” he spoke in a more subdued tone, his words filled with truth. “I can see…something. I can’t tell you everything. But, they’re out there, wandering, waiting…”

Something in Tim’s chest constricted. The reminder of vital information that would have made this claim impossible. He knew he shouldn’t believe this. If he did, it would have made his mistakes much worse. “How? Talking to ghosts is a lost practice. No one can do it in this city anymore.” Or anywhere on Earth, according to Constantine.

Danny stared at him confused. “Lost practice? What are you talking about?”

Tim had to think about how to phrase this right, never one to give away what he could use to his advantage later. “I meant that magic through ghosts has been out of business for quite a few months. All that’s left are fake mediums trying and failing to convince people of their skills. There used to be good ones out there, some even helped the GCPD from time to time.” Or so the records said.

The records didn’t say the mediums had helped the Bats.

Or that it had only been two mediums at most.

Or that while they didn’t consider themselves as mediums, Zatanna’s and Constantine’s help had always been valuable in cases bordering on the occult.

Would he have to tell them about this case as well?

Danny’s intense blue eyes studied Tim, the attention making the detective almost uncomfortable. A creepy vibe, if he had to phrase it somehow, no matter how his belief in vibes had never been high. The non-committal shrug from Danny eased some of the vibe a moment later. “Part of me almost doesn’t care if you believe me or not, but I also don’t want to become a suspect for something I didn’t do. Like, wouldn’t that hurt the victims in the end? You’d be wasting time looking in the wrong direction.”

Tim’s wariness hadn’t left completely, but he had to admit this was some solid reasoning he could get behind and understand. But if this was the truth, that left the path open for the things that weren’t rooted in human logic and science. To darker topics he had no real expertise about and would require stepping away, alerting someone more knowledgeable before he put someone else in danger.

He decided to start with the main question. “If you want to help, you can start by explaining how you can see ghosts when no one has been able to do it in months?”

Nightingale turned to look at the scattered rings on the floor. “I don’t know how to explain it,”—another evident lie,—“but it’s not really summoning or whatever you’ve heard of the séances. The spirits just… appear.” He then gestured at the empty space next to him.

Tim tried to will the spirit into visibility by the sheer force of his look of concentration. Which led him nowhere, of course. There were no hints of a presence through sound or sight, no signs of the temperature dropping, or any sensation in his hand when he moved it near the place Danny was looking at.

“Okay, then how does the communication work, then? Once they appear, I mean. Do they talk to you? Ouija boards? Ghost whispering? Charades?” The detective prompted, dismissing the look of surprise and the muttered ‘damn, so accurate’ next to him.

Danny shook his head and smiled. “Sure, let’s talk here, while we wait for the real killer to return home. Would you like me to check if they have some coffee up in the kitchen?”

Tim was so not ready for this level of sass this early in the day. “Alright, I came looking for evidence anyway, not for the medium world-building,” he muttered as he walked into the room, staring at the rings scattered on the floor. He turned to look at Danny who was giving him a quizzical look. “What?”

“So you believe me? Just like that?” Nightingale asked with a perplexed tone that matched the look on his face.

Tim rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t just like that. You have an alibi at least for a dozen of the murders I’m looking into.” He also had reason to believe he would need to consult someone else about the ghost part just to be totally sure he didn’t mess up, again.

Danny stared at the rings, his eyes seizing the amount scattered on the floor. “Damn, that many, huh?” He stared at the empty space next to him and seemed confused by something else. “Uh, Detective Theodore?”

Tim sighed. “It’s Alvin. Detective Alvin Draper,” he replied with a dry tone.

Nightingale mumbled a reply and gave Tim a worried look. “Right, Detective Whatever… I think I should probably share something really important about how I can contact spirits. Before you take it away?”

The uncertainty in the voice was a different shade from the previous interjections, making Tim turn to face his informant-slash-suspect. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Danny licked his lips. “I can only see weird shadows, but when I touch something important to them, I can see them, so…” His eyes lingered on the rings.

The hairs on Tim’s neck stood on end. He was probably just falling for the suggestion. “What, are we now surrounded by everyone who had a ring?”

Danny shifted nervously, the air around them growing tense, the “weird vibes” from before growing in intensity. So maybe there was something in the air the detective could detect.

The medium made a so-so motion with his so-so nervous hands. “Uh, something like that. We might have company coming. The living kind. And they want to make sure we don’t screw this case up since it doesn’t look like you have a search warrant, so…” Tim tried not to cringe at the new blunder that could have made his case crumble, his tension gone unnoticed by Nightingale who continued to look around. “Got any extra gloves to pick these up quickly and get the hell out of here?”

Tim’s tension morphed into a stare filled with disbelief. “You were just holding them in your gloveless hands a moment ago.”

Danny’s eyes moved from side to side, probably preparing a lie, if Tim had started to read the man’s gestures right. “I used the wax of a spare duck candle? We got tons at the shop.” A fact that was true even if the story wasn’t. The medium’s gaze turned to the ground to avoid more scrutiny. “My hands got sweaty, and the wax melted from my fingers, but you won’t find a single print, I swear.”

With Danny not revealing the truth of how he had succeeded in touching possible evidence without leaving a trace, Tim tried to hide his growing suspicion. There was something not quite fitting in the picture but also not quite adding any evidence to Danny’s involvement in this case, so Tim would need to look into afterwards.

Sensing he wouldn’t get a straight answer, the detective handed the medium a pair of black latex gloves from a pocket in his coat. “Fine, put them in the box. Don’t mess with any other evidence.”

The two men worked in silence, looking under the shelf and the desk for any stray ring to include in the box. Tim began to believe more about the medium’s claims when he noticed the man mumbling and saying thanks after he turned to pick a ring that wasn’t in his line of sight.

It also struck Tim as odd that Nightingale squinted every now and then, as if his eyes were being affected by something. When Danny noticed the man’s look on him, he shrugged. “Let’s say things get flashy when I pick things like these,” he said with more squints.

Tim made another mental note to the list of things to add to his questioning. He was still not entirely sure about how this connected to any form of ghost magic, unless there were other alternative ways to reach ghosts that Constantine hadn’t revealed before. Or had there been a return to the usual spiritual connections in the world he hadn’t learned about?

Tim’s heart clenched with nostalgia as he reminded himself how he needed to be in a better headspace to go back to face his family.

Once they were set and all the rings had been collected in a way almost reminiscent of a feral hedgehog, the two men went to the detective’s motorcycle and headed anywhere but the invaded residence. A part of Tim still questioned allowing his new informant-slash-past suspect to ride along, but his need for answers weighed more.

“I hope the ghosts know how to fly fast enough,” Tim muttered before he put the helmet on.

That seemed to amuse Danny. “You could say that.”

Tim had known a diner where they would be left alone enough to talk about the strange situation, closer to Old Gotham. It was still early enough to have people eating breakfast but deserted enough to give them privacy in a far-away booth. He learned of this place from his family. These seats had witnessed perhaps too many conversations with friendly rogues and conflicted heroes alike.

The people running the place would always give them privacy, never even hinting at the vigilantes’ recurring visits but there was always a look of recognition, certain tells in the way they prepared their meals or served their coffee.

Danny seemed weary about an invisible danger. Perhaps there was one, Tim still didn’t know how his abilities worked. What he did know was that the medium had insisted on keeping the rings at least close to keep his connection active with the ghosts around them.

At first, Nightingale seemed distracted but replied to basic questions about what he had found out previously to reach that basement (not much) and what he knew about the Trophy Case case (nothing at all). But after a few minutes into the conversation, he looked extremely irritated, until he suddenly closed his eyes and seemed about to burst.

“Enough!” he shouted at no one in particular, making everyone at the diner quieten their chatter, turn, and stare with disproval at the display.

Tim wondered if it was too much to ask for this case to be easy to solve while keeping a low profile.

"Nightin—Danny,” Tim scolded in a lower voice. “Can you please not draw everyone’s attention while we’re having what sounds like crazy talk?”

Danny huffed and scowled. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a bit hard. Do you know just how many ghosts are around us? It’s getting kinda—guys,” Danny suddenly interrupted himself, reinforcing his glare to the unsuspecting empty space next to Tim’s side of the booth. “I can’t even listen to my own thoughts, would you mind?” At least his exasperation had lowered in decibels.

The detective could only hear the deafening silence around them as the diner resumed their previous chatter volume. He cleared his throat, something his second cup of coffee should have already done.

“Okay, why don’t you just tell them to take turns or something,” Tim said as a way to solve the current issue. He pulled out a tablet from his messenger bag and browsed through it. “I have my case files with me, so I can cross-reference with previous victims, check if they’re all accounted for or confirm the timeline.”

Danny turned to look at a large space around them. Tim had counted at least twelve rings in the box. Were there as many victims really around? He figured he could ask Danny some trick questions to verify his claims, starting with fake information or perhaps things that happened ten years ago, a timeframe that wouldn’t make sense for the medium to be involved in.

"Sure, it’s your funeral, I guess,” Nightingale muttered as he sunk in his seat.

“Why don’t I ask you about a couple of victims to start?” Tim continued. “Is… Nicole Pond here? She used to be a Literature graduate who—”

Danny snorted. “She’s here. She was a Psychology graduate,” the medium paused to listen to something or someone to his left before his grin grew wide and mischievous. “She also says that if that’s the quality of info the GCPD could gather about the case, it’s no wonder you haven’t caught the murderer.”

Tim was surprised by the accuracy of the information. Nicole Pond was the first victim and would probably know more about the case than anyone else.

Danny nodded sagely, his mood already improving from the previous outburst, and turned to the detective again. “Oh, she also says to please call her Nikki. She’s not fond of Nicole.”

Tim sighed. “Sorry, Nikki.” He looked awkwardly in the direction Danny was turning to talk to the ghost of said victim, the unusualness of the situation finally hitting the detective like Bane on a bad day. “Do you mind if I confirm a couple of other victims, just to make sure it’s the same case?”

“Sure,” Danny said as he drank his coffee. “Ask away. They’re… calmer, now. Thankful that you’re looking into it.” He paused for a moment and rolled his eyes. “Even Nikki says it’s better than the other guys who didn’t care to look more into the case.”

Tim didn’t know how to reply to that, the memory of his past mistakes weighed heavy in his chest. “It’s what I do,” he said softly. “So, uh, there was also—”

“Hold on,” Danny interrupted again. “Some of them already looked over your shoulder and say you’re reading all the information wrong. That you’re testing me.”

Tim wondered, not for the first time, if the medium was in reality a mind-reading meta.

“And no, I can’t read minds,” Danny said as his look turned into an utterly unimpressed expression. “Anyway, is that proof enough for you? I just wanted to help my customer, who directed me to that place. And pointed out the basement. And the rings. And… teeth.”

Tim stared trying to make sense of the situation.

Because this would confirm Daniel Nightingale still had some kind of connection to ghost magic or the ghost realm. It would mean Constantine could be wrong about other things as well. And it would lessen the guilt eating away in Tim’s chest, knowing he could find a way to give closure to the people everyone had failed to save before.

Tim looked at his tablet and switched to a note-taking application. His eyes turned with more determination to look at his new informant-slash-potential-ally. “All right, tell me everything that happened.”

And so, Danny told him everything that happened.

It took them the next few hours, filled with large amounts of caffeine and grizzly details of all the victims. More than Tim ever thought he would have to listen to. Before long, the medium had to retreat to The Cauldron, specifically to The Shadow Parlor, where the detective would no doubt go looking for more answers in the near future.

Tim hadn’t pictured himself going into the magic shop so soon. Yet, the intel he had been gifted by Nightingale led to the capture of the Trophy Case Murderer a few days after their disconcerting diner discussion. Therefore, he found himself compelled to share his findings with the medium.

The store was as empty as he remembered the last time, with none of the advertised séances or tarot readings taking place at the moment. He opened the door softly, careful not to make the bell announce his arrival. Despite the caution, the medium’s eyes zeroed on him immediately from behind a bookshelf.

“Oh, Detective Simon,” Danny said, making the detective question once more why he had chosen his current alias in the first place.

“At least we have no more chipmunks left for you to troll me,” Tim begrudgingly retorted. A part of him wanted to share his real name with the medium. To Danny. An olive branch after all the help he provided to solve the decade-old case. But Tim knew there were better ways to work together. In fact, he knew he had to keep an eye on the guy who for some reason had kept a connection to the ghostly realm.

An unexplained connection he was eager to get explained.

“What brings you here? Missed indirectly talking to your case’s ghosts on your way to the murderer’s house?” Danny sassed with a wary smile as he walked to the shop’s entrance.

“I came to share the news,” Tim said, pulling out a note from The Gotham Gazette on his phone, showing a headline that read “Trophy Case Serial Killer Caught a Decade Later” and detailing in the blurb how the Trophy Case case had been closed thirteen years after the first murders.

The full note Tim had already read went on to show one Michael Pattison as the culprit, the connections between the victims finally revealed by an anonymous source to the Gotham City Police Department, which Danny would believe to be himself and not the fake detective he worked with. Michael had attended a summer camp for future leaders with all victims during high school. However, out of all of the companions in his age group, he was the only one to not reach the fame and glory others received as they pursued their careers, all of which turned out to lead to Gotham University. A university that didn’t accept Michael’s application.

Bitter, resentful, Michael sought to wipe the smile out of their victims’ faces and collect their class rings as a reminder. Of course, the news reports would leave any gruesome details out of the picture.

“All your info checked out,” Tim continued, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Your name was not connected in any way to the case, though. I figured you didn’t like the spotlight, since you’re totally hiding under a new name and you probably haven’t disclosed it to anyone.”

The look of horror on Danny’s face was enough to confirm Tim’s suspicions. “How the hell do you know that?” he asked with barely a whisper.

The smug smile on the detective’s face was only the beginning of the larger plan he was about to reveal to his ally-slash-partner. “You did say you didn’t want to change cities and start all over again. Seemed like the most logical explanation.”

Danny closed his eyes in defeat, groaning and cursing under his breath. Something Tim knew would help him in his endeavor to have a more consistent partnership with Nightingale.

The medium walked to the register, letting his head hang as he used the counter for support. “Fuck, I really messed that up, didn’t I?” His terrified blue eyes turned to look at Tim. “Are you going to tell anyone? About me?”

Tim had already considered his options days before and even during sleepless nights. As he confirmed each and every one of Nightingale’s claims. As he thought of the cases even he hadn’t been able to solve. As he wondered about every possibility to continue with this collaboration with someone who could become a case on his own, each mystery behind Daniel Jay Nightingale more intriguing as he discovered more clues along the way.

And it wouldn’t hurt to have the closest thing to an occult expert without getting near his former colleagues. Without disappointing John Constantine one more time, even if the Brit might not know how Nightingale was able to harness a connection that had been once lost with the spirit world.

Tim’s smile became more sincere as the words came out. “We could work something out. Maybe consulting you about other victims wouldn’t be so bad.”

Danny eyed him suspiciously under his dark bangs. “Are you serious?” Tim’s smile grew in confidence, making the medium’s brow furrow. “But why?”

The detective walked closer and leaned against the counter. “I’ve got a box full of unsolved cases I’m trying to crack. If we work together, think of the closure and peace we could give so many families.”

Danny stared in disbelief at the detective, eyes narrowing with a hint of betrayal. “I’m being blackmailed, here, aren’t I?” Danny asked dryly.

Tim’s smile didn’t falter. “I was going to call it a partnership, but whatever works for you.”

Chapter Text

Danny Nightingale, formerly known as Danny Fenton and the ghostly superhero Phantom, had his own share of adventures with annoying thorns on his side. From bullies dressed as athletes or ghosts escaping the Infinite Realms, there was always someone creating some inconvenience or another in his teenage years.

Now as a magic shop clerk and its star medium, Danny found things could be a little bit calmer and a lot less inconvenient in the ghostly sense. Little did he know, there would be a new inconvenience around the corner.

Bzzzzz Bzzzzz

The barely-lit room fell silent, except for the buzzing sound.

Bzzzzz Bzzzzz

“Uh, isn’t someone supposed to get that?” the ghost of a bespectacled man in his late thirties cut the silence that had fallen around the people gathered in the séance room.

Bzzzzz Bzzzzz

Danny opened his eyes in annoyance, turning to face the ghost with his trademark deadpan look, which had an added tinge of dead in it. He then faced the mixed group of four friends who had come for his services and dished the same brand of tiredness in his tone. “We can continue contacting your friend if you guys turn your phone off. It’s… distracting.”

The small group looked at each other, including the deceased guy they were unaware was already in the room with them. A woman with short auburn hair and wide blue eyes shifted on her seat before turning to face the medium. “Uh, I think it’s yours?”

Bzzzzz Bzzzzz

The half-ghost seemed half-ready to retort something when he realized the buzzing came closer to him. In fact, he noticed his jacket was the one vibrating, not someone else’s phone on the table. Perhaps he had been too entranced to notice.

Or maybe it was obscured by the fact that he didn’t have a phone. He refused to have anything on his belongings that could be potentially tracked. And it wasn’t like he had anyone to call, anyway.

He patted his medium robe and then inserted a hand into the dusty costume to reach his jacket, looking for the cursed device. There. In his left pocket. He retrieved a smartphone, a small and cheap version of one of Wayne Tech’s models, and looked at the screen. The letters “A D” appeared, making the definitely tired man sigh and roll his eyes.

While Danny hadn’t foreseen this exact situation, which in a way proved he was not a real fortuneteller, he knew revealing a part of his secret abilities would come to haunt him sooner or later. It had been too quiet for a few days.

Danny accepted the call and tried to pour all his annoyance into his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Hey, Danny,” Detective Draper’s voice greeted. “Hope you’re not too busy.”

“Hold on,” Danny mumbled, not making it clear if he was talking to the detective or his clients.

He stood up to leave the room, giving an apologetic smile to his clients and raising a finger to gesture to them to wait for a moment. The ghost in the room protested and walked in front of Danny when he crossed the beady curtain, which earned the spirit a green glare from the medium.

The ghost shuddered and apologized as he went back into the room, leaving Danny alone in the adjacent room.

“How did I get this number?” Danny finally talked to the detective.

There was an amused snort on the other end of the line. “You think I didn’t notice you don’t have a phone? I figured you’d appreciate a different way to reach out than just me hanging out in your shop.”

Danny scrunched up his nose and walked to the counter. “That doesn’t answer how you sneaked this phone into my jacket.”

“Don’t worry about it, really,” the detective replied with a hint of amusement in his tone. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m calling about. There’s a case or two I would like to get your help with tonight. Want me to meet you at the same diner? I could go pick you up if you prefer.”

It occurred to the medium, with the warning about a blackmail-slash-partnership stated just a week ago, this wouldn’t be the last he would see of the annoying detective if Danny refused to meet him.

He had no immediate way out. For one, there wasn’t much he knew about Detective Draper. There was no possible way of knowing if he had any safety check in place that would make Danny seem more suspicious if he used one of his few ghostly tricks under his sleeve. There also was no guarantee that the Detective was working alone.

With the weight of each of these questions plaguing his head, Danny released a heavy breath. “Fine, I’ll see you there. Also, phone calls are horrible. Text me next time.” Before he could hear any reply, he hung up.

When he went back to the séance room, all living and non-living eyes turned to look at the medium. He grimaced as he took his seat. “Sorry about that,” he told his clients. “On the bright side? The call actually improved our reception and now I can see your friend around.”

One of the girls sat at the edge of her seat, her eyes wide and hopeful. “Seriously? Can we talk to him now? Hey, bud, can you hear us now?”

Danny looked at the ghost in the room, who cringed at his friends. “Uh, can you tell her you’re losing the signal or something? I forgot we got in this huge fight and I kinda want them to grovel for a little bit.”

The medium rolled his eyes and huffed. “I should get a better job,” he mumbled mostly to himself.

It was a quiet night at the diner, with most patrons looking like regulars as they relaxed or chatted with the staff. Danny made it a little later than intended and found Detective Draper already seated in the same booth they had shared days earlier.

The detective looked too focused on the contents of his tablet, the dark circles under his eyes already a few shades darker and revealing sleepless nights that intended to be mitigated through the sheer force of caffeine.

Danny wanted to be anywhere but there, trapped in a booth to hear whatever horrific stories the cases enclosed to see if there could be a shade to shed some light on the matter. While he still enjoyed helping people, especially those he affected after cutting off the Infinite Realms from the living world, he didn’t like the idea of putting his hard-earned peace at risk to help a cop, of all people, over blackmail. It would be only a matter of time before someone from his past could find him and he had to figure out a new escape route, fake name, and new life altogether.

The question wasn’t if Danny could pull it off. The question was if he really wanted to do it.

The medium sighed as he contemplated the 52 ways he could leave Gotham and start over again, with a clean slate of sorts. He dragged his feet to the booth and sat down with a tired huff. Detective Draper looked up from his tablet and raised an eyebrow, arched in terrible disappointment.

“You’re late,” Draper stated simply in a dull tone, his tiredness seeping through.

Danny rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt these closed cases’ victims will get any deader.”

Just on cue, one of the nearby shades drifted until it floated in front of Danny, silent like all the souls of the same kind and with a bright white look that stared intensely at the half-ghost. Danny grimaced. “Hey, I’m sorry, but you know it’s true,” he mumbled to the wandering soul.

While the intense glare continued unknown to the detective, Draper settled the tablet in front of the medium and explained. “Look, if we pick two or three cases a week, we’ll make a huge dent on—”

“Do you boys want some coffee?” a waitress interrupted as she approached the table with a coffee pot in hand.

There was an awkward silence before Draper sighed. “Yes, please.”

Danny, recalling the speed with which Draper previously had downed his coffee, managed to nod at the waitress before she left.

When the waitress was done with their drinks, the detective continued explaining, the intensity in his eyes returning with full force. “Anyway, I picked three that might be relevant. They’re from last year, but they were abandoned due to lack of evidence.” He pulled his backpack slightly above the table to show Danny its contents: plastic evidence bags. “I managed to get some of the victims’ belongings, to see if they help you with your power,” he added with a shrug and a searching look that was waiting for the medium’s reaction.

Danny stared at the bags, then at the detective. The other man’s midnight-blue eyes continued showing the deep tiredness the rest of his body spoke of. But there was also something resembling pain or fear. Danny often couldn’t tell between the two. It was something Danny knew too well every time he looked in the mirror.

In any case, he could recognize the man in front of him was also lost.

The coffee was still warm when Danny rose the cup to his lips. The strong beverage promised this would be a long, sleepless night. “So, you want me to touch the evidence and hope that doesn’t incriminate me in any way?” Danny asked.

Draper closed his backpack and looked taken aback. “I’m not looking to frame you. Why would I waste the only break I’ve had in weeks on these cases?”

The soft look was sincere, one Danny tried and failed to mimic multiple times when dealing with customers at the shop who would blurt out all their life stories just to buy the right spell or amulet.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this to help people who might not even appear,” Danny mumbled under his breath as he shook his head. Once he noticed he was being approached by two more shades, he turned to Draper with a more genuine smile. “Okay, yeah, never mind. These guys are eager for help too.”

Draper stared with a questioning look until he realized the weight of Danny’s words and spoke sadly to the invisible visitors. “I promise I’ll help you find closure. We. We’ll both help you,” he hastily added.

Danny rolled his eyes. Maybe the detective wasn’t that bad after all. He could work with this for a little while. Maybe that way he would earn back his freedom in more senses than one.

The following days were not as exciting as Danny had imagined. Contrary to the idea he had already built in his mind to reflect the partnership he now shared with Detective Draper, there had been no visits to the police station, no car rides or weapons being drawn to subdue escaping criminals, and no yellow tape to cross as an officer debriefed them about some recently-found murder.

According to Draper, those cases were left to the hands of the other GCPD detectives, while the ones taken by him usually didn’t involve recently-deceased victims. Unless there were exceptions, like with the Trophy Case case similarities with a new murder.

In other words, the dynamic duo was often led to their own devices, which generally led to questionable use of illegal methods to solve these cases. If one were to include using a medium as an illegal method or even as cheating.

As Danny grew more accustomed to the awkward silences with Draper, he figured a little light-hearted fun was long overdue. “So, what type of partnership do we have?” he asked Draper as they stood in an empty hallway, just outside of a victim’s apartment. Danny leaned against the wall next to the detective, staring at the eyes that had been focused on a lock. “Are you a cop with a stick up his butt and a quirky civilian partner? Or is it brooding detective making up for past mistakes with punster who spirits him away?” Danny felt an exasperated glare turning towards him but he ignored it to plow on. “Oh! I know, I could be the main character who has an existential crisis when every case becomes relatable to his own personal issues.”

Draper lowered his hands from the lock he was picking and turned to fully glare at the medium. “Danny… do you always talk this much?”

Danny knew he had won this silent battle to get on the detective’s nerves. “Look, Draper—is Draper ok or do you prefer Alvin?” he stopped to ask the other man, who just shrugged as he continued to use his tools on the door. “I could just call you Detective. I don’t have to act like the Devil or anything to use that name.”

The tool in Draper’s hands slipped and his glare returned in full force to meet Danny’s amused look. “Now’s not the right time,” he yell-whispered. “Just… let me open this lock in peace. Please.”

Danny allowed the silence to settle until the detective was finally able to open the door. A part of Danny felt guilty for not helping his current partner with a little intangibility to quicken the process, but those were secrets that didn’t need to come out.

“We’re in,” Draper unnecessarily announced with a glare.

 “Awesome,” Danny replied with his best fake smile. “I love following you around to see if a ghost shows up.”

Not for the first time and most probably for the sake of his sanity, Draper ignored the comment altogether.

After the door to the apartment opened, Danny looked around the small place the victim used to call home. There was a flash of light as the detective turned on a lamp in the living room, his fingerprints leaving no mark thanks to the detective’s gloved hands.

Danny looked at some pictures on the wall, recognizing the victim in them. “Do you have a search warrant this time?” he asked just for the sake of conversation, not expecting really an answer from his companion. When there was nothing but silence, Danny turned to see the detective scowling. “Oh, wait… seriously?” the medium asked, his full attention now on Draper. “So, is it a recurring thing with you or something? Maybe I need to think about more bad boy characters from cop dramas…”

Draper stopped inspecting the box he had in his hands and glared at Danny. “What we’re doing is not necessarily by the book, either. You can’t just ask a civilian to tag along like in those shows. There are protocols to follow.”

The medium nodded. “And we’re dismissing all existing protocols. Gotcha.”

“Whatever makes you happy and lets me work,” Draper shot back as he opened a drawer on a small desk. Danny still wondered what exactly he was looking for or if the detective was just that curious about learning new things that could potentially help the case.

Danny fidgeted with the small evidence bag in his jacket and continued looking at the different belongings that had been collecting dust for a victim that had no family or friends in Gotham, a stark reminder of Danny’s own situation.

His mind suddenly clicked with a new distraction from his inner demons. “So, if we’re doing the right thing the wrong way, would that make us like vigilantes or something like that?” His amusement found additional irony in the many worries he had after arriving in Gotham. “Oh! Maybe I’m the Robin to your Batman.”

Draper stared in disbelief and let his shoulders drop, the books in his hand almost falling to the floor. “What did I ever do to deserve this level of torture?” he asked no one in particular.

Danny quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry, didn’t think our city’s heroes were a sore spot for you.” Ignoring Draper’s glare, he turned to check the items on a small coffee table by the couch. “What happened? They cost you a promotion or something?”

If there was one thing Danny excelled at and honed as a prized skill in his time as Phantom, it was how to get under people’s skin. He knew the attempts could lead him to danger, maybe even harm. But it was also a way to test people’s boundaries, their limits. It allowed him to assess where to push and when to shove if he needed to do so. So playing with the detective’s buttons was just as much of a veiled attack as it was a defense mechanism.

In this case, whenever his attempts were met with silence and a clenched jaw, he knew he had hit a sore spot. This time, however, it was not one he decided to push further.

Shifting gears, Danny gave the detective something else to focus on. “I still think the whole blackmailing thing you did with me is just giving you bad karma. It would also explain the ghosts following you around.” Draper snapped out of focus at these words and gave Danny a mildly terrified look. “I’m kidding,” Danny replied with a snort. Then he added with a small shrug. “Well, mostly.”

Draper let out an exhausted breath and closed the last book from the pile in his hand. “What does that even mean?”

Danny sat on the couch, much to the detective’s annoyance, and lifted a small cloud of dust. “Oh, gross,” he said between coughs.

“Serves you right for just trying to push my buttons,” Draper shot at the medium with a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Danny continued to cough as the detective asked. “Have you seen anything yet or not?”

The question went ignored. “Did you know you have a, uh… death kinda aura about you?”

“I’m not falling for your bullshit, Nightingale,” came the more-amused-than-annoyed reply.

Danny took a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Ouch, Alvin… last-naming me and all? But no, this is totally super legit and serious medium lore. Ask anyone still in business,” the half-ghost added with a wide grin.

Draper stopped looking through papers scattered in another box and shot Danny a mischievous look. “I heard about your work. That you’re not always accurate.”

“Well, I have a reputation to uphold, after all,” Danny replied with a shrug, leaning further into the comfortable yet dusty couch.

“As an unreliable medium?” Draper drawled.

Danny’s smile turned smug. “As someone who’s not worth remembering.”

The detective walked towards the smaller armchair next to the couch and sat on it. “It’s to be expected when you’re helping the ghosts, not the living.”

There was something in the challenging stare trained on Danny that made him uneasy. He didn’t expect to be that transparent about his real role as a medium.

“I didn’t say that,” he defended himself.

Draper leaned closer with his arms placed on his knees. “Five of your past customers said they weren’t sure you were really talking to a ghost and figured you were just a really good performer. Three of them recalled you said things that didn’t make sense and then some things that totally did.”

Danny smiled, not surprised at all about the raging reviews. “See? Unreliable. You wouldn’t usually recommend someone like that, right? Which is why I’m always surprised when I get more customers asking for those services.”

Draper shrugged. “I mean… you are quite the character. I wouldn’t be surprised if people just visited you for the show, you know?”

“See? Maybe we’re the police version of Buzzfeed Unsolved. We could have our own vlogging channel. I already have the showmanship ready,” Danny exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm, completely aware that having media visibility would be a terrible idea for his eight months in hiding.

Draper’s unimpressed look told Danny how little he believed that enthusiasm as well.

The detective got up from his seat and looked around the room once more before he turned with crossed arms. “So, are we just going to wait here all day to see if a ghost shows up? We’re wasting time.”

“Why?” Danny replied with a shrug and gestured to the ghost sitting next to him, his cushion or the dust on it unperturbed by his presence. “Patrick here said he wants to see you do your detective thing.”

Draper gaped and blinked slowly. “Hold on… Patrick? As in… our victim Patrick?”

“The only one I’ve sort of known in Gotham, so far,” Danny answered while shooting a grin to the ghost, a nice-looking man in his mid-twenties who just smirked back in response.

The detective’s exasperation was clear in the quick movements he made to stand in front of Danny, gesturing wildly at the apparently vacant seat. “You’ve been in touch with our deceased victim, for who knows how long, and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning before?”

If there was some other way Danny liked to get under people’s nerves, it was definitely through an oblivious attitude. “Hey, this guy only has one chance at a ghostly afterlife in Gotham. Let him live vicariously a little.”

Draper looked completely done and decided to ignore the medium, moving until he was in front of where he assumed the ghost was. “Patrick, I’m trying to get closure on your case and whoever was responsible behind bars. Could you please tell Danny here whatever you remember about your death?”

Danny hissed and gestured with his hands in a cancelling motion in front of the detective. “Whoa, whoa, insensitive much? You can’t just ask people why they’re dead.”

Patrick, who had been amused by the whole situation and had shared with Danny outside his apartment how the two looked like a cop sitcom’s characters, snorted at the medium.

“Nah, dude, it’s okay,” the ghost exclaimed with a dismissive shrug. “It’s been chill these last few months getting used to it. Haunting the apartment I bought but no one knows about. I’m learning death puns, though. I saw you’re great at delivering some in total deadpun. Huh? Get it? Because it sounds like deadpan?”

Danny stared at the ghost and then turned to his living companion. “Draper, he’s traumatized now. He won’t want to speak.”

Draper, still unaware of the cackling ghost in front of him, winced at his fake faux pas. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I was insensitive. We just want to figure out your… situation. Is there anything you can share to help us?”

Patrick put his hands on top of his chest and stared longingly at the detective. “Awww, he’s nice. And kinda cute,” he said as he stared at the detective with an appreciative look before turning to Danny. “Are you two together-together or something? Because I’d totally possess that—”

“Okay!” Danny interrupted, getting up from his dusty seat and clapping his hands in front of him. “Patrick is willing to talk. About the case, I must emphasize.”

Draper stared at the incomplete scene in absolute confusion, while the victim continued to laugh at the medium’s red beet expression.

And if Danny had to push down those intrusive thoughts later that night, no one else would have to know about it.

After solving the case of Patrick's disappearance, which had resulted in an accidental death and not a murder as the detective had suspected, and following on other less exciting cases, Danny found himself nights later yawning in Draper’s car. Because it turned out Draper did have other means of transportation available.

The two of them had been waiting for a couple of hours to stalk someone who had been a suspect in a murder that never got cleared. The shade following the two of them, sitting in the backseat, kept pointing in this direction, so they decided to wait for the right opportunity to face the main suspect and see if a handshake would do the trick to be able to see the shade as a ghost.

Danny tried to think of more useful ways to spend a Friday night, which led him to believe the detective had not much of a social life, to begin with.

It actually struck the runaway half-ghost as odd how many things about Draper made no sense whatsoever. For starters, he seemed like a very experienced and sharp detective, but there were protocols that Draper never paid attention to. At times, some methods were even downright illegal.

This had also been a contradiction. While Draper seemed to have no problem breaking rules, he also didn’t give a real bad-boy vibe. In fact, he was too polite when talking to ghosts he couldn’t see. Too friendly to be a lone wolf who didn’t work well with other cops.

That last fact was the biggest odd finding in the whole situation. Despite having seen the detective’s badge and how deep his intel went, or how in the end the culprits were always arrested, Draper never carried a gun or handcuffs like the other cops, nor did he ever call for backup. Which also reminded Danny of an additional detail.

“Are we ever going to your office?” he asked Draper apparently out of the blue.

Draper turned to look at Danny with concern written all over his face. “Why would you want to go to the station?”

The civilian took a bag of lime and vinegar chips out of his backpack and offered one to the detective, who shook his head with a look of disgust.

“Well, wouldn’t it be more productive than haunting that same diner booth or the séance room at The Shadow Parlor?” Danny asked with a mouthful of chips. ”At least you would have access to more resources there.”

The air grew tense before Draper answered. “I don’t want to risk leaving any record about you out there,” he explained but it felt like a lie to the curious medium. “I know you’re keeping a low profile and it would be a little ungrateful of me to not respect your privacy when you’re helping me solve all these cases.”

Danny tilted his head to the side. “You know what else is out there, Scully?”

Draper snorted. “The truth?”

Danny beamed at the recognized reference. Maybe Draper was secretly a fellow geek. He then shook his head and pointed a finger at the house. “Our suspect.”

That made the detective immediately curse under his breath and turn to see the old man whose house they were staking out. The suspect was opening the door, grocery bags in his arms as he fumbled for his keys. Behind him, the shade that had been riding in the backseat stood ominously, bright white eyes turning in Danny’s direction.

Once the man and the shade walked inside the residence, Danny cleaned the grease off his fingers on his jeans, picked up a cake-sized box from the dashboard, and gave Draper a small salute before he climbed out of the car. He knew this mission would be better for a single person, so he would just have to make sure Draper owed him one after this stunt.

Danny walked leisurely to the front door and waited for a couple of moments before knocking on it. After a few seconds, a voice called from inside. “Who’s there?” asked the muffled voice and Danny could feel the shade getting closer at the other side of the door, probably peering outside through the peephole.

“Uh, hi! I’m the new neighbor. I wanted to introduce myself,” Danny lied through his teeth. “I brought some pie.”

There was a long silence and Danny was about to speak up again when the sound of an unlocking door alerted him to the old man’s agreement to meet his so-called new neighbor.

Danny gave the lonely old man his brightest fake smile. “Hi, I’m Ned, your new neighbor,” the half-ghost exclaimed in greeting, using the fake name he agreed with Draper. “I just moved to the empty house down the street.”

The old man, aka Chuck Charleston, looked confused. “Oh, I thought that’s where the Emersons lived.”

Danny lowered his gaze solemnly. “Yeah, I heard they were nice people.”

Mr. Charleston’s face shifted to one of surprise. “Oh, my, I had no idea.”

“I’m a friend of their cousin, twice removed,” Danny vaguely answered, unsure if there was any age gap to consider. He figured he shouldn’t make up these facts on the spot. He then lifted the box in front of his face. “So, pie? I heard it’s a friendly neighborhood gesture.”

The suspect hesitated before sighing. “All right, all right. Just one bite. I have to look after my sugar intake,” the man replied and took the offered box from the medium’s hands, which Danny took as an opportunity to brush the man’s arm to make the shade more visible.

After a brief flash of light, the shade took the shape of one Vivian Cod, a woman in her seventies who was believed to be poisoned after a discussion with her neighbor, Chuck Charleston. However, since the poison could not be determined and there was no evidence to place any charges against Mr. Charleston, the case was left inconclusive.

“Oh, Chuck, are those my yard gnomes?” Vivian asked once her ghostly green eyes settled on the man’s front yard. Danny tried to make sense of the tone used by the woman but he felt lost. Until Vivian turned with a big smile and placed both hands on the man’s cheek, unbeknownst to Mr. Charleston. “I’m glad you’re taking care of them.”

“Are you okay, kid?” the man asked. “You’re making a weird squinting face.”

The medium looked at the ground to make his green eyes less visible while also keeping his squinting look. It had at least worked to keep Detective Draper from noticing the change on previous occasions. “Uh, yeah, sorry. You know. Uh, gas?” Danny internally groaned at the poor excuse for his weird attitude, backpedaling to get back on topic. “So, uh, nice gnomes you’ve got there.”

Mr. Charleston looked at the four small figures in his front yard, melancholy heavy in his brown eyes. “Yeah, they were my dear friends’ pride and joy.”

Vivian held her hands in front of her chest with a loving look. “Always so sentimental,” she exclaimed before her face turned sour. “You hypocrite.”

Danny’s eyes widened at the change of attitude. If there was one thing clear about this case, it was that these two had a very complicated relationship. “Could we maybe talk a bit inside?” Danny forced himself to ask, already expecting a long-winded conversation to fuel his incipient headache.

A half-eaten pie, an enlightening but contradictory side-commentary from the ghost of Vivian, and one blubbering old man later, Danny headed back to Draper’s car.

Draper stared at the medium once he sat inside. “You sure took a while,” the detective commented.

Danny let his head drop against the dashboard and groaned in slight pain, knowing well he had gotten much worse from the likes of Skulker. “Note to self: never become old and bitter.”

The detective rolled his eyes. “You’re being overdramatic.”

The half-ghost sighed. “Draper, you didn’t have to sit for the twenty-minute lecture about what type of crust is better for the perfect pie and why I should reconsider my profession as a pie maker.”

“What?” Draper chuckled. “Did he at least say anything relevant?”

“Yeah, our guy was a chemist back in the day and used a mixture of herbs to pull it off,” Danny replied as he tossed a list on the dashboard. “He was supposed to be giving me a way to combat termites at home and Vivian confirmed that’s what he revealed he gave her before she dropped dead.”

Draper looked at the list and turned to the medium with a sigh of relief. “Hey, not so bad for someone who’s not really a detective.

The comment only made Danny squint in anger. “How about you handle the living folks next time, while I stick to the restless spirits?”

At the very least, as a small consolation prize, the detective seemed apologetic enough as he started the compact car to leave the neighborhood. If Danny had to guess, he’d bet they would be heading back to the diner to compare notes and discuss the case over several cups of coffee. Olive, the waitress for that shift whose name Danny only learned after becoming a regular, would throw a pie on the house at some point, which Danny would have to decline this time.

Some cases didn’t seem worth the hassle of talking to the shades that materialized in front of Danny. But as he saw Draper laughing and joking back in response to his last remarks, Danny had to admit he at least was having a good time.

And maybe it wasn’t that bad to have some real company every now and then.

The unusual partnership that was fitter for a sitcom than a drama series, if anyone was to ask Danny, had finally fallen to a rhythm of things. Draper would consult cold cases, pull some sketchy anonymous tips at times from who knew where, and Danny would be contacted to see if there was a shade nearby or if any evidence sparked the blinding moment of truth, as Draper had decided to call it.

Most cases were solved merely through the victim’s testimony, which Draper would corroborate and later let Danny know they found the lead required to finally close the case. Others required more involvement than Danny desired, from talking to potential murderers to committing several offenses to get the required object to spark his powers.

And some others? Danny allowed the case to drag on just to spite his unfortunate partner in crime-solving.

Draper continued to brood from time to time and kept his distance from Danny, never allowing any personal information to be revealed. Not that Danny hadn’t kept his good share of secrets as well. Despite the merely professional relationship, the two young men began to get more comfortable with small banter, although Danny’s special recipe to get under Drape’s skin continued to exasperate the detective.

It had been a regular weekday at The Shadow Parlor as Danny stared at the new batch of duck candles to include in the inventory. Blue with icy motifs, this time. He was in the middle of sitting all his ducks in a row when he got the now-expected call from the detective.

“Hey, Draper, is it Tuesday, already?” the medium joked into the phone. “Just like clockwork, it seems.” The regular clockwork kind, Danny thought to himself; not the sketchy, time-shifting ancient being that could be found in the Infinite Realms at times.

“Hey, Danny, I have a new case for you,” Draper replied quickly and to the point. Danny already knew this one was important or had a time constraint if the detective was skipping all signs of a greeting.

The medium rolled his eyes. “How are you, Danny? Pretty swamped at work, Draper, how about you? Oh, busy with a case I hope you could help with. Oh, what kind of case, Draper? Why, one that won’t suck, Danny. In fact, lunch’s on me once we’re over.”

“Are you done, Nightingale?” Draper asked with a tired tone Danny was also getting more familiar with.

“Fine, tell me about the case,” Danny replied in amusement as he multitasked. What was the owner’s fascination with ducks, he would never understand.

“There’s not much so far. We would be taking a trip to the morgue, if it’s alright with you,” Draper told his unusual partner.

Danny grimaced as he checked the quacklity of the second box of candles. “Do I have to?” he whined. “It’s not like I’ll be eating the victim’s brains to gain their memories, so I don’t know why you would need me there, Clive.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Draper processed Danny’s words. “Clive? What does that even mean?”

Ah, Draper’s favorite question whenever Danny pulled out his best geek culture references. It was always a hit or miss. “Uh, the detective in iZombie?” His words were met with more silence. “Draper, have you never picked a comic in your life? Gotham even has tons of published materials with your heroes!”

“Danny, are you coming or do I have to drag you from whatever mindless task you have to do at the shop?” Draper huffed.

“At least I’m getting paid here, you know?” the medium shot back, glaring just for the satisfaction of glaring and not because the detective could see it. Unless he had surveillance in the shop, which wouldn’t surprise Danny anymore.

“And if I pay you, would you come to meet me at the morgue? There’s not much available in terms of meaningful objects from the victim.”

Danny seemed to consider this. Aside from the fact that, yes, he would agree to have some form of payment for all his services, there was something unusual about this case from the start if he had to rely on touching the dead body to see its ghost. “This isn’t a cold case, is it?”

Silence once again returned. “No, but it’s a weird one and there are no clear leads here.”

There was something odd about the way the detective spoke and Danny almost wanted to believe he was getting really good at understanding the detective’s small gestures and tones. This was a man concerned, hiding it from his supernatural sidekick. Curiosity getting the best of him, Danny knew what would be his answer. “I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

Thirty-two minutes later, after closing The Shadow Parlor and apologizing to the shop’s owner for ditching the place to attend a “family emergency” (even if said family and said emergency were “I need to get the full scope of this case”), Danny had arrived to the morgue, where he found Draper already waiting, his usual tablet in his hands as he took some notes in it.

Danny reached the detective and shot him his most amused smirk. “So, where’s the body I have to touch—wow, that sounded so wrong,” Danny muttered the last part with a look of horror.

Draper put his tablet back into his messenger bag as he motioned Danny to follow him with his head. “We’ve got roughly…” He turned to look at his watch. “Seven minutes left. We’re not supposed to be here.”

As if the heavy history of illicit activity hadn’t been one of Draper’s trademark signs, Danny decided to ignore the comment and potential jab. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got for me,” he replied instead.

“The victim had no fingerprints, no scars or signs of struggle, so he’s essentially a ghost to all systems,” Draper spoke over his shoulder as he led Danny through a long hallway, towards the morgue.

Danny was only aware of this little fact when the presence of shades became more evident, crowded, anxious. The sight of so many restless souls sent a shiver down Danny’s spine, deciding he would have to focus only on the victim, lest he wanted to lose his mind.

Draper stopped and turned all the way around with a look full of concern. “You’re seeing lots of them, aren’t you?”

The only answer Draper would get would be a resigned nod and an exhausted stare. In a way, having so many spirits around him felt so draining, but Danny knew this was due to mental stress and not any supernatural occurrence.

The detective rubbed Danny’s shoulder in a show of sympathy, sending warmth to Danny’s heart at the gesture. Had he been so touch-deprived? Danny decided he didn’t want an answer and just smiled at Draper in gratitude.

Once they stepped into the room where all the bodies were stored, they were greeted by a young blonde woman who gave them a small salute before leading them to the victim. “Don’t do anything funky that might get me fired, alright?” she said instead of a formal greeting. The woman led them to a table where a body was partially covered by a white sheet. “I’ll come back when the time’s up,” she told them with a sharp nod.

A mumbled pair of “thanks” later, Danny looked at the man on the table. There was something familiar about him, but he wasn’t completely sure what it was about this man that sent shivers down his spine. Even all the shades except for one kept a considerable distance. Danny assumed the one remaining belonged to the eerie victim.

Draper was saying something about the lack of information available and all the hoops he had already gone through to confirm that, but Danny tuned him out to commit the victim’s face to memory, maybe that would help him identify him. The victim was probably in his late thirties, head completely shaved, with not a single hair on his face either; his dark skin was also a shade lighter than Tucker’s (and he cursed himself for opening the door to nostalgia while the moment wasn’t right), but Danny couldn’t place him. A customer maybe?

As his confusion grew, the detective showed him a nearby tray with a couple of personal objects. Aside from the ring or pair of gloves, it also contained a pair of sunglasses; the darkest pair Danny had ever seen.

Except that wasn’t true, he realized as his breath hitched.

Draper’s voice sounded far away, Danny’s heartbeat overshadowing every other sound as the anxious beating rang in his ears. His palms began to get sweaty as he continued to stare at the almost pitch-dark shades.

Of course, the visibility wouldn’t make sense to people like Draper, who probably hadn’t seen a pair like these, specifically made to obscure everything except one thing in particular. Ectoplasmic readings.

As his mind spiraled with millions of questions, each more concerning than the last, Danny wondered if the glasses would allow anyone else to detect the spirits around them. If they would recognize Danny’s lingering ectosignature in any way.

Draper had continued explaining something and without thinking Danny accepted the dark shades in his trembling hands, his mind not fast enough to alert him of what would happen once he touched the piece of evidence.

The blinding flash sent a shiver down Danny’s spine as he braced himself for what would come. The new ghostly presence would definitely explain why all the other shades kept their distance.

“Well, if it isn’t Daniel Fenton,” a very familiar voice, a sound that had haunted his nightmares for years, called the medium by his name. His real name. Danny ventured to look at the ghost now floating behind him, who gave him the most satisfied and feral smile the young man had seen in a long while. “I knew there was something weird about you,” the ghost of the man spat.

Danny felt all remaining color drain from his face. His almost silent and threatened core clenched in warning, in fear, making his underlying ghostly side tug at him, screaming to escape as he confirmed the sight in front of him.

But how had Operative K ended up dead in Gotham?

Chapter Text

Alvin Draper, better known as Tim Drake when he’s not using an alias, had his good share of odd cases. Some didn’t even have to be related to supernatural or superhuman circumstances to rank high on his list. It was already a very impressive list, if Tim said so himself. And Tim sure knew a thing or two about lists.

But now it didn’t matter what mask or name he used to rank these oddly bizarre cases. The latest murder investigation began to quickly climb to the top spot after noticing Danny Nightingale’s reaction.

After all, Tim was well-acquainted with the signs of an anxiety attack.

“Danny?” he tried once more, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining the slight tremble in his partner’s hands, or how his breath had hitched, or the paler-than-usual skin, or even the way his eyes widened in fear upon seeing some kind of danger that wasn’t there. Or at least it wasn’t at all evident for Tim.

The detective also noticed, not for the first time, Danny’s eyes were glowing green. The medium was not even bothering to hide them, like he had tried so many times before when he made a more stable connection with a spirit. A “blinding moment of truth”, as Tim had decided to label the phenomenon just for the sake of naming it.

Tim’s worried blue eyes noticed the tight grip Danny had on the victim’s shades. Being a former CEO, he made the executive decision to break the connection. Moving swiftly, Tim took the shades from his partner’s unusually cold hands, then shoved them hastily into his messenger bag (which he decided to leave by the door to pick up later), and pulled Danny outside of the morgue. Hoping to go far enough to cut any established connection with the ghost.

Tim added a mental note to test those limits at a future time.

As the two walked all the way out of the building, Tim recalled the times he, as Red Robin, had to guide others out of a crisis. He soothingly rubbed Danny’s arms, trying to remain calm as he asked him to breathe, interlacing the instructions for the distraught medium with words of comfort in the softest voice Tim could muster.

“I’m here, you’re outside, you’re safe,” Tim repeated like a mantra.

Soon after, Nightingale’s eyes regained their usual size and blue color, diminishing the haunted effect on his face. Danny followed the detective’s lead and took deep breaths as Tim signaled when to release and breathe again.

At the very least, Tim’s companion wouldn’t join the ghostly variety of shades so soon.

Danny closed his eyes and took a deep breath without any guidance. When he opened them, he turned his head around to look at his surroundings, the small tension left on his shoulders finally leaving his muscles to relax once he confirmed he was safe. From what? That was anyone’s guess, Tim supposed.

In typical Danny fashion, the medium swept everything under the rug and chuckled. “Wow, remind me to never use one of the funky duck aromatic candles before starting a new case with you. That was some weird acid trip.”

Tim stared in disbelief but didn’t say anything else, knowing Danny didn’t need a questioning vigilante right at that moment. He needed the closest thing he had to a friend. Which reminded Tim how the other man’s social life was virtually inexistent.

Something else Tim could empathize with.

“Do you want me to take you somewhere?” Tim offered after a moment, deciding to push the time for questions to later.

Danny shook his head. “I know a friend who lives a block away from here,” he replied with such a blatant display of falsehood, Tim almost found it offensive. “So, I can walk. I could use some air, to be honest.”

“Danny…” Tim started to say in the kind of warning tone he learned from Dick, biting his tongue to keep any scolding from leaving his lips. He was set on being supportive first.

“Seriously, Draper, I’m okay,” Danny lied once again. “Sorry that it didn’t work.”

Tim nodded numbly, not convinced in the least but unsure of how to proceed. If he had learned anything in the weeks they had been working together, it was to never push the medium, lest Tim wanted him to disappear like the ghosts they tried to contact. While this was all merely conjecture, he didn’t want to risk making a bad judgement call just because he didn’t consider all the possibilities.

Of course, being a part of the Bat clan, no matter how long ago or how 'former’ the title had become, had given Tim access to other ways to keep a closer eye on people’s business.

“It’s okay,” Tim replied, placing a hand on Danny’s shoulder, closer to his jacket’s hoodie. “I’m glad you’re okay. We can meet some other time at the diner to talk about the case. And yes: dinner’s on me,” he added with an eye roll.

Danny hesitated. “Uh, sure. I’ll try to avoid any odd candles until then,” he added with a smirk, angled the wrong way and with eyes that didn’t sparkle with their usual mirth. Another sign of a lie that didn’t exactly validate any form of bird-shaped aromatherapy in Danny’s story.

There was a small pause that began to extend into an uncomfortable silence. Tim released the shoulder he had still been squeezing without noticing and apologized under his breath. He then turned to look at Danny. “I’m really here for you if you ever need to talk,” Tim reassured him.

The warm smile that graced Danny’s lips and a slight crestfallen nod had been the only response before the medium turned around to leave.

As Tim watched his partner’s retreating figure, he wondered if Danny would still be in Gotham before the day ended.

Good thing he had already added a discreet tracker in his hoodie.

Tim stared at the shades in his hands. The accessorizing variety of shades. Once he had made it to his apartment, he found himself analyzing every single aspect of them as his mind wandered with theories.

At first glance, the shades seemed absolutely ordinary, if rather dark to allow anyone clear visibility of their surroundings. But there was something heavy in them, and not in the physical sense, but rather the more existential way.

What could have Danny seen that got him so scared? Was he reminded of some traumatic event by the shades?

Or did he know that victim? What would that mean given everything Tim knew?

He tried to backtrack and think about what he had gathered about the case, leaving all the papers he possessed on his desk to find a way to connect all the leads that had concerned him at first; the signs that had led Babs to contact him in the first place, knowing full well it would be a case he’d like to work on.

The old Tim Drake—the one who would spend long hours inside the dark and cold Bat Cave, sitting in front of the computer checking all pieces of evidence, every grainy security footage, testimonials, documents, and hypothesis—, would have already been building this case with his eyes closed, and would have pulled out a pinboard to put all the case’s details in full display.

The new Tim Drake—the one who now spent hours chasing ghosts he couldn’t even see, who tried to listen more and tried to direct others less into following his plans—, wanted to wait until Danny Nightingale was willing to talk and share his own version of what had happened, instead of obsessing over everything and coming to inaccurate conclusions.

The old Tim, however, was still in the back of his mind and nagged at him to look into every single detail, already longing for the answers.

The facts were these…

Barbara Gordon, daughter of Commissioner James Gordon, was a very resourceful woman. Tim had learned this first from word of mouth and later from first-hand experience while working with her in her role as Oracle. Through her connection to the Commissioner, she learned Red Robin had been working on giving others closure for their lost loved ones under his old alias, and how he had become very successful in cracking even the toughest of cases without the help of all the Bat network and resources.

Babs, as the family usually called her, was also aware of the different rabbit holes each bat or bird often explored. Rabbit holes she could navigate out of with expert precision, able to obtain only the information deemed necessary for the paranoid vigilantes she looked after.

Which is how she noticed the signs that this John Doe was not just a regular case, luring Tim into the investigation with keywords such as “there’s nothing to identify the victim”, or “the site of the murder belonged to a shell company, owner TBD”, or even “the police won’t want to touch that with a ten-foot pole”, which would ultimately spell “cold case” in Tim’s experience.

While Babs wouldn’t disclose any additional detail beyond that, it was evident this case was an olive branch, in a way, to get the estranged Red Robin back into the flock, helping him continue to find his place in the world. On the other hand, this had to be an important case for B, probably calling for all hands on deck if he had asked the police to be discreet about what they released.

To have Danny react so strongly to this victim didn’t sit well with Tim.

That’s how the vigilante spent the following hours backtracking the victim’s steps on different street cameras, but he couldn’t find the man with the black shades anywhere. Several feeds had also been obscured, perhaps on purpose to maintain the building’s owner’s privacy for whatever shady business they had going on.

Tim knew working with Oracle would help him track any sighting of the victim faster, and also get more updates, but a part of him still wanted to see if he could get an edge on the investigation through Danny’s help. After all, he hadn’t touched the victim’s body, so it could be possible that he hadn’t gotten a clear view of the man’s ghost by touching the dark shades.

Of course, Tim knew he had to squash that possibility after all the signs of Danny’s “blinding moment” had been there.

Danny Nightingale had more secrets than Tim had expected. As it turned out, he wasn’t just an occultist running away from a bad situation. Instead, despite the tracker indicating he did not leave Gotham like Tim feared, Danny had become a person of interest in this increasingly odd case.

After a few more hours of fruitless searching and rubber ducking with, well, the candle he had been given at the Shadow Parlor, Tim finally decided a break was very much necessary. If the fridge didn’t provide any answers, at least it would offer a cold caffeinated drink as a way to distract himself.

As he looked for anything else to snack on, his phone buzzed four times in his pocket. The one he used as Alvin Draper, which could only mean one thing given the circumstances…

Tim stared at the messages and tried to process the entirety of the situation, his snack long forgotten in the fridge. Not that he had much in there to begin with, given all the time he spent working with Danny at the diner or eating something lighter during stakeouts.

But Tim had been the one usually offering to meet. With this change of pace, his mind was soon filled with questions and suppositions, wondering if Danny would finally shed some light on his involvement with the case, or if this was his way to sneak away from it and break their partnership.

But the main question, in the end, was how likely it would be for Danny to be honest for once.

It was no secret that most of the times Danny was in contact with the spirits of the victims they were looking into, the medium would hide vital information from him. Or some snickers were often dismissed whenever Tim asked what was so funny, or concerned looks that didn’t translate into words that fit the feeling Danny would later relay.

What Danny had with the ghosts was special. It was a unique connection that allowed the spirits some privacy. And, in a way, it probably allowed the medium to play some things close to the chest as well.

But with no other leads at the moment, Tim figured he would have to let Danny set the pace and the rules for now, maybe coax him into sharing any detail that could point the detective in the right direction. Perhaps seeing the ghost wouldn’t even be necessary, if there was some cooperation from Nightingale.

He knew the lie was evident even as he wrote it. He knew Danny probably would figure out that part, but still held hope that it wouldn’t scare Danny out of explaining.

Tim stared at the time on his phone. It was already past midnight, which wouldn’t be even safe for Danny to go to the diner. However, the medium somehow always found a clear route to get where he needed or wanted to be, and even claimed that he had never been a victim of any kind of mugging yet during his time living in Gotham.

The phone remained silent; no further reply followed. Not that the detective had really expected one. Tim guessed he would have to sort out his questions and examine the shades further before their meeting.

His late-night snack would have to wait.

The diner was almost vacant, aside from the same old staff that had already gotten used to the odd pair of pseudo-detectives. Out of the few patrons, Tim recognized that nurse who worked the graveyard shift at the nearby hospital, getting her coffee fix ready for work. Or the couple who used this place for their weekly dates before each had to go their separate way, dragging light suitcases along the way for some reason he hadn’t yet deciphered.

Tim liked to imagine the stories behind each, trying to picture lives lived at their fullest and not the lost souls that seemed to linger in this forgotten place: an old haunt that not even his family had visited in a long time. Perhaps they allowed Tim to have some space out of respect. Perhaps it was to avoid awkward conversations.

Whatever the case, Tim was grateful to have a safe sanctuary outside of his own apartment, even if his mind was still stuck on the pinboard he had reluctantly started for the current case.

As Tim learned during the roughly forty minutes of additional research, the shades were not an ordinary pair the victim used to accessorize. In fact, there was a circuitry in them that led Tim to believe these were used for espionage or something equal that required discretion. Heat tracking? Night vision? An AI layer for augmented navigation? It wasn’t clear.

Using the shades gave him no groundbreaking clue other than a “No readings” legend on what he was now convinced was a small screen. Reverse-engineering them didn’t help make their purpose clearer, even as he used all the tools at his disposal to check the programming within the device.

Had Danny known what they were? Would he explain that during their meeting?

Speaking of the devil, when Danny entered the diner, Tim caught sight of his slumped shoulders and feet being dragged to slowly reach their usual booth. He wondered if Danny was aware of how much the detective could read in each of his gestures and actions, even if Tim didn’t share Cass’s skills while reading body language.

The other man sat in the booth, fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie, which usually happened when he thought he had gotten into trouble or his “incognito mode” was in danger. “Hey, sorry for ditching you earlier today,” Danny said in greeting.

Tim shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s okay. If you were that stressed, you could’ve just told me.”

Danny mumbled something unintelligible before shaking his head. “I guess I did promise an explanation.”

The slow nod from the detective was aimed to look understanding, encouraging even, hoping to get Danny to relax so they could talk more openly. But after a lot of thought, a part of Tim wanted to just be more upfront.

Which is probably why, throwing all caution to the wind, he took out the glasses from his messenger bag and placed them on the table.

“Yeah, you also asked me for this. I didn’t think you would like to get anywhere closer to these.” He saw the hesitation on his companion’s face before probing a bit. “Had you seen them before?”

Greenish-blue eyes bore into Tim, something in them making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Danny looked so still as he spoke in an even voice. “No.”

Instincts honed by years of vigilantism told Tim this had to be a lie. But the medium’s certainty was so disconcerting, he had to wonder if Danny Nightingale actually could lie if his life depended on it.

“So, the anxiety attack was a random occurrence?” Tim asked dryly.

Danny sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Ok. I lied about the candle.”

Tim perked up. “What really happened?”

Danny gulped and looked around before leaning in conspiratorially. “I mean, we were surrounded by cops. You are a cop. I just don’t want to get in trouble.”

The detective, who had presented himself with a fake badge and a fake name, tried to push those facts far away from his mind. “What kind of trouble?”

“Uh… I…” Danny paused and looked at the table. “I took a drug,” he mumbled and then backtracked. “Nothing illegal just… the spiritual kind.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Again, this had to be an elaborate lie. “A drug?”

“Yeah,” Danny replied as he released a heavy breath to confess some terrible crime. “It was supposed to help me connect with the shades better but… I… I had just taken it before you called.” He paused for a moment. “And then the ghost started screaming bloody murder… and I freaked out! I thought he was really going to hurt me or something.”

His eyes seemed lost staring elsewhere, but Tim soon realized Danny was probably looking at something next to him. Had the shade been following Nightingale since their encounter at the morgue?

While the act seemed in part genuine, Tim was not buying it. “Danny, if this is a lie—”

“No, no,” Danny interrupted, his hands gesturing in a placating motion. “Look, I can contact the spirit again and it’s going to be chill now, okay? The effects wore off.”

Without previous warning, Danny took the glasses, closed his eyes for a moment, hiding the faint hint of green in them, and then opened them with a smile. After a long beat, and after there was no immediate danger, he recovered his nonchalance. “See? It helps that he’s calmer, too.”

Tim was still uncertain. Why the sudden shift? Danny had to be lying about this too. “Okay, if you say so.” He shook his head before pulling out his tablet to take notes. “Can I ask our vic about the case now?”

Danny’s expression turned into slight amusement. “Sure. He seems to have plenty to say.”

This was a rather unusual turn of events, but Tim was willing to take it. He tried to get some sense of where the ghost might be, based on Danny’s unblinking line of sight. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I am one of the detectives working on your case,” Tim explained. “But we don’t have much information about you. Is there anything you can share?”

Danny nodded and looked attentive, until he snorted and all seriousness was lost. “Oh, yeah, good luck with that, buddy.” Tim stared at Danny questioningly. “He says he wants to see your credentials and demands that you guide him to your superior. Sounds like a guy with an anger management issue.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s definitely not going to happen, sorry. But we can help if you give us more information about you, at least.”

Danny tilted his head and smiled, a feral kind of smile usually meant to troll Tim, making the vigilante brace for the worse. “His name is Ken. Oh, no last name, apparently, but I’m sure you can track him if you know any Barbaras.”

The detective was struck by the familiarity of that name and the accuracy of the medium, who he was now only 75% certain wasn’t a psychic of any kind. He wondered if there was any other logical way Danny could have met Babs.

Danny huffed. “What? You don’t get Barbie references now?”

The tension on Tim’s shoulders abandoned him like a couple eager for trips around the world without their smaller child. “Oh, right,” he chuckled.

He made a mental note to not tie everything to the names and people he knew.

“So, he doesn’t remember much about what happened,” Danny said with a slow nod. “Yeah. He’s tight-lipped. Refuses to say anything. Not a word from him at all.”

The silence that settled between the two young men (and the non-visible shade, if one were to count him), was as heavy as the questions lingering in Tim’s mind. He knew he had to be careful, after his past attempt to corner the medium had failed. The man sitting in front of him could have an important lead in the case, or might even be someone deeply connected to the victim.

But Danny had always proven to be skittish, evasive, bizarre. Whenever Tim thought he had him figured out, the medium would manage to flip his perspective again.

“Alright, let me try something else,” Tim told his partner before turning to where he was now 100% certain the ghost had been. “Ken, what can you tell Danny about your glasses? They show there are no readings. What kind of readings?”

This was a risky question. Tim wondered if Danny was aware of what the device in his possession was capable of, and if perhaps that had been part of the reason why he wanted Tim to bring them along. Which is why the detective paid close attention to all of Danny’s small gestures.

But Danny wasn’t nervous. In fact, he had been amused before he glared at the ghost. A bright green glare.

Tim had no way of knowing what was the history between them, but there was more baggage than he had expected. While it didn’t point to foul play or murder considering Danny’s surprise at the morgue, it only confirmed the detective’s suspicions: Daniel Jay Nightingale had past animosity with the victim.

Suddenly, the name Ken wasn’t one Tim believed truly belonged to their John Doe.

“Ken here says it’s none of your beeswax,” Danny replied. “Honest! That’s the phrase he used.”

Tim decided he had enough and promptly put everything back into his messenger bag. With practiced timing, he got up from his seat and grumbled in a voice that would’ve made Bruce proud. “This is a waste of time. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he said as he took some money out of his wallet and left it on the table to pay for the coffee and the tip, never one to leave without paying no matter how dramatic he intended to make his exit.

The moment he started walking towards the front door, he felt cold fingers on his wrist as Danny tugged at his hand. “Wait,” the medium called, making Tim turn around with the least impressed expression he could muster. Danny immediately looked ashamed. Good, Tim thought.

Danny gestured for the detective to sit back in front of him, grumbling something to himself. Tim stared with a raised eyebrow, waiting for the medium to say something honest for once. “I’m sorry, okay?” Danny mumbled. “I’ll stop the jokes. But I can’t promise anything useful from this guy. He’s a real scumbag, y’know?”

Tim considered that for the mental notes he was taking about Danny’s involvement in this. “You just want me to invite dinner, don’t you?” he asked, unimpressed.

“No?”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“I also want a ride back, if you don’t mind,” Danny mumbled.

The detective’s patience was low after such a tiring day, but even he had to admit that this was a much better change of pace than when Danny was giving him fake intel from the ghost. So he sat back on his spot at the booth, gestured at the waitress to approach their table, and finally turned his skeptical attention back to the medium across the table.

“I’m just doing this because it’s dangerous to go alone,” Tim began to explain in a cooler tone, trying to sound detached and uninterested purposefully.

Danny’s eyes widened. “Did you just—”

“Nope,” Tim replied and again took out the tablet containing his case files.

There was a glimpse of fondness in Danny’s smile but it was gone too soon, hidden under layers upon layers of sass. “All right, then. Keep your secrets.”

Tim wanted to point out the irony of the situation. And the reference. He also wanted to scream, punch a wall, solve the case, have a nice cup of coffee as he caught up with one of his many unwatched shows at home, and, even if his siblings wouldn’t believe him, get a good night’s rest.

But before the night was over, Tim would have to look for other ways to get Danny to give him useful information. After all, trust could also go both ways. Maybe it would be good to change that sooner rather than later before they doomed their partnership to fail.

When they had gone to the morgue to find out the surprise victim laying on the cold metal table the day prior, there was this sense of dread looming over Danny for the rest of the day. He assumed this was probably linked to how he had allowed Draper to witness his panic attack. Oh, and also the discovery of a GIW agent in Gotham. Who was found dead.

But soon after, the connection was broken and instead of the angry Operative K ghost he had seen at the morgue, the agent was back to being a silent, dark shadow floating, barely there.

The operative’s shade had been very persistent in following Danny up close. Like a mosquito or a solicitor on the street. In fact, if Danny hadn’t known who was behind the spirit’s identity, he would have been very confused about the way the shade floated right in front of his face and seemed to make sharp movements whenever he blocked Danny’s view.

The shade had been definitely pissed off.

Danny’s thoughts, a jumbled assortment of fear and puns that were meant to cope with his latest problem, often wondered if there could be a way to outrun the shades and, therefore, his problems. Or if there was a range where they could operate before he lost his mind. While he hadn’t tested any of those theories, as he had been packing the trustworthy bag meant for quick getaways, he became eager to confirm his hypothesis far away from Gotham.

Once he had finished checking that nothing valuable was left in the small studio apartment, the shade had floated with wild movements in front of him. Danny was thankful at that moment that he didn’t keep the dark glasses as a souvenir from his trip to the morgue and had avoided interacting in surround sound and 4K image quality with the angry operative’s ghost.

That was the exact moment the bubble burst and Danny had realized that, no, he couldn’t outrun his problems.

Because his dismissal of the sunglasses didn’t mean the detective hadn’t taken the dark shades for further research. After all, he was quite fond of doing things that were nowhere near a book to go by.

That, of course, could mean bad news when the detective inevitably went digging further into the case.

Which would lead Draper to find something if he uses the standard shades worn by all GIW agents.

And that might lead, through some giant leaps in logic, to learn about Amity Park.

It also raised the question of why the GIW was in Gotham, to begin with.

And that would allow him to soon figure out who or even what Danny was.

Danny Fenton would be digging his own grave and opening a new one in each new city he went to. He couldn’t run away forever. He liked having his own role in the community he now lived in and working at a quirky little store with quirky little clients. He didn’t want to live like a ghost for the rest of his life.

That’s what got him into this problem in the first place.

So that’s how Danny knew he had to get those shades back, even if it meant looking at Operative K’s threatening face again, spewing hate towards all ectoplasmic entities or anything resembling a ghostly trait. Like Danny.

The so-called medium decided to take Detective Draper up on his request to meet, if only a day earlier to avoid giving him any time to dig into the case further. And so, they met at the diner, Danny took the dark shades to regain clear visibility of Operative K, they talked about the case… a story now well-known from a different perspective.

Danny knew what to expect this time around with the dark-tinted glasses, so he decided to play it cool no matter what the agent yelled at him. In the end, even as a ghost, he had no power over Danny at the moment.

The following day, Draper, Danny, and Operative K went around Gotham looking for some additional clues at the place where the body was found, in hopes that the half-ghost could do some damage control about the GIW’s involvement, while also managing to solve the murder. It was in Danny’s best interests, after all, to figure out who or what had killed the agent. If the case wasn’t solved, it could mean trouble for Danny in many ways.

But Danny’s plans wouldn’t go smoothly as Operative K refused to give him any kind of detail.

“Why should I tell you, ghost scum?” “What do you plan to do with that information, Phantom? It’s you, isn’t it?” “What is your game here?”

Among much less savory terms of enragement spewed against the medium, some of which Danny had never even heard of in any dead language, let alone in his life.

Thus, the medium improvised looking into places that would make no sense for a GIW agent to go into. Like a bar, which made for a good joke introduction. Or a modern art gallery, which would go against their protocolary lack of color (why everything was white, Danny had no clue). The young man scoured his mental map of the city to remember all the different businesses that would go against what he knew about the agents.

Danny knew he had hit the "Let’s Annoy a GIW Agent” jackpot, if the grumbling sounds of Operative K were any indication.

There was, however, the small concerning detail of the way Operative K looked at Draper. The ghost, despite his lack of connection to tangibility in the living realm, was paying close attention to the detective and frowned under the ghostly version of his sunglasses at remarks and actions here and there.

Danny decided it was just the GIW agent being a GIW agent and left it at that. But he would learn about how that had been mistake later.

When the ghost and the half-ghost finally went back to Danny’s apartment to talk, Danny took a deep breath and braced himself for what would come.

“Okay, we’re alone now,” Danny declared as he sat on his couch, leaving his belongings to fall on the floor next to it. “Can we talk for real now?”

The ghost of the GIW operative scoffed at the half-ghost. “I have nothing to talk to you about, Phantom.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Dude, not cool. I’m not even going with that name anymore.”

Operative K used his new abilities to float above Danny in the most threatening way he could, scowling in disgust. “Of course you wouldn’t want to use that name. You’ve been trying to keep yourself hidden, like a coward, behind a human disguise.”

The young man stared at the ghost for a moment, before breaking eye contact and turning to his backpack. “Yeah, I’m done listening to this nonsense.”

He then opted for the pettiest of routes. Putting the dark shades on to annoy the ghost-hunting agent, which had the immediate effect of making Operative K's jaw tighten. Peering through the glasses, Danny realized he still couldn’t get a reading on ectoplasm nearby. Good.  

“So, are you going to help me solve who killed you or not?” he asked once he finished exploring visually the room to see if he could detect anything else (which he didn’t), deciding he would have to try scanning the magic shop the next day.

The ghost crossed his arms. “That’s classified information I don’t share with any ecto-entity, according to Article 13, Section 7, Sub-section E of the Anti-Ecto Control Acts.”

Danny gave him an unimpressed look and pointed at the air between the ghost’s feet and the floor. “I mean… you do realize what’s your current situation, right? I’d ease on the protocols if I were you. Or the anti-ghostliness.”

As stubborn as the half-ghost remembered, the agent wouldn’t budge, keeping instead the glare trained on Danny and a pout filled with hatred and indignation.

Danny shook his head and decided to pick up the remote to check what his old TV had to offer in its limited programming that night, avoiding anything that resembled police cases, considering he had enough doses of those in the past few weeks.

“Fine, make yourself at home, then,” Danny muttered, decidedly not looking at the agent. “Just know that if any of the other Guys In White are in danger, I’m not lifting a finger to help them. Good luck moving on and all that.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, only broken by the grainy voices coming from the small TV screen. Ah, another cop drama. Bones. He changed it promptly.

The ghost, who was reluctantly tied to Danny for as long as the young man kept possession of the dark glasses, drifted in front of the television to block the medium’s view. “What do you think you can do, ghost?” he spat with disdain.

“Hm, let’s see,” Danny said as he gave the ghost a pensive look. “I can help you move on if we solve your murder, I can keep other GIW jerks in Gotham from dropping dead, and maybe get them to leave to bring balance to the miscommunication between life and death. That good enough for you?"

Operative K frowned but said nothing else for a few moments, perhaps mulling over Danny’s words before he settled  with: “I’ll have to process your request and give you an answer in the next two to five business days.”

Before Danny could use his sarcastic arsenal to retort, the agent continued begrudgingly. “However, I might consider taking you where I was murdered. It's not the same as where I was found.”

Danny sat up straight. “You will? Wait, is this a trap of some sort?”

The agent’s frown twisted into a sick smile. “I believe that’s a risk you’re going to have to take,” he sneered before he crossed his arms and drifted to the vacant seat on the couch, staring at the TV. “I’d also suggest being careful who you trust. I never pegged you for a smart kid, but I thought you were smarter.”

Danny scrunched up his nose and turned to stare at his temporary roommate. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Operative K didn’t turn to give Danny any attention, but he did give him an ominous smile. “Let’s hope you figure it out soon. For your own good.”

Danny felt at a loss of what to say. Perhaps there was nothing else he could snap back at the ghost. He would have to figure out a way to get the agent to be more cooperative the next day, and see if he could keep Draper from figuring out the whole truth about who the John Doe they were trying to investigate really was.

As the secrets of a life far behind him were threatening to break under closer scrutiny of one very determined detective, Danny wondered if there was any chance to be happy again in the future, or if that fortune was not in his cards.

"I can keep other GIW jerks in Gotham from dropping dead.”

Click Click

“Other GIW jerks in Gotham.”

Click Click

“GIW jerks”

Click Click

“GIW”

Click

Tim listened for the umpteenth time that day the clip with Danny’s voice, as grainy as it sounded through the somehow faulty app on Danny’s phone. He sighed and leaned back on his desk chair and rubbed his face with both hands.

He was still processing how there was irrefutable evidence to link Danny to the case. It had already been a long day in a wild goose chase and a long night listening to Danny’s apparently one-sided conversation. He was at least thankful he finally decided to ask Babs for some help, even if it was still to be considered under B's radar.

Tim looked at the time on his phone; it was already past three in the morning. It was still within his previous Robin schedule, so he could very well call on the only other person who knew what he was working on to see if luck was finally on their side.

“Oracle?” he said as he pressed his ear.

An ear devoid of any communicator, to his utter embarrassment. Old habits die hard. With a vengeance.

As he pulled out his phone—the regular one he used as Tim Drake—, he was for once thankful for his solitude. At least it made the blunders private.”

His call with Babs soon connected; the voice on the other end of the line greeted him as if the clock hadn’t indicated it was past reasonable hours to call. “Hi, Tim. So, you decided to keep the bad sleeping habits, huh?”

He silently scowled and decided to ignore the question altogether. “Hey, Babs. Found anything about the GIW yet?”

There was a pause as Babs muted and seconds later unmuted her phone, perhaps a sign that she was multitasking with the other vigilantes. “Yeah, think I did. You were right. This guy was from some government agency, all bureaucracy and no play. Turns out the GIW is real, but you won’t believe who they are or what they research.”

Tim closed his eyes and braced himself for the worst. “Giant Intelligent Wizards?”

He heard Oracle snort on the other end of the line. “Close! The full name is Ghost Intelligence Ward.”

As soon as the words hit him, his eyes turned to the pinboard recently installed on his wall. He walked towards it as he ran his free hand through his hair. “They research… ghosts?”

“Exactly, all ectoplasmic-based entities. Which—”

“Which are now inexistent with the lack of ghost magic?” Tim ventured to guess, filling in the rest of the blanks. And adding new phrases to follow that line of thought. None of which he could share with Oracle.

“Yeah,” Babs replied. “And I honestly don’t know what this agency is doing in Gotham now.”

But Tim had some idea about the agency’s reasons. And the reason might even have a name: Danny Nightingale. After all, Tim hadn’t revealed to anyone in his family his partnership with the medium or his connection with ghosts, even if Babs had caught them working together and even teased Tim about it.

(“I can’t believe you’re working with a fake medium just because you have a crush,” she had said a few calls ago. Tim had only scoffed in response but didn’t deny it in case he needed an alibi.)

So, there was no way Barbara Gordon knew why this case was now so important for Tim or how it could be related to Danny Nightingale. The runaway was probably involved with the GIW, or Guys in White, if he were to go with the ingenious nickname. Thousands of theories now plagued his mind, from Danny being an agent in training to the GIW looking for him to research his connection to ghosts. Whatever the case was, Tim needed more information to conjure up a more viable hypothesis.

Tim decided to focus on the facts first.

“Do you know where their headquarters are located? Or if they still have funding despite the lack of ghosts to ward intelligence about?” He asked.

“I’ll have to look into the funding. There were apparently several private backers, but some of these look like shell companies. And yes, I know. Sounds sketchy considering our case,” she quickly added before Tim point it out. “As for their HQ, it seems to be around Illinois. Closest mentions I could find cite Amity Park. Small town, ghost tourist trap, if you can still believe in that.”

Tim now had some direction, somewhere to start looking for information. But the price had been perhaps too high if he would now have to look out for other Bats looking into it. “Thanks, Babs, I can take it from here. Can you please send me all the intel you gathered?”

There was a pensive hum from Babs. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. “I work alone unless you’re a black-haired guy who wasn’t adopted by B.” As soon as she finished saying this, a new file was shared with Tim with all the information. “I hope you know what you’re doing here. I’ll try to keep him off your back, by the way.”

Tim smiled. In a way, Babs knew exactly what he needed to continue his connection with the Bats, without becoming the overbearing sibling who wouldn’t let him stray from the flock (like Dick).

For now, he at least had a starting point to find the connection with Danny and the GIW agent. Amity Park would have to be a nice place to start.

Chapter Text

Ever since the pitch-dark shades entered Danny Nightingale’s life and household, mornings had been as fresh and vibrant as one would expect for a young half-ghost on the run. When one of the people he was running from could follow him through solid matter, it was only a matter of time before he started losing both his cool and his mind.

In a brave effort to keep life as it was before it all went down the polluted Gotham sewer system, Danny tried as best as he could to maintain any semblance of his usual routines, even those he carried from his hometown.

The sound of the alarm blaring on the nightstand brought him slowly back to the world of the living. As Danny slammed the snooze button on the old digital clock, the beeping sound was soon replaced by his new roommate’s melodious voice.

“Wake up, ghost scum! I didn’t know undead entities like yourself needed that much time to sleep,” Operative K yelled in Danny’s left ear when the young man refused to get up, after apparently ignoring his alarm far too many times for the agent’s liking.

Danny did not deign to open his eyes, sure that the sight of the annoyed ghost would not improve his waking experience. “What happened to the whole ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ deal?” he muttered into his pillow.

“Well, that’s how you know all ghosts are evil: there’s no rest for the wicked,” the undead GIW agent shot in response, eliciting a snort from the half-ghost.

“Pot and kettle, dude,” Danny managed to say as a long yawn escaped him, extending to stretch his whole muscles until his back popped satisfactorily.

As much as getting himself out of bed that morning seemed like an impossible feat, there wasn’t much comfort to be found in his comforter or the tiny space he now called home. Not to mention, there were tasks and chores Danny had left unfinished at The Shadow Parlor after he went on a wild ghost chase with his new inseparable partners, Draper and K.

The idea of having enough income to sustain himself was the last push he needed to find his missing energy. Now, nothing filled him with more joy than the prospect of getting up that day.

A loud, unenthusiastic ‘hooray’ crossed Danny’s mind.

Danny backtracked and mentally scratched that step off his list. After all, one would need to have a social life to receive messages. And to be let in to have a valid fear of missing out on something.

As memories of the friends he missed so dearly began to plague his mind and fill his heart with homesickness, he shook the feeling away, determined to focus on why this had all been necessary. Even if untangling the mess with the Infinite Realms meant other things still got twisted in the aftermath.

For some time, Danny had accepted the fact that he would live his new life alone, keeping a safe distance from everyone as the fear of being caught in his web of lies hung heavy over his head. The newfound solitude wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

Belatedly, Danny realized it was too early for this brand of existential crisis and focused on something in the opposite direction.

His thoughts wandered into a new comfortable headspace as he recalled how things had changed in recent weeks once the detective had become a part of his life. While misery loved company, perhaps their partnership in solving unsolvable murders could open new doors that led to happier outcomes for both of them.

Thinking back to his companion, he realized he might have unread messages from Draper on the phone that mysteriously appeared in Danny’s pocket. If only he remembered where he left it... 

Which called for a shift in the morning priorities.

Danny opened his closet door to give the cluttered mess inside a quick sniff test. He hadn’t been able to go to the laundromat, and the pile of dirty clothes was beginning to become worrisome, despite not having that many garments to choose from.

“How is it that you can’t even keep this minuscule apartment clean?” K inquired, making Danny roll his eyes as he decided to start a mental counter of the times the Operative still managed to attack him despite not being corporeal.

Or better yet: the number of times Danny reconsidered undoing the interdimensional mess that took him far from Amity Park, if only to have the satisfaction of trapping K’s ghost inside of a Fenton Thermos.

As if to test those unspoken limits, the agent plowed on. “You would be violating several GIW codes of conduct just from the unclean aspect of your clothing alone.”

“K, whatever you say,” Danny settled on replying in a very dismissive way.

There was a beat of silence, one that the ghost floating over Danny’s shoulder used to make a look of disgust as the young man finally chose a shirt that didn’t smell like it had been dragged from beyond the grave.

“You’re not even concerned about all the bacteria and—”

“Holy fucking sh—” Danny cut himself short as he turned with exasperation, eyes glowing green. His hand passed through his hair (not in a ghostly way), tugging it lightly in frustration. “Will you cut it out already? Who are you, my mom?”

Operative K sneered. “If only I could have her dissecting skills,” he spat venomously, a low blow that made the half-ghost clench his jaw tighter.

Danny considered for a moment just tossing this whole case out of the window, in the most literal sense available. The temptation grew as he stared at the glasses on his improvised nightstand. Jerks like this, Danny assessed, were just not worth the trouble.

He weighed his options, a scale of sorts placed inside his head. 

On one side, a heavy burden: he needed to make sure there was no GIW business happening in Gotham City, that his cover was not in danger of being blown, and that no one (else) would be aware of the fact that he still held an ectoplasmic connection with ghosts.

On the other side, an equally heavy truth that could set him free: he owed nothing to Operative K. In fact, he appreciated the purest form of poetic justice that was delivered at his doorstep, with no meddling on Danny’s part. He could let the authorities, like Detective Draper, do their work the old-fashioned way and take the otherworldly element out of the equation, just like the GIW had always intended. Danny would be free to enjoy life again without a nosy ghost questioning his life choices before he was fully awake.

The scale in his head shifted like a see-saw. The right thing to do was so hard to discern among the options and the weight of being selfish just this once was winning over the other option. No one would even question it. No one would call him out for it either. The temptation was right there , placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder.

But he was still Danny Fenton, the guy who apologized to his high school bully for getting back at him with inoffensive pranks and ended up with the worst wedgie he had ever experienced.

Past lessons not learned, he decided to push his utter hatred for the whole anti-ghost organization to the side, put on some decent clothes that didn’t emit concerning odors, and continue to follow his routine before the sweet smell of revenge became more tempting.

“Good idea,” Danny opted to reply in a happier tone. “I’ll make sure to take you home with me when I go over for Christmas. I’m sure she’ll love learning there are still some ghosts around.”

Operative K had nothing to say but his scowl spoke volumes.

He also had no way of knowing that, a), Danny wasn’t that kind of petty; b), he wouldn’t go back to Amity Park, ever, if possible; and c), it certainly wouldn’t be for Christmas, his most beloathed holiday.

So, with that thinly veiled threat, the Operative allowed Danny to continue to the next part of his routine. 

Danny walked into the kitchen, which was two steps away from his closet and three steps away from his bed, and looked into the pantry for something edible to have that morning. Then he remembered most of his routine the past few weeks had consisted of meeting up with the detective at the diner, either really early in the day or late at night, so there were always leftovers he tried to sneak to his small apartment.

With nothing but a can of tuna that remained unopened (which a neighbor had given him a few months ago), a cereal box with a very worrying hole on the underside, and an almost-empty bag of coffee he wouldn’t be able to heat in the microwave, Danny half-hoped the detective would ask to meet him for brunch.

At the reminder of the closest thing he had to a social life, Danny went to the couch to check on the phone he left unattended and uncharged, which revealed 22% battery left and five unread messages from his only contact, Draper, mostly letting Danny know he wanted to tackle a different approach and if they could meet that morning.

The confirmation that he would get to eat real food made him smile, his day already a shade brighter. He would forever deny there was any other reason for his improved mood.

Considering the ghost that had been haunting his apartment, who kept commenting on every single thing he did or didn’t do, Danny decided he could skip this step. He wondered if he could also skip town, maybe a couple of states, and get as far away from his new visitor soon.

For the umpteenth time that morning, he resigned himself to his new fate and looked for a new distraction. Fiddling with the phone in his hands, Danny shot Draper a quick message to confirm he would join his crime-solving plans at their usual diner.

“A part of me is eager to know what you’ll do when the bubble finally bursts,” K exclaimed as he read over Danny’s shoulder.

“Not cryptic or invasive at all,” Danny muttered as he moved things around looking for the charger that had also been left in his jacket the other day.

K crossed his arms over his chest. “For someone hiding for as long as you have, I would have pictured more caution with who you let in on your ghostly secrets.”

With a small ‘aha!’, Danny found what he was looking for and stored the charger in the backpack he would take for the day, K’s words completely ignored in the process.

The Operative noticed the dismissal and floated in front of the younger man. “I know you can still hear me, Phantom.”

Another green glare blazed in the medium’s eyes as he stood his ground against his translucent visitor. “Oh, I can hear you, alright. But I thought you’d get the hint that I don’t want any of your advice.”

The tightness of K’s jaw marked the end of a conversation. At the same time, it allowed Danny to be able to focus on something else. Like the buzzing in his hand as he got a reply to his text.

The detective's message indicated he was already at their rendezvous.

Danny would’ve liked to say he didn’t feel pressured at all, but he already had too many lies on his plate to start the day.

The diner was busier than usual. A rogue attack at some building nearby had resulted in people being evacuated for the time being, thus looking for something to do before they resumed their activities.

Despite the crowded space, Detective Draper was seated as usual in their same booth. Danny often wondered if it already had a reserved sign whenever they weren’t there, or if the staff had simply noticed a Draper-shaped hole on the seat they couldn’t offer to anyone else.

As Danny reached their spot and sat down, the detective stared quizzically at his unconventional partner. “Why are you wearing those shades?”

Danny smiled as bright as the sun that his sunglasses were expected to shield him from. “Just to see if I can develop a resistance to daylight and turn into the vampire I was always told I’d be.”

“You’re insufferable,” K grumbled, his gaze fixed on the action outside from one of the windows, only daring to go as far as his ties with Danny and the sunglasses would go.

The detective rubbed his temple and closed his eyes. “I swear you’re so weird sometimes,” he muttered half to himself and half to his companion.

“So I’ve been told,” Danny replied with a tired sigh as he took off the glasses and left them on the table.

There was a pause as Draper studied Danny’s face, something calculating in his eyes. “I’m surprised you could even walk around without bumping into something.”

Danny figured his companion didn’t need to know how being a half-ghost meant having an enhanced human experience, so he opted for a nonchalant shrug. “Well, I was guesstimating wherever I went. Only bumped into a ghost or two on my way out of The Cauldron.” He paused. “The small-time criminal group, not the music band or the, you know… supernatural beings we follow in our free time.”

Draper continued staring at the medium as if trying to read his very soul. “Did things seem different through them? Does anything change at all when you’re looking at ‘supernatural beings’? Did you get any readings?”

The string of questions caught Danny completely off guard. He wondered if they were fueled by genuine curiosity or if this was something else he should be wary about. K’s words resonated in his head for a moment, but he tried to avoid looking anywhere near the ghostly hitchhiker.

As with other mind-numbing conundrums, Danny tried to simplify his problems to make them easier to digest while looking at possible positive explanations. He knew the detective had noticed the digital display at the bottom of the shades. While Draper claimed it had no readings when he inspected them, Danny had to wonder if he had looked into them in more detail. Something must have happened to associate them with ectoplasmic readings. And if this came from mere conjecture, what had Draper theorized to make the vague connection?

“Nothing’s different. Same luck as you on the readings. What did you expect them to show?” he decided to counter to assess how much the other man had managed to figure out.

Draper hummed as he sipped his coffee, his expression not letting anything show. “No solid theory yet.”

Misdirection always being a handy tool, Danny decided to shift any suspicion from him and the ghostly aspects in the process. “I mean, I figured these might help wipe people’s memories or something more spy-like.” Noticing Draper’s furrowed brows, the medium cleared his throat and tried to change the topic. “Anyway, what’s the plan for today?”

The involuntary silence that accompanied Draper’s sip of his mug allowed Danny to keep his attention on the man sitting across from him, the detective’s eyes revealing dark bags underneath from what was probably a long, sleepless night.

The tired man opened his messenger bag to retrieve the tablet he always carried around, a map with different pins showcased on it. “I thought we could go inspect other buildings close to the scene of the crime. See if we can find anything else.”

“Uh, like what?” Danny asked puzzled.

“Well, since Ken is not being very responsive—"

“That’s not even close to my name,” K grumbled, unbeknownst to Draper.

“—I’m guessing we would have to do this the hard way.”

The smile that graced Danny’s lips was knowing and slightly amused. “It’s much easier when you get the murder victim to just tell you everything, isn’t it?”

Draper rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, but since this isn’t a cold case—”

“Oh, right!” Danny interrupted, all the questions that had been running around his head the past couple of days finally coming back to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did you take a fresh case and not one of the oldies but goodies?”

It had been an innocent enough question. Expected, even, but one that the medium hadn’t even prioritized as he tried to handle the jabs from the ghostly agent haunting him. But from what Danny had noticed, all of the cases Draper followed had a certain profile to them. Unresolved cases, families that went unheard by the authorities, victims who couldn’t move on. And most importantly, no other detectives followed any of Detective Alvin Draper’s leads.

Unless there was something that connected the new case to an older one, as was the case with their first encounter. Or something that had been reported to a True Crime blog he followed that had suspiciously familiar wording.

So, why would Operative K’s work be an exception to those rules?

And then he got his answer

“I was asked to check this for a friend,” Draper admitted begrudgingly. 

Danny’s alarms blared uncontrollably as he wondered if said friend had any particular interest in the case or if it was just to help with the workload. This friend could very well be just another police officer, after all.

But as Danny wondered again about the questions he had from the day at the morgue, a sense of dread clouded his senses. His thoughts raced through all the worrisome connections behind the word “friend”, from someone in the GIW to knowing the people who committed the murder in the first place.

No wicked rest, indeed.

“Must be some really good friend if you’re helping them with little to no information,” Danny remarked, checking out the menu to pick something for breakfast to appear more nonchalant than he felt.

While he distracted himself with the ingredients of the house special, Draper looked out the window. “Yeah, well, it’s someone from my past who I thought wouldn’t bother me anymore after I left their group.”

A group, Danny repeated in his head with all the gloom and doom his inner tone could muster. 

The medium realized that it probably didn’t mean anything as all the different conceptions of the word ‘group’ replaced his previous thoughts. Group of friends. Group of cops. Office workers. Yoga class. A rehab group. Even the school group people are too lazy to delete from messaging apps.

It could be anything, not exactly GIW.

Danny sometimes considered himself a theorizer. However, if others were to share their opinion on the matter, they would agree that he was more of a bouncer, as he jumped to conclusions using the springiest mental trampoline at his disposal until some of those conclusions got out of control and bounced everywhere.

At the moment, his mind was in the going-off-the-rails phase.

For instance, as he reviewed all his interactions with the detective, Danny began to recall small details he had dismissed before. Like the lack of contact with the Gotham City Police Department or the fact that he had never seen the seemingly experienced detective pull a badge or a weapon. All the work they did together happened under some cover or another.

While the GIW might have gone out of business after the disconnection to the Infinite Realms, Danny reasoned that tiny setback didn’t take away any knowledge they had gained along the way. And Draper was somehow aware of current events in the world of ghost connections, practically calling Danny out for keeping a secret backdoor while no one else had been able to even glance at the front gate.

The GIW would be interested in learning about someone who could still see ghosts. Maybe the detective knew much more about the case than he was letting on.

“Nightingale?” Draper snapped the half-ghost out of his spiraling theories.

The mystery man who might not even be a detective was staring at him with concern. Danny blinked the fog out of his eyes, never one to come up with the best excuses on the spot. “Uh, sorry, I just… I was trying to remember if I left the stove on.”

Draper looked unimpressed, the same flavor of stare that preceded a call out. “Danny, last time we ate here you said you were happy to have a warm meal because your microwave broke. So, I doubt you have anywhere else to heat your food.”

Danny bristled. “Okay, first of all? Ow. Second of all, I’m sorry if I worry about things that I don’t even own, okay? I’m just… distracted.”

The other man leaned in closer and tilted his head. “Distracted? How come?” He then glanced at the empty space next to Danny, something the medium had begun to associate with an attempt to identify traces of a ghost nearby. Not a good attempt, since Operative K had moved to skulk at another table. “Anything interesting our friend has shared since yesterday?” Draper asked.

The red flags in Danny’s head were now enough to hold a United Nations meeting. “Just a single detail,” he ventured to answer. “He mentioned how he wasn’t murdered where he was found.”

Danny looked at the detective’s reactions carefully and realized he was having a hard time reading his expressions. While the analysis was inconclusive, he didn’t detect any surprise which might also count as something important to make note of. He wasn’t a detective, but maybe some of the work he had done with Draper had started to rub off on him.

“Did he tell you where?” Draper asked after he switched to look at his tablet.

“Uh, no, TBC. He said he would think about it and that’s about the only thing he would share.”

For the first time since arriving, Danny wondered why their waitress was taking so long to take their order. Maybe a little distraction would keep the other man from asking too much about things he didn’t look forward to making up on the spot.

As he glanced at the blonde woman in a green dress behind the cashier, discussing something with one of the senior clients, her sheepish smile and mouthed ‘sorry’ towards Danny were enough to let him know she wouldn’t be his savior today.

He hoped his appetite wasn’t as lost as his cause by the end of this.

“We could always go back to the scene where they found him,” Danny heard the detective say.

“Didn’t we already do that yesterday?” he argued with the same detached tone he used as cover.

Draper shrugged, making another note on his device. “Yeah, but we might find something new and useful if we know he wasn’t killed there.”

The tension on Danny’s shoulders doubled, his mind now supplying various ways the detective could hurt, torture, or torment him if this was a trap. After all, the abandoned building was the perfect place no one would look into, unless they were already involved in the murder scene.

“Wouldn’t it be dangerous if someone notices we’ve gone there more than once already?” Danny reasoned.

The interaction caught K’s interest, who approached their table with a satisfied smirk. “What’s this? Already suspecting your friend, Phantom?”

If Danny could, he would’ve glared at the ghost floating by his side, snide remarks included. However, the detective squinted with some suspicion and the action put all thoughts in his head on hold. Was the detective onto him?

“Look, all murder cases are potentially dangerous,” Draper began to explain. “It would be no different than going into someone’s basement because the shade of a murder victim told you to go there, would it?”

Danny slumped in his seat. “I guess not. But that doesn’t mean I’m eager to go to a confirmed murder site—”

“Discovery site.”

“Fine. Discovery site or whatever,” Danny amended as he mulled over his next words, hesitant of the risk it would imply. “I still think whoever killed this guy, might be still trying to clear their tracks.”

The way Draper raised an eyebrow sent more tension to his nerves and muscles. “What, got any insight from your track-covering experience?”

Something heavy dropped in Danny’s stomach with the weight of a bad omen. Draper already knew Danny was using a fake name, that he moved into Gotham less than a year ago, and he was running away from something. If he connected him to Amity Park and looked into who he was, he was convinced the detective would be able to find more ways to hurt him.

The suspicions about Draper’s connection to the GIW or even Operative K’s murderer began to grow more. He questioned his fortune and remembered he was never in luck’s good graces.

“I’m just trying to be careful about whatever mess you’re getting me into, Draper,” Danny responded with more confidence than he truly felt.

“We’ll be careful,” Draper reassured, his tone sincere despite all the concerns he raised a few moments ago. “I can keep you safe and make sure no one knows who you are.”

Danny thought there was a veiled threat in that tone and tried to repeat to himself that the detective couldn’t be aware of his identity without questioning him relentlessly about it.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he conceded. “Let me try to get some intel from our victim first, I guess.”

Operative K, who had decided to float near the detective, studying his face from all angles, scoffed. “The only intel you will get from me is the number of the cell that has your name on it.”

Danny stared at the operative for an extended moment, imagining a life where ghosts were never a reality, and shady organizations like the Ghost Intelligence Ward never came into existence. Where he could still dream of reaching the moon or Mars, and just be a regular guy in his early twenties hanging out with friends. 

Instead, he found himself with a fake name, a fake profession, and a fake lead for the case. He just hoped it didn’t include a fake detective as well.

“Let me try to convince our victim and I’ll text you where to go, okay?”

This, of course, was not something that could actually happen. Danny was sure he wouldn’t have a reasonable conversation with the agent from the moment he identified him at the morgue.

What he did believe in was that Draper would be hindered by his lack of ghostly tips. Which is how Danny decided then and there to make sure the detective had no other option but to look at the case the old-fashioned way. To test the new angle on his own since the medium wouldn’t be much help without his skills put to good use.

Draper nodded and tapped at his chin in deep thought. Perhaps even calculating the thousands of ways he wanted to arrest him. Or cut him into pieces. “We can try it your way. I just have one final question,” he slowly asked, his gaze assessing every inch of Danny’s very core, if such abilities weren’t limited to the half-ghost across from him. “What do you know about Amity Park?”

Not for the first time, Danny wondered if Clockwork had frozen that moment to extend his torture and make all his movements visible frame by frame. Like the way his eyes widened, or his breath hitched. As his pulse picked up, he felt his heartbeat was loud enough to hear it from the other side of the diner.

"Sorry if I left you boys alone for a while,” the same waitress from before came to interrupt the conversation as she prepared to take their order. “I hope you had some fun in the meantime. Do you already know what you’re ordering, or would you need more time?”

Danny definitely needed more time. Time to come up with an answer that was simple enough to avoid raising any further questions. Time to understand how Draper even knew about Amity Park’s existence, the small town that was barely a blip on anyone’s radar.

Draper sighed as he reluctantly gave the morning waitress his order and prompted Danny to do the same. The medium took longer to ask questions about random dishes and to pick an item on the menu, but finally settled on something light.

The uncomfortable silence that reigned after the waitress left only made the curious Operative K hum in thought. “I’m surprised he found a connection to Amity Park so soon. No one knows about that hellhole.”

Danny scrunched up his nose, perhaps at the Operative who looked over Draper’s shoulder, perhaps at the prospect of answering such a hard question. “So, where were we?” he innocently asked.

“Amity Park?” Draper asked again, something insistent in his gaze, making Danny feel under a microscope.

For the sake of his cover, he resisted the urge to reply ‘I sure hope not’.

“The ghost town? I’ve heard of Amity Park, but nothing much,” Danny replied slowly, hoping this attempt to misdirect wouldn’t backfire spectacularly.

Draper nodded but didn’t ask anything else for a while. Instead, he took some notes on his tablet that made Danny feel like he was back at the counselor’s office in Casper High. “I’m going to look more into it. I saw a tip about it on a true crime blog that already has speculation about the case. Might be worth checking it out.”

A small light of hope shone as bright as the halo during his transformation. Maybe Draper wasn’t involved in the case after all? “A… true crime blog?” Danny ventured.

“Yeah, it’s, you know…” Draper replied with vague hand gestures, “It’s just a neat way to see things from an outside perspective. Since people don’t always want to talk to cops.”

The pointed look made all of the tension escape from Danny’s shoulders as they shook with laughter. “You could’ve been better off as a PI or something, you know?”

The statement amused Draper enough to snort and shake his head. “Or something.”

As the conversation drifted to other topics, like the places of interest the detective wanted to look into or small talk concerning the earlier rogue attack nearby, the medium realized the playful banter and the new rapport he had with Draper was something he didn’t want to lose. It had been one of the many things that Danny missed from his life in Amity Park, from his days as Phantom, from his time working with his friends. He wondered if the connection he felt through this new partnership was something genuinely there or if the nostalgia clouded his perception.

He also wondered if there was a way to wipe K’s smug smirk off his face.

Whatever the conclusion was to his spiraling thoughts, he silently decided he would tread more carefully in this case if he wanted an honest answer to his new existential crisis.

At least breakfast was good enough to lift his spirits.

When the light flickered from the few posts still keeping the street somewhat visible, it occurred to Danny that perhaps he hadn’t thought this through.

After his suspicions about Draper grew, fueled by the worry of whose side his partner for the past few weeks was on, Danny knew he needed to find a clearer lead on who killed Operative K. Throwing all caution to the wind, he decided this would be best done on his own. Which is why he had asked the detective to put the field research on temporary hold for at least another day until he talked to ‘Ken’.

The mystery that surrounded Draper only grew when the detective accepted Danny’s request without much question.

Danny, of course, had planned on doing the exact opposite, which is how he found himself walking around the streets adjacent to the place of K’s discovery. The solo mission, if one were to ignore the murdered GIW agent’s company, allowed him to tap into his ghostly skills, even if it was just to slip invisibly past any witnesses or recording devices, or to detect any signs of unusual spectral activity fueled by the GIW’s presence in Gotham.

He belatedly realized that going out after midnight might not have been his best idea, but at least it meant not having so many prying eyes as in the earlier part of the day; the area was usually busy with street vendors and commuters waiting to get somewhere. Despite being guarded by the cover of the night now, it didn’t keep the target off his back from criminals –and maybe even a B-class vigilante or two as the night shift began to take over.

His cautious walking around empty buildings and invisible peeks into the place where the agent was found, didn’t feel like enough progress. The lack of new clues stared back from empty hands.

The ghost had been mostly quiet during their nightly excursion. A clear contrast from the earlier hours of the day, but Danny concluded this was an agent on the field trying to assess the perimeter and find any threats.

Danny took a hand to his ear, mimicking a communicator of some sort just to have an excuse to talk to the ghost following him around. “Am I even close to where they, uh, you know,” he asked awkwardly, making a face that he hoped conveyed the unspoken words: were you murdered nearby?

Operative K scoffed at the question. “While I don’t want to go back to being a shade if I stay back in your apartment, it doesn’t mean I’ve decided you can be trusted with any GIW intel, Fenton.”

Danny beamed in fake delight. “Ah, back to my last name. I’ll take any olive branch at this point from you, even if it’s a dry and broken twig.”

As they turned the corner to a smaller street, the smells indicating an earlier presence of fruits and vegetables being sold on its sidewalk, Danny’s hairs began to stand on end. He felt a shift in the air, the sense of someone watching him growing with every step.

“How will you handle the people tailing you?” K suddenly spoke, putting the half-ghost on higher alert. Danny slowly stopped in his tracks. A deer in the headlights, trying to avoid any movement that might alert an incoming predator. “Are you going to humiliate them like you did with us in the field? Do any ghostly misdemeanors?”

Danny’s hand lingered again over his ear as he finally whispered. “Wait, following me?” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get his bearings together and before glancing around subtly enough to see any signs of life nearby. When he noticed a shadow shifting by a rooftop, he knew he was done for. Or at least his secret would be if he decided to risk using his powers. “Shit…” he muttered under his breath.

“You could call your friend,” K mocked him with a grin that was anything but friendly.

The memory of his suspicions about Draper came back tenfold, reminding him that this silent stalker could be here for any number of unrelated reasons. It could be an unsatisfied customer looking for revenge for a séance gone wrong. It could be the vigilantes keeping an eye on the city. It could be a shade or the ghosts of his past looking for a way back into the living world.

Or it could be the same brand of danger Operative K met before his premature demise.

Not trusting his powers in a fight, he decided to do what any regular person would do under these circumstances (or so he hoped): keep to the shadows and run as soon as possible.

On the bright side, being followed probably meant he was close to a breakthrough; why else would someone try to keep him quiet? He still hadn’t gotten a taste of Gotham’s brand of hospitality in the form of a mugging or even a rogue attack, half of that due to luck and the other half due to keeping his head down and sneaking away whenever he needed to.

But sneaking away was near impossible with how closely he was being followed by the two or three people he could now perceive on the rooftops.

While he mentally begged whatever force was out there to please let these stalkers be Batman and his flock of birds, his hope was squashed by an unfamiliar face landing in front of him. The attacker, a woman dressed in dark clothes, pulled out a blade of some kind, which Danny imagined was meant to turn him into a kebab.

The young man turned around to find the other two stalkers were now right behind him, silent during their approach. Almost like ghosts. This made the situation harder to keep any show of powers subtle, which meant he would have to resort to other natural skills that weren’t so rusty or blow his cover completely.

“Oh, hey, are you here to give a guy a nice tour around the neighborhood?” he tried to banter, completely out of his element compared to the way he dealt with ghosts back in Amity Park.

“I think you’ve seen plenty enough,” one of the men behind him spoke, his voice rough with a heavy accent he couldn’t quite place.

Cornered like a mouse in a cat’s den, the retired hero hoped the situation would be salvageable once he had to resort to more ghostly methods. “Ah, you might be right. I’ll get out of your hair now,” he said, his thumb pointed to where he came from.

Before Danny could even take a step back, the woman lunged at him and tried to stab him, missing but still managing to slice his upper arm.

“Are you really that pathetic in a fight, Phantom?” K shouted. While he thought it almost felt like K was rooting for him, Danny figured that was just the adrenaline talking.

As if to reply to the agent, Danny managed to punch the second attacker once he twisted out of the blade’s reach. He knew he would have to turn quickly to avoid another attempted stabbing from the woman and the third man, who had pulled out a similar knife.

As the man Danny punched stumbled to the floor by the force of his hit, he heard the other attackers grunt. Danny turned around but was not fast enough to catch sight of the whole action. The new scene in front of him now showed two unconscious attackers on the floor and a vigilante standing tall in front of them, his back facing the shocked half-ghost.

Danny didn’t have enough time to process who the costumed hero was as the second man behind him got up and tried to attack again. Danny prepared another fist for his opponent, but something hit the man on the head and sent him to the floor with the other two stabby companions.

The street was once again silent, with at least no other bystanders in sight. Danny turned to see his savior, still not fully acquainted with those who kept Gotham safe. He was pretty sure this was one of the Robins. At least the red and black suit with golden accents seemed to fit the description well enough.

“Uh, thanks?” Danny awkwardly told the vigilante, wincing in pain as he remembered the cut he got as a souvenir from his attackers, which had not been his worst by far.

“I can take you somewhere safe and get that wound looked at,” the Robin whose real hero name was to be defined, replied once he looked at the injury on Danny’s arm.

Never one to keep his emotions well hidden behind a poker face, Danny paled at the suggestion. He didn’t want a vigilante looking so closely into his injuries or how quickly they healed. If any of them got wind of his half-ghost status, he would probably find no peace again. Despite how small the space he had carved out for himself in Gotham, he was not ready to lose it just yet. “I can go home just fine, thanks.”

The unspecified Robin squinted, and Danny had to wonder how he was able to make his eyes so expressive with a domino mask covering them. “Someone was targeting you for murder. I’m not sure that’s a safe option anymore.”

“Always the stubborn one,” K muttered behind him.

Danny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You want to look more into why I was attacked, don’t you?”

The Robin’s small smirk held something familiar in it. “I’m just trying to help a civilian in need. But, I wouldn’t mind a few answers, to be honest.”

The options to weigh on his unbalanced scale provided no answers to what he should do, but Danny had a feeling the decision was made for him before he could attempt to argue any alternative. “Fine,” he mumbled in response.

Red Robin, as Danny finally remembered this hero was called, grabbed Danny by the waist and shot his grapple hook to a nearby building. “C’mon, we’re practically sitting ducks here.”

As he was taken away to an undisclosed location using Gotham’s unique hero-shaped ferry system, Danny finally understood how Tucker and Sam felt whenever he made any ghostly puns at the end of a fight.

Chapter Text

Ever since Danny Nightingale (real name pending) entered Tim Drake’s life and investigations, there was always something unexpected and intriguing about his day. For instance, the thrill of saving the medium from dangerous situations was something he hadn’t expected when he woke up that morning from his restless and short-lived slumber.

After Tim realized Danny was more involved in the current murder investigation of the mysterious 'Ken’ (real name also pending), and how the murder victim had been involved in paranormal research, Tim tried to give Danny some space and reassurances that he would be safe if they worked together. From subtle hints about how Tim was beginning to connect the case to ghosts and Amity Park, to explaining that his cover as Danny Nightingale wouldn’t be blown.

Despite his efforts, the detective hadn’t considered how his guarded companion would react to that kind of approach.

“I’m telling you, this so-called detective is probably trying to kill me,” Danny heatedly exclaimed as he put his mug down on the coffee table.

Tim pinched the bridge of his domino mask and decided to take a deep breath as he contemplated a whole new life away from crime fighting and solving sometimes not-so-cold cases.

He was at least grateful for the new opportunity to keep this case on track through a new alias, donning the Red Robin mantle once more instead of the Alvin Draper persona.

“Let me get this straight,” Tim asked as he sat perched on one of the highchairs at the safe house, where he had taken Danny to check on the wound on his arm and to make sure no further murder attempts were made against him. At least for the time being. “You were looking into a strange case with a detective—”

“So-called detective,” Danny interrupted, sitting closer to the edge of the couch he was occupying. “There’s no guarantee that this guy is even working with the police.”

Red Robin’s pride was hurt by the revelation that he hadn’t been as careful with his cover as he thought he had been. He wondered if there was any chance to salvage this situation without revealing who he was. So far, the medium had admitted things he already knew as Draper, except for a teeny, tiny detail that put him at the center of this case and Red Robin had no way of knowing otherwise: Danny’s ability to talk to ghosts.

“Right, alleged detective,” he amended. “If you thought he was the real deal at first, how were you working with him? Were you a witness? Some kind of informant?”

As expected with how evident Danny’s reactions always were, the medium bit his lip and lowered his head. “I… I know people he can talk to. So, yeah. Underground informant, you could say.”

The vigilante, faced with a new pun from his crime-solving partner, resisted the urge to groan. Whatever karmic balance Tim still owed to the world, he knew the long night of questioning ahead would almost clear him from that penitence.

“Fine, a sketchy informant,” he corrected once more, making Danny bristle. “Why do you think this alleged detective would want to kill you in the first place? And why would he do that after going through all the trouble of establishing some rapport with you in, what I can only assume are, unrelated cases?”

The silence that settled between them felt heavy with an important decision being made. Or at least that’s what Tim could only guess from the conflicted look and nervous fidgeting from the man in front of him. Despite his knowledge that Danny was hiding at least two crucial secrets for this case, there was no way of knowing how many more skeletons were buried deep inside this paranormal closet.

It was part of that hesitation to share his knowledge of the GIW and Amity Park that had initially led Tim to take this current approach. When Danny tried to convince the detective to postpone the scouting around the murder discovery site, he decided some silent surveillance was in order. One that couldn’t be achieved through technology alone.

While he hadn’t been very active as Red Robin ever since he left the rest of the flock, he still longed for the excitement he had enjoyed for so many years in that kind of life. His heart soared with the adrenaline that came with keeping a whole side of him secret; with the practiced calm that settled when he hid amongst the shadows searching for a new lead; with the way his muscles itched for a good fight against people who deserved a good punch on the face, even if it meant having to dodge many dangers in retaliation.

With newfound excitement and a mission in progress, Red Robin had taken to the rooftops earlier that night to keep a closer eye on the secretive medium who had just been tracked close to the site of discovery. Tim soon realized he hadn’t been the only one after Danny. What he hadn’t yet confirmed was who these attackers worked for, even If he had a few suspicions that would be worrisome if they turned out true.

No joy came from the new layers in the twisted mystery that was this case.

Danny suddenly stood up and moved toward the window, where he slightly peeked behind the heavy curtain that protected them from view. “I think the detective was already involved in the case before we met.” Red Robin bit his tongue to avoid refuting this statement as he waited for more of the story to be shared. “I, uh… these connections I have? The victim in this case we’ve been working on was also looking for them. So, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me being paranoid. Maybe it’s just the awful timing of everything.”

Disappointment settled on Tim’s shoulders as he realized Danny wasn’t eager to trust him as a vigilante either.

There were so many options to help move this case forward. He could come clean and reveal himself as Alvin Draper, which wouldn’t compromise his identity as Tim Drake in any way. He could share some details about the case he hadn’t been able to fully share as a detective. Like the fact that he knew the victim had been a part of the Ghost Intelligence Ward. He could take so many risks, but Tim wasn’t sure they would be worth taking.

“What makes you think he was already involved in the case?” Tim asked as he opted for a simpler approach, beginning with the basic questions.

Danny shifted next to the window but kept the curtain closed. “There were just some very specific questions that got me suspecting he knew more than he was telling.”

“And it couldn’t have been because there were sensitive details about the case?”

Danny’s unsettling stare and tilt of the head made Tim tense. “Don’t you have tons of experience facing dirty cops and evil masterminds? Whose side are you on?”

The vigilante wanted to scoff at the implication. Old memories and past accusations emerged to the surface before he pushed them away. “I’m on whatever side that keeps innocent people from ending up hurt. And yeah, I’ve met a lot of corrupt people in the system, but I also have experience jumping to conclusions before I have the full picture,” he replied with bitterness boiling under his skin.

The words hit one of the medium’s invisible nerves, making his jaw lock. “Alright, how’s this… the guy has never once been seen talking to a GCPD cop, he doesn’t carry a gun, he rarely pulls out a badge, if ever, he constantly breaks the law—”

“All right,” Tim interrupted. “I get the idea.”

As the prospect of saving his cover as Draper went up into smoke, Tim looked at his options and realized he didn’t have much choice but to earn Danny’s trust from scratch. “So, it all sounds like a bad cop at least,” he begrudgingly admitted, pushing down his pride once more. “What’s so special about this case that you think might have changed his mind about working with you?”

Danny’s hesitation shone through once more. “It’s… It’s personal. For him, I mean. I think? I don’t know. He said an old group got him into the case. It could be the group that worked with the victim.”

Tim considered the many ways he could use this information in his favor. While he had already been aware that Danny knew about the Ghost Intelligence Ward, this meant the medium was not a part of the group as Tim had theorized at first and somehow believed he would be targeted by the victim’s coworkers.

The question now in Tim’s mind was how hard was he willing to push Danny to confess his connection with the GIW, whatever it may be?

“So, you know who the victim is.” It was not a question, but it was spoken in the lightest of tones the vigilante could muster at the moment.

Danny shifted. “No?” The scowl directed to his left gave Tim a different answer.

“Are you sure you don’t know more about this case than this detective?”

The previous scowl turned into a glare. “No.” The words felt more determined but still not true enough to believe the medium’s claims.

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two, both sorting through the words to use to keep their respective covers hidden from the other. Like true duelists in a wilder moment of history, neither allowed their guard down.

Red Robin squinted at the medium before looking at the display on his wrist. He figured the night was young enough to hit a few more places to find actual leads before calling it a day. “Why don’t you take some time to consider if there’s anything else you can share?” he asked instead. “You can stay here while I go follow up on any more information on the people who tried to kill you tonight. You’ll be safer here than at home.”

Danny crossed his arms while rolling his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

The unimpressed look the vigilante gave to the recently bandaged arm was not enough to deter Danny from his determined stance. “Even if you could’ve survived that attack on your own, you’re probably under surveillance; your home and your workplace could be bugged already.”

This, of course, wasn’t a baseless assumption. After all, Tim had done his own share of bugging to keep an eye on the mysterious medium. Just in case, he tried to tell himself.

“So, I’m basically a prisoner, is that it?” Danny added with an edge of danger in his voice, something that made Tim’s muscles prepare for an attack for reasons unknown to the detective.

Tim shook the preposterous feeling away with a small shrug. “You could leave, but I’m asking you to give me time to make sure you’re safe. Give me a day or two to dig whatever I can find on this detective and look into the people behind the attack.”

In a way, Tim felt an odd sense of déjà vu as he tried to build a new partnership with Danny, however temporary this one might be.

The resigned sigh he got in response already told him he had at least won this battle. “Fine, I’ll stay for tonight, at least.” There was a faraway look and Tim had the suspicion that he was listening to something or someone invisible. He took the subsequent glare as enough confirmation.

Tim was so close to blowing his cover to get the sidestepping over with. But there were still some things he didn’t feel fully certain about Danny. For all the vigilante knew, Danny could be just as suspect of murder as the attackers who had followed him less than an hour prior.

As he gave the ghost and the medium some privacy that hadn’t been requested in whatever silent squabble they currently had, Tim picked up the empty mugs on the coffee table. His prudence gave him access to a unique sight: a half-open zipper on Danny’s backpack, which could have accidentally gotten into that position during the confrontation with the mercenaries. A familiar pair of sunglasses almost shone invitingly through the open pocket and a plan began to shift into place.

Step 1: A good sleight of hand starts with a good distraction.

Holding the mugs in his gloved hands, Red Robin left them on the kitchen counter and changed directions to a small closet near the door. The small space held a few helpful items for last-minute needs. Clothing, shoes, additional gear, tools, and bags to run away in haste. After securing one particular item he knew he had in a bag, he began to sort through a few pillows and blankets to set on the couch. As predicted, Danny stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t need all those covers to sleep on the couch,” Danny pointed out as he walked back toward the aforementioned piece of furniture.

Red Robin smiled, a gesture that was hopefully friendlier than how Danny had perceived his attempts as Draper. “I’ll take the couch; you take the bed,” he said as he divided the covers into two piles, one close enough to the backpack on the floor to keep it out of sight and out of mind. The second pile, closer to his guest. “I’ll be out for a while as I look around the perimeter, anyway.”

Danny maintained a skeptical look fixed on the suspicious hero. “Why would you want to give me your room?”

Step 2: Add a dose of complications to keep the other’s mind away from the prize.

Tim shrugged. “It’s not really my room. Or anyone’s for that matter. This is a safe house. A bat-grade safe house. Which means you could get another bird or bat hopping in unannounced in the middle of the night. And I think you’ve had enough scares for one day. The room’s the safest bet you’ll get to avoid that.”

The suspicious squint in the medium’s eyes was not promising. “Why not just tell them this place is being used or whatever?”

Complications had a good chance to backfire as well, adding more elements to juggle in this already risky act. Tim was thankful his domino mask allowed for a better poker face at least. “Are you sure? That would be like lighting up a beacon sign telling the others someone they should look into is here. You already seem uncomfortable enough around me as it is. Why add more vigilantes to the mix?”

Danny scoffed as if Red Robin’s words held the highest offense. “Me? Uncomfortable?” The tone and words didn’t provide any reassurance for his partner, but the medium was committed to proving him wrong. Which is how Danny, as Tim had hoped, hastily picked the blankets closest to him, not taking a moment to look at the backpack on the floor beneath the untouched pile. “You sure make a lot of assumptions for someone who just got to know me.”

Step 3: Wait for the right moment. Timing is the answer to success.

As the detective-turned-vigilante stared at Danny’s retreating form, he noticed the medium stop mid-step as if someone had cut him off. A familiar ghost, if Tim had to guess. After a couple of muted whispers, a groan, and what seemed to be a staring contest against thin air, the medium resumed his steps into the adjacent room and shut the door behind him.

The right moment appeared and Tim made sure to make it count. A slight sleight of hand later, he picked up the remaining bundle of blankets from the couch and left it several inches away from its original place.

The door to the room opened again and Danny came out nearly stomping towards his backpack, picking it up before checking the contents visible from the open pocket and squinting at the vigilante before he closed it.

“If you need a change of clothes, there’s some in the closet where I got these,” Tim said as he pointed at the covers he would use if he ever got a chance to sleep. A task that was always as elusive as any answer from the medium.

“I’m fine,” Danny mumbled. “I’ll be out in the morning, anyway.”

Red Robin’s mask didn’t allow his concern to be as evident, but he made sure to use it in his tone. “It’s not safe to—”

Danny held up his hand, the other grabbing the strap of his bag as it hung behind his back. “Look, I’m sure you mean well, and I appreciate the help and the concern. But I’ve survived this long without any of you guys stepping in and I’m not about to let some psychos with swords make me give up the things I’ve already built here.”

The words, now full of honesty and a ferocity Tim had seen many times before in the presumed runaway, filled the medium’s eyes with something solemn, almost haunted. The same melancholy that came when one can’t continue to run away from all their troubles, left with no choice but to pick one fight among the many available, and use every ounce of energy to come out victorious.

In many ways, Tim had been rooting for Danny. He still held on to the hope that this was someone having a hard life and a harder time. Someone who was alone by choice but needed any break that could come his way. It reminded the vigilante of a certain young man who decided to emancipate himself to take the reins of his own life; one he saw grow old and weary in the mirror each day.

Step 4: Don’t forget the mission.

Red Robin’s fist clenched tighter as his resolve solidified. “I can definitely respect that. Just remember you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Danny’s blue eyes stared at the other man with a hint of suspicion. A more subdued one at that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As the medium went into the room and shut the door behind him, Tim knew he had little time before he could act.

At least Danny’s coffee had been decaffeinated and would help in keeping his sleepless habits at bay.

The thing with Tim Drake is that he usually had brilliant ideas but at times they required very complicated steps to get the bigger picture.

For instance, the last time he decided to look into the sunglasses currently in his hands, he had assumed they were something more mundane, within the realm of spies and snipers, of vigilantes and bounty hunters. Therefore, his approach had been to look into the technical aspects of them, searching for codes and wiring that could reveal any clue to the type of intel.

But now that he had found out how the shades were connected to a potentially rogue organization researching ghosts, he figured he required a second opinion on the paranormal aspect of this case. Especially once he realized his partner for the last several weeks had been more involved with the victim than he could have ever expected. While the connection between them was still a mystery, there was no doubt that Danny wouldn’t allow Tim or anyone else to figure out any connection he had with ghosts after the late-night conversation.

That led Tim to look for a way to work around the unreliable partnership, which would require contacting an ally who was already connected to the dwindling ghost magic issue.

The memory of Constantine’s stern look came back to haunt him.

As he tried to ignore it, Tim decided he was not in the mood to deal with the occultist or to risk Danny in whatever sketchy business the Brit might try. That’s how the formerly retired vigilante ended up looking in advance for all the contact details for someone he hadn’t talked to in a long, long time, and who had not only the power but also the tact to guide him in the right direction.

The phone rang a couple of times. Tim was about to hang up on the third ring, worried he would not have enough time for his new attempt to find a lead with the ace he currently held under his sleeve, when a familiar voice picked up.

“Yes?” the woman said on the other end of the line.

“Uh, heeeey, Zee.” If Tim had been feeling rusty with the vigilante theatrics, it had been nothing compared to the bout of nervousness the call had given him with his lack of preparation.

Perhaps it had been the knowledge that this conversation would probably reach Bruce’s ears. Or it could be the risk he knew he was taking by involving someone else in this particular case with such short notice. A case he hadn’t fully cracked and made him feel like walking on uneven ground with each step back.

Zatanna Zatara, for whatever’s worth, was his best bet to get to the bottom of the paranormal aspects Danny so clearly didn’t want to disclose. Tim admittedly hadn’t worked as closely with her as she had with Bruce, but she knew some of Tim’s shenanigans all the same.

“Oh, Tim!” she greeted with a fondness he didn’t expect. “What a surprise. Last I heard from your old man, you had decided to build your own nest.”

Whatever hope Tim had that Zatanna would keep the call to herself was thrown out of the window. “He told you about that?” he squawked.

“Sure,” she replied with what he pictured as a cheeky grin. “You know how chatty Bruce can be. Always going into detail about how he feels, what he’s thinking, and so expressive about his love for his kids. It’s not like I had to insist to get only that little piece of information.”

A deep tiredness settled in Tim’s bones. “I didn’t know you were also a stand-up comedian,” he replied with a voice devoid of humor.

Zatanna tsked on the other end of the line. “It figures you’d inherit Bruce’s sense of humor.” There was a pause followed by a deep sigh. “And his notion of what a normal sleeping schedule looks like.”

The display on his suit’s computer confirmed it was well past midnight. While the superhero and vigilante community rarely kept regular hours, he understood his perception of time was more skewed than others.

Before he could express his apologies, Zatanna spoke again. “Part of me is guessing this isn’t a social call. The other part of me is hoping this isn’t another apocalyptic emergency.”

Tim began to regret keeping the sorceress’s phone number as a last resort for such a long time. Perhaps if he had called before, or even sent a few messages or even a meme occasionally, he wouldn’t feel as awkward for only calling to request her help.

“No impending doom, as far as I’m concerned. But you’re right and I’m so sorry for calling to ask for a favor,” he said, hoping that some semblance of casualness remained.

“Well, better a favor than the end of the world,” Zatanna mumbled. “What inter-dimensional mess did you get into this time?”

Tim wondered to himself how she managed to figure it out, or if he was just that transparent.

The silence led to a lack of reply, which prompted a worried tone from the sorceress. “It was meant to be a joke, you know?”

Tim sighed and ran a gloved hand through his dark locks. “Look…”

“Oh, no, I know that tone. You’re not pulling an unexpected twist on me,” Zatanna spoke again, her voice leaning into resignation before whispering, “ekat em ot sih noitacol.”

As soon as the words were intoned and the call was disconnected, Tim was blinded by a sudden flash of light. The magician walked outside of a luminous portal that immediately closed behind her, joining the vigilante on the rooftop not too far away from the safe house where he had left Danny minutes prior.

Zatanna stood with her arms crossed. “I figured if it’s a favor and something from a different dimension might be involved, this isn’t something to talk about on a call.”

The vigilante stared with light amusement at the odd picture of one of the most powerful magic users in Batman’s emergency list, wearing pajamas and slippers, her braided hair slightly disarrayed. The woman rolled her eyes and with a whispered, “egnahc ym sehtolc,” she switched her appearance to a more familiar sight from his meetings with her, donning a blue coat, black pants and boots, a white corset, and a perfect braid.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Tim said softly as he walked to stand closer to the magician.

“It is, if you were going to be distracted by some silly pjs.”

“No, I meant the visit.”

Zatanna raised an eyebrow. “So, there’s nothing odd going on that you wanted to ask at 3 am?” At Tim’s hesitation, she sighed and took a seat on the roof’s ledge. “Figured. C’mon, sit down. Spill it out.”

As Tim recalled the first time he and Steph had asked for Zatanna’s help a few years ago, he struggled to think of a way to explain his current situation. About ghostly connections that should be gone but still kept some alternate link through an odd runaway medium, or how an organization had possibly cracked the science behind ghosts flying under everyone’s radar and one of them had ended up dead.

The problem with situations as complex as these was always where to start. Red Robin considered the first step was to follow Zatanna’s lead. He sat in silence next to her and pulled something out of his pocket: a dark pair of shades that might hold part of the answers he needed to move ahead in the case.

With a light lick of his lips to prepare the words that would come out, Tim stared at the shades to avoid the blue eyes seeing right through him—something he was almost sure his companion was able to do. “I’m in the middle of a very complicated case that could involve ghosts and I feel like it’s becoming time-sensitive. Or this part is, at least.”

“Ghosts? As in the remnants left from the dead?” The skepticism that laced her words was at least more bearable than Constantine’s condescending attitude, so Tim decided to pat himself on the back for the decision to call her instead.

“Yeah, like people who died and couldn’t move on unless their death was cleared, that sort of deal. Anyway, I’ve been following a lead on a case and stumbled upon these sunglasses that are used by people who research ghosts and might be calibrated to detect any signs of ectoplasm, but they don’t work—"

“Of course they won’t work,” Zatanna interrupted with no room for rebuttal. “The doors are closed. There’s no more ectoplasm in this world. All séances, ouija calls, summonings, and spirit tricks are a no-go. I thought you all heard about that from John.”

Tim chose his next words carefully. “Right, end of ghost magic or whatever. But, what if the door wasn’t entirely closed? What if someone left a part of it ajar?” The vigilante lifted the shades in front of Zatanna. “What if someone still left some keys and we just need to find the right doors?”

Zatanna picked up the offered shades and inspected them with care. “These are definitely too dark to catch any ghosts, I can tell you that. But seriously, you won’t find a way around it unless you want to get unpleasant attention your way. And trust me, someone will notice if a new door is found.”

The Gotham skyline felt so silent as the words were processed repeatedly in the vigilante’s mind to make sense of what he had just heard. Instead of a complex game of “Guess Who?” or even an advanced kind of “Clue” starring a dead GIW agent, Tim felt himself falling into a jigsaw puzzle with an undisclosed number of pieces to reveal the final picture. As new pieces fell into place, he wondered if tonight’s attack had not been connected to the victim but rather Danny’s abilities to talk to ghosts and access whatever afterlife was out there.

“You’re overthinking again,” the sorceress spoke and pulled Tim out of his head. “I’m not a mind-reader—well, technically I could read minds, but it’s better when you use your words.”

Truth be told, if Zatanna wanted to find out what was going on, Tim had no way of stopping her from digging into it. At the prospect of being under her scrutiny, Tim weighed his options and the potential outcomes.

On the more positive outcome, telling a trustworthy magic user about Danny’s abilities had benefits, like making sure the medium had the protection he so desperately needed, especially if he was being targeted by groups looking to get some kind of advantage from his ghostly connections, including the GIW.

On the other hand, taking this risk could lead to a sour turn of events, bringing more unwanted attention to the medium from other magic users. It would also completely obliterate any opportunity Tim had to recover Danny’s trust, which could also potentially put the case in danger of going unsolved.

In the end, the decision wasn’t as easy when the detective added other factors into the equation. After all, Danny was hiding from a past life, and possibly past demons that not necessarily came from beyond the grave. There were unknown risks at play, such as pushing Danny to run away from Gotham, or inadvertently leading Zatanna to a bigger threat than they had even imagined if she got involved.

While Tim didn’t know half of what Zatanna faced on a regular basis or what the actual limits of her powers were, he knew it wouldn’t be fair to add more to her magical plate without warning; he didn’t think he’d be able to carry that guilt on his shoulders.

He already felt guilty enough for not involving a magic user when he learned about Danny.

"Sorry, it’s just that… I’m not sure I have the full story, yet,” he said in all honesty while also lying by omission, a true feat learned at Bat-school. “There are rumors about someone who found a shortcut and it all seems to tie somehow to these shades.”

Zatanna hummed and stared at the glasses. “You think this person’s using something like this to see ghosts? It’s probably just some phony.”

Tim sighed. “No, these actually belonged to a murder victim from the case I’m trying to solve. But the guy was part of some privately financed organization named The Ghost Investigation Ward. GIW. Ever heard of it?”

To Tim’s surprise, the scoff from his visitor was enough of a response. “Heard of them? They’re part of the whole mess that closed any access to the afterlife.”

A chill ran down Tim’s back. Perhaps his concern for Danny wasn’t as far off as he thought. “Part of? What does that mean? What did they do?”

Zatanna scanned the shades with newfound interest. “We learned from Deadman that the GIW threatened with the annihilation of the realm where all ghosts reside. Many in the magic community saw it as a huge faux pas, to put it lightly. Some feared the constant attacks from this group towards the restless spirits would ignite a turf war of sorts. A common theory is that things escalated enough for the dead to close the connection to our world before it got ugly. Some fear this was entirely the GIW’s handiwork. No one has a straight answer in any case. All our spiritual and ghostly allies have been out of reach since then.”

New theories began to plague the restless mind of the weary vigilante. “So, let’s pretend for a moment there’s still a door for ghosts to come to our world—”

“If there’s something I should know—"

“Hypothetically!” Tim interrupted. “Just… humor me. Do you think a ghost could’ve been able to kill someone without a trace? To get revenge after the threats against them?”

Zatanna eyed him with curiosity. “If there’s a door open, which you should definitely let me know about, any ghost in this part of the world would’ve needed a host of some kind to do that. The only place that had enough ectoplasm to have dangerous ghosts strong enough to attack you is not even registered in most GPS apps. Which works for us: out of sight, out of mind.”

“Like Amity Park,” Tim whispered on reflex.

Zatanna's surprise was more evident at the name of the haunted location. “You’ve heard about Amity Park?”

“You could say that…” he mumbled in response, understating the long hours of research into the rabbit hole that was the alleged small town.

When Babs told Tim about Amity Park, he knew there had to be more to it than meets the eye to the mysterious location. Not enough information was available at first glance. But there were vague traces that could be connected, from odd reviews to the occasional horror podcast, the spooky aspect behind its fame seemed to be augmented by hearsay. For instance, according to a family of ghost hunters from California, the town had it all: ghost legends, haunted houses, spectral readings, chills that ran down your spine, and the oddest sightings to date. Of course, none of those sightings were documented anywhere, all videos taken down from old websites, blogs, and social media pages. Even the files he was able to dig from the deepest corners of the deep web were corrupt enough to crash any server hosting them.

The small town was also not at all small or a town for that matter, but someone worked hard to make it seem like an insignificant blip in everyone’s radar. Tim confirmed this when further hacking into government databases marked Amity Park as a town with enough infrastructure and population to keep its needs covered within city limits. It was also big enough to keep an underground organization like the GIW busy, after all. While some aspects had the distinct mark of government censorship, other casual ghost reports were easily lost among everyday posts. Mere fiction from an outsider’s perspective and therefore labeled as fake news by some external sites.

However, the new picture Tim had pieced together became even more alarming with the information Zatanna had just revealed. But the facts he already learned had enough missing connectors that still left this murder case unsolved. Not to mention, the remaining mystery behind one Danny Jay Nightingale, who against the magic community’s odds held a key link to something considered impossible.

“Well, whatever you found, you’re better off not touching that place with a ten-foot pole,” Zatanna said as she brought the young man back to reality. “Even if their portal is closed, there’s still corrupted energy there. Like an afterimage that was left behind.”

Tim’s brow furrowed in concern. “A portal. You mean… like a real door to access the afterlife?”

The sorceress flipped her braid to the other shoulder and kept a lost look directed at the Gotham skyline. “Yeah, some idiots that were later financed by the GIW thought they could play with the line between life and death and created a door to the realm of ghosts. To study and experiment on them, can you believe that? It makes me think they watched tons of Ghostbusters back in the day.”

The dismay on Tim’s face was immediate. He imagined any of the ghosts Danny had been able to see caged in a Frankenstein-like lab, studied under the microscope. All images of campy B-horror movies came to mind at the mere thought. It all painted a very inhuman picture. “Why did no one stop them?”

Zatanna didn’t turn to look at him. “It was not the right time. Don’t worry about it. Tegrof tuoba eht latrop.”

Unaware of the spell, Tim blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose. While he couldn’t recall part of the conversation, something in his gut told him he was missing more than a few words. “Uh, sorry for zoning out, I think I should get more sleep,” he mumbled before he turned to look at the woman with confusion. “Where were we?”

With a silent gesture, Zatanna gave the shades back to Red Robin. “You should probably let this case go cold. GIW agents are not worth getting involved with.”

Tim looked back at their conversation, to make sense of what he learned and what he still needed to say. Zatanna’s suggestion to let the case go was a good indication that he hadn’t disclosed enough to make her aware of what was at stake. However, something in the back of his mind felt wary about sharing more information about Danny and the people who were now involved in his attempted murder.

The vigilante didn’t pick the glasses from her hand and instead tried to find a new way to approach the situation. “I really need to find a new lead. If trying to see ghosts or looking for any ectoplasm connections is not an option, how about pushing me in the right direction instead?”

“I’m not solving the case for you,” Zatanna deadpanned. “I can’t magically make the answers appear. And even if I rounded up everyone you ever considered as a potential witness to cast the truth out of them—”

“Actually, that doesn’t sound so—”

“I’m not teaming up for this, Red. I have my own ghosts to chase, so to speak,” Zatanna amended with a sad smile. “You shouldn’t go looking into this. But since I’m sure you’ll ignore me, no matter what kind of distraction I try, at least keep me posted if you learn anything we should know about.”

Tim mulled over his options in silence. “I’ll keep that in mind,” was his solemn response.

The sorceress rested a hand on Red Robin’s shoulder and smiled sadly. Tim corresponded the gesture with a small smile of his own, keeping the feeling of defeat under a different kind of mask.

The young man turned to face Zatanna again. “Okay, but would a locator spell to see where these shades were before this guy was murdered would be too much to ask?”

Zatanna rolled her eyes, the moment broken as she removed her hand from the padded shoulder. “Ekat em emoh,” she whispered. As a new portal materialized, she stood up and tossed the shades back to Tim, who caught them with ease. “Do you know what else they call the GIW?” she asked and left a pause lingering. “The Guys in White. Makes you wonder why, when they probably get their hands so dirty, huh?”

The magic visitor walked through the portal without another word and disappeared in the blink of an eye a moment later, leaving the Gotham vigilante with more clues to add to his new conundrum.

After a moment of epiphany, connecting the dots to the unofficial moniker for the ghost-hunting organization, Tim took off to his apartment with a newfound mission and new places to look into. He just hoped the dry cleaners were organized enough to keep their invoices and clients’ addresses digitalized. And if not, it would promise to be a long night.

A part of him wondered if he would be able to put the shades back in Danny’s backpack before he even noticed they were missing.

Chapter Text

There was something odd about his surroundings that Danny somehow noticed before he even opened his eyes. For instance, he registered the feeling of a larger and more comfortable bed than what he had previously slept on in his small studio. The fact that no springs were threatening his back was already a much-appreciated improvement.

The second thing he noticed was the peace that came with silence. No alarms assaulted his eardrums or had needed to be set to snooze. Not that the young half-ghost recalled the phone he left uncharged in his backpack the day before.

As awareness began to claim back its headspace, Danny opened his eyes to find blackout curtains still obscuring the room, which had allowed him to rest without the sun attacking him at the first opportunity. It took him a few moments to realize he was still at the safe house Red Robin had left him in.

The previous night had been somewhat hazy in his mind. His body felt drained after it had used all his remaining energy to heal the wound on his arm. The lack of readily available ectoplasm made the process slower, something he hadn’t realized before he got cut by a sword of unknown origins. Combined with the lack of distractions the room provided, the cup of what he was sure was decaffeinated coffee (blasphemy, in his opinion), and his reluctance to talk to the ghost following him around, Danny was knocked out earlier than he expected.

The medium stretched as he got out of the unfamiliar bed. He was already fully clothed, so he put his shoes on and found his backpack still secure under his pillow; the pain in his neck from the uncomfortable position he kept at night was a terrible reminder of his brilliant bad idea. Although he worried about the state of the sunglasses inside the front pocket, he preferred checking those minute details once he could be away from the Bat-group’s scrutiny.

That’s when he realized there was something else missing: an angry agent yelling at him all the vile ghostly names he had workshopped during his time on the field. It left Danny with one big question hanging in the air: where was Operative K?

He imagined the ghost of the agent was snooping around, hopefully following Red Robin in and out of the apartment.

Reality came crashing down on him when he noticed a shade looming by the bedroom door.

While the half-ghost was not sure about the intricacies of his connection to the afterlife in this new dynamic, there was always something distinctive about each shade that made them recognizable in some way or another. He theorized it might be closely related to his ghost sense, picking up on the faint trace of an ectosignature in the liminal space between worlds.

It was with that certainty that Danny already knew who his shade was, but his disbelief made him tilt his head and squint. “K?”

The white eyes on shades usually showed no acknowledgment, all expression dulled down. It made any communication much more complex and open to many interpretations, which is how Danny had already explored a wide array of methods to better understand the echoes of those who couldn’t move on.

This time, however, the wispy figure floating ominously was very clear as he gave a slow nod. The confirmation from the most difficult ghostly visitor since Danny’s debut as a medium sent a cold chill down his spine.

“Shit,” the young man whispered as his blue eyes widened in fear, millions of thoughts racing through his half-awake mind.

Knowing the rumors surrounding the bats, he wouldn’t put it past any of them to have searched all of his belongings thoroughly, either to hide a tracker or to take whatever they found interesting.

As his anxiety increased, he began to wonder about what other evidence Red Robin or any of his colleagues might have collected. Fears of fingerprints and DNA samples crossed his mind, reminding him of the missing person’s report his family no doubt had filed as soon as he left Amity Park.

For a cold moment frozen in place, Danny wondered how he could have left his guard down to so many dangers.

In one quick motion, he turned his backpack around. “Sure, let’s go with the vigilante, Danny,” the young man grumbled to himself as he searched for what he feared was missing. “It should be safe to trust him, Danny. Why don’t you tell him more about the case, Danny? Why not give him your last name, while you’re at it? I’m sure it’s no big—”

The shade of Operative K cut his words short as he floated in the medium’s personal space. The silent shadow stared at him and seemed to turn his head around as if looking over his shoulder, where nothing of relevance could be seen.

Danny's brows knit together. “What’s the—”

K interrupted again, a dark and foggy arm raised to silence the other man, using the other appendage to point at his ears. The message that someone might be listening was loud and clear.

The medium nodded in understanding, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath to focus on what he needed to do, only summed up for the sake of simplicity: find a way out of this mess.

With more care in his actions and movements, Danny continued to fiddle with the zipper on his front pocket until he confirmed his suspicions. While there was still a pair of sunglasses in his bag, these were a different, regular set.

The GIW glasses were gone.

“Fuck!” Danny exclaimed under his breath, with feeling.

Of course, the situation opened a new can of mysterious worms, with new worries looming over him, such as why Red Robin would want his only connection to the ghostly agent in the first place. All the possible scenarios ran in his head, some less likely than others.

• Red Robin recognized the type of sunglasses from another GIW operative who had a similar pair.
• Red Robin was also a GIW agent before donning his vigilante lifestyle and recognized the tools of the trade.
• Red Robin had an unusual fixation with other people’s eyewear.

While he knew there were other vigilantes with dubious morals running across Gotham’s rooftops, who would not hesitate to steal something from under a presumed victim’s nose, he scratched that idea from the list when he remembered how all vigilantes were operating outside of the law.

But none of these theories made any sense unless he considered…

• Red Robin was much more involved in this case than he let on.

From the few details Danny had gotten from the murder, he recalled how “detective” Draper had mentioned following up this case as a favor for someone else. A group, he specifically mentioned. It occurred to the anxious half-ghost that perhaps the Bats could be included among the list of suspects for that “someone else group”. Perhaps the GIW was not the only threat to his unique existence.

Another part of Danny’s mind fueled his distress with new concerns, mostly regarding how the group of vigilantes might already know about his connection to the other side of the veil. And people knowing that kind of information usually had questions. Questions usually led to looking into far more information about Amity Park than Danny ever cared to share outside of his haunted hometown. Something Alvin Draper had already been toeing close.

His ties to the past he left behind seemed to stretch to whatever distance he went. Danny felt a renewed urge to escape from Gotham despite this, a task now harder to accomplish given the threats to his life the night prior. Added to what could potentially be two more groups after him, including a nearly defunct anti-ghost organization and a brigade of vigilantes who had access to powerful magic users, the odds were not in Danny’s favor no matter what he decided to do.

Despite his inner turmoil, he still found not a single ounce of regret for closing the portal and leaving his old life behind. In the end, while these were inconveniences to keep carrying on his shoulders, his actions were keeping others safe from the impending dangers the Higher Ghost Council posed.

But that was a downward spiral he could go down to revisit later, once he found a place to stay that allowed him to give this case closure for his own sanity, once and for all. For the time being, the half-ghost needed to find an exit.

Summoning any remaining calm and self-assurance, Danny closed his backpack and made sure to not leave anything behind. He was careful not to unsettle any of the dust that was heavily covering most of the surfaces. Another thought he could overanalyze in the future.

On his way out, he decided to snoop inside the closet where Red Robin had grabbed the blankets, deducing he might have picked up the fake shades from there. His intuition was rewarded with the sight of clothes of different sizes and a few accessories he could use to keep a more discreet appearance outside.

Once he found a cap and jacket that would fit him on top of his current clothes, ready to hide from the assassins at the very least, he was about to emerge from the small closet when a new thought occurred to him: even if he managed to walk through the front door, he would rely on the hope that no one would follow his movements once he left the safe house. But, as he realized a place belonging to the famous Gotham vigilantes would find more bugs than a small ant colony, he remembered that both hope and luck had abandoned his side some time ago.

Ideas of locked doors, heavy surveillance, and even nosy neighbors peeking through peepholes filled his head with a new wave of paranoia. Danny concluded he was essentially trapped until Red Robin or some other vigilante came along.

Unless one took into account the benefits and downfalls of the unique physiology of one half-ghost man.

Danny knew this was probably not his brightest plan, but bad decisions were usually all that were left whenever he felt cornered, something he knew he’d regret at some point in the near future.

The shade that had been following him loomed over his shoulder, as if sensing a disaster about to happen.

With a pointed glare and a firm gesture with his head, Danny signaled the vague presence of Operative K to follow him outside of the unsafe house. Taking a deep breath, Danny decided to use one of the last cards under his borrowed sleeve: an unorthodox “get out of jail free” card. Turning intangible and invisible, he phased through the closet door until he reached the hallway, then the stairs, then the bottom floor, until the rancid smell of Gotham’s streets was once again supplying new ways to obscure his judgment.

The question now looming over him was: how safe would he be when he eventually solved the murder and tried to find a way out of the cursed city?

Despite having very few things left under his name, Danny did have some important items he couldn’t carry around everywhere: a small bag with mementos from his life in Amity Park, a frozen syringe with an emergency dose of purified ectoplasm, an empty Fenton Thermos, and a small notebook where he kept any relevant phone numbers and codes he knew he’d forget otherwise.

When he figured early on during his arrival to Gotham that it wouldn’t be a wise idea to leave these items in the small studio he rented in The Cauldron either, he knew he needed a good hiding spot for his prized possessions. The séance room in The Shadow Parlor provided a unique cloaking opportunity.

After a stressful walk around the city, hidden under the last-minute attempt to disguise his features and spending a long time trying to figure out where Red Robin had left him stranded, Danny found himself hours later entering the store invisibly through the unofficial back entrance, in case he needed to explain his presence if the owner caught him inside.

As silent as the half-ghost he was trying not to be, Danny snuck into a narrow corridor through a hidden door in the alley, surrounded by the foul stench of dumpsters and discarded debris from an old rogue attack. He imagined many stories behind the door’s existence, ranging from being part of a former speak-easy to an old goon hangout. In any case, the owner of the magic shop, Mr. Olivander, had graciously shared the secret exit-turned-entrance with Danny, only explaining how he could use it to escape from robbers, various villains, and even "whatever weird past you’re running from.”

Sticking to the shadows at The Shadow Parlor, he emerged from the back of an old closet door to the sight of various new shades wandering around the shop. The place looked oddly bright for the time of the day, as if natural light had been let inside the heavy metal curtains. Mr. Olivander usually didn’t open the store unless Danny was guaranteed to be there, and the man had allowed his most sought-after medium to open at noon as long as he closed the store in the evening.

Something in the young man’s gut churned and he decided to take slow and silent steps into the open space. While normally Danny didn’t get scared of things that go bump in the night, he did have a completely rational fear of guys who jumped him in the day, mostly those of the white-suited variety. His cautious steps took him to the front of the store, where he noticed there was no one waiting behind a bookshelf and there were no booby traps set in the form of nets or laser beams.

No item in the store seemed out of place, either. Unless he took into account the “Open” sign blinking. He had always suspected a faulty wire behind the odd light, but as he noticed the unplugged cable, the luminescent red from the “n” and “O” letters seen from behind seemed like a solid warning.

His eyes darted to the floor, where he noticed Mr. Olivander’s peculiar bulky set of keys that put Walker’s to shame. As he picked them up, Danny tried to make sense of the scene before him: the half-open door, the warning lights, the keys—

“Oh, thank heavens you’re safe, boy!” Mr. Olivander suddenly called from behind Danny, making the medium almost jump in surprise. The younger man clutched at his chest and closed his eyes with a sigh before turning to face his employer.

“You scared me half to the rest of death, Mister—”

Danny’s words died on his lips as he took stock of the whole situation. Or, more precisely, the nature of it. Concerned greenish-blue eyes landed on the owner of the magic store, the same gentle gestures visible on the now-translucent face of the old man who floated four inches above the floor.

“What happened to you?” Danny breathed.

Mr. Olivander pulled out his pipe, the faint smell of its tobacco reaching the medium from the other side of the liminal space the ghost now resided in. “Don’t worry about me, boy. I’m more concerned about what could still happen to you."

The words reminded the medium about the signs of things amiss inside the shop, or the lengths he had gone to just to reach the establishment, or the vigilante who stole his only connection to Operative K, or the attempted murder the night before.

Danny straightened up and turned around to make sure they were alone and safe. Not paying any attention to the unlocked door, which for once he wouldn’t entirely regret later. Keeping a more cautious approach to the rest of his actions, he walked with silent and calculated steps toward the counter.

Where he found Mr. Olivander’s body, murder weapon nowhere in sight.

“Okay, that answers one question,” Danny muttered, his eyes searching for other clues that could lead to who the culprits were. He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “Oh, man, I’m going to get blamed for this, aren’t I?”

Mr. Olivander huffed in response, floating closer to the shade of Operative K as if inspecting the rare sight. “Nonsense! I’m surprised no one has had enough mind to ask about the cameras inside the shop. Just show them the footage.”

Danny turned slowly with a blank stare, the absurd murder scene almost forgotten in the background as silence reigned in the room. “The what now?”

The shop owner pulled the pipe from his lips and squinted at the medium. “You never noticed the camera? How do you think I knew you weren’t just an act, magic intuition?”

Despite the snark and large arsenal of humor as a coping mechanism Danny had grown used to have at his disposal to handle any situation, the loss of words became his only ally while conjuring up a response for his former boss. He had wondered many times in the past eight months how the owner of the shop had decided to trust his medium skills, despite the unexplainable lack of reliable fortune tellers and spiritists in such a haunted city.

As old memories were reframed with this new knowledge, Danny sighed in defeat (he wondered what was one more to his growing collection?). “Thanks for not telling anyone about me. I hope.”

The man tried to pat Danny on the shoulder, a gesture that only made part of his incorporeal hand go through solid matter, something that didn’t faze him in the least. “It’s the least I could do to someone who gave new life to my nearly bankrupt business,” Mr. Olivander replied with a wink.

Danny gave the lifeless body of the old man one last look. New life, indeed. The sad smile he exchanged with the ghost beside him held a silent promise to find justice and peace for the fallen shopkeeper. Justice that would start with the search for Danny’s hidden treasures locked beneath the old wooden floor of the séance room.

With newfound purpose, Danny walked towards the mystical room, pushing aside the beady curtain to enter. “So, anything you can tell me about your murder?” Danny asked as he looked around for anything else out of place. Unspoken theories suddenly filled his head when he clutched the set of keys he had found moments ago. “I’ve kinda been doing detective work in my free time. I’ve picked a few things here and there, but all I could tell was that you tried to open the shop earlier than usual, so a little help would be greatly appreciated.”

The shop owner hummed thoughtfully with another small puff of his ghostly pipe, an image that reminded Danny of a particular Alice in Wonderland character. “I came to pick a few items a friend had asked for personally. Imagine my surprise when I saw we already had visitors inside. They didn’t seem the friendly type, though.”

That gave Danny pause. Because in his experience as a runaway for almost a year, he had found that non-friendly people could mean many things: the resident gang in The Cauldron, the cops, whatever rogue that decided to hit Gotham this week, the neighbor who kept glaring at Danny when they met at the stairs, the dubious government operatives hunting down ectoplasmic entities, and now some unknown group of contract killers who got too close for Danny’s comfort.

“People? As in plural?” he asked after making sure he had his nonchalant voice ready. “Do you, uh, have any idea who they were? What they wore? Any secret handshakes or their full ID and whereabouts?”

Mr. Olivander rubbed his chin in thought, taking an invisible seat by the séance table. “Hmm, there were three of them. All wearing black. I’m pretty sure one had a feminine silhouette, but they moved very fast—”

“Lemme guess…” Danny interrupted, his tone as tense as his muscles. “She had a blade of some kind?”

The ghost stared in surprise, oblivious to the way the air began to shift with the growing distress his young companion was experiencing. “Huh, didn’t know you were a clairvoyant, too. But yes, a very sharp blade, I must say.”

“I guess I’m not clairvoyant enough or I’d seen that coming,” Danny muttered.

With the knowledge that the weapon that had given him a souvenir the night before was most likely the same one that had ended his boss’s life, Danny took a deep breath and decided to tackle one problem at a time. With ‘time’ being a key element he currently lacked, Danny wasted none of it. In one swift motion, he kneeled next to the séance table and phased his hand through the floor, reaching as far as his arm could get to reclaim the hidden box he came looking for.

“Ah, that explains so much and so little at the same time,” Mr. Olivander commented, curious shades surrounding the scene with interest, except for one that Danny identified as K’s hovering by the beady curtain.

“If you’re still around, I can probably explain as much as I can,” Danny commented as he focused his ghostly energy on the task at hand, so to speak.

“Oh, trust me, my boy. You have much to explain,” Mr. Olivander continued, his glowing green eyes staring curiously at the scene. “I believe they were looking for you if you were already acquainted with them.”

As the medium pulled out his prized container from beneath the floor, he checked its contents no longer paying attention to the ghost floating by his side. “Yup, that’s me. Getting really popular in Gotham lately. They were also following me last night and—wait…” Danny paused and squinted at the older man. “Is this room also bugged?”

Mr. Olivander huffed with indignation. “Of course not. I do respect our clients’ privacy, mind you.”

Danny continued looking through the box as he shook his head. “I still can’t believe you had cameras in here. I could’ve gotten rid of the detective that first time he came here if I had known.”

As the medium opened his backpack to rearrange his belongings, his mind tried not to drift back to the stab he had felt on the back from his former companion. While Draper’s true intentions were still a bigger mystery than the two murder scenes now closely related to Danny, there wasn’t much that could be done without firm evidence.

Unaware of the silent turmoil, Mr. Olivander smiled a knowing smile. “Ahhh, the young man who came looking for you to solve murders?”

“Or cover them, maybe,” Danny muttered darkly, as he tried to close his backpack without much success.

“What was that?” came the uncomfortable question from the shopkeeper, making even Operative K’s shade perk once more with interest.

If there was one thing the medium was sure of, it was that he would prefer to avoid this particular can of worms. But as the box inside his backpack refused to budge, he huffed with resignation at another battle temporarily lost.

“I’m… I’m not sure I can trust him,” Danny replied softly as he allowed his guard to fall just this once. “Or anyone, for that matter.”

The weight of the past 24 hours rushed back in a swirl of emotions he was not prepared to process. Not with the threat of new enemies worming their way into Danny’s ever-growing DNI list. It occurred to Danny that Gotham was no longer a sanctuary if he couldn’t even trust its vigilantes.

“I’m hurt, Danny,” the disappointed tone in Mr. Olivander’s voice broke his train of thought before it reached the next gloomy station in its path. Danny looked up to see the sincere concern in the man’s haunted look. “Do you know why I never said a word about your absences?”

“Because you knew full shifts and minimum wage were sucking my soul dry and that was enough of a punishment?” Danny deadpanned if only to push down the lump that had been forming in his throat.

The ghost lowered himself closer to the floor where Danny sat half-paralyzed. “I knew the tips weren’t enough,” the man mumbled to himself. “But no, that was not it, Danny. It’s because I knew you needed someone on your side.”

Danny tilted his head in consideration. “Thanks, I guess? But, no offense, Mr. Olivander… turning a blind eye would hardly be the same as knowing I could trust you.”

“True, true,” the man considered with another puff of his ghostly pipe. “But please know I always intended to help and sometimes help can come silently. Like when I kept those agents off your back.”

The sudden shift in temperature went unnoticed by ghostly the shopkeeper. Blue eyes widened as they turned to the shade of one GIW operative who had been following the medium around. “Agents?” Danny echoed. K remained floating by the beady curtain, his white gaze unwavering despite the revelation.

Mr. Olivander ignored the silent exchange as a proud smile graced his lips. “Oh, yes, I can hardly recall the initials they gave. But they were some rude fellows wearing white suits. They came into the shop a few days ago saying they wanted to know who was talking to ghosts in my shop. It was during one of those days you went out in a ‘family emergency’ and I had to handle things alone. I remember because we had a large supply of products that had just arrived and—”

As the shopkeeper reminisced minor details of that day’s shipment, Danny’s thoughts drifted away. He ran a hand through his hair and vaguely wondered if it would start going white by sheer stress. From what the half-ghost had feared since he found Operative K, if the GIW had been in the city and they had any suspicion about Danny’s new job, they could figure out his connection to spectral entities and his role in closing the portals. Or more accurately a singular portal in a familiar basement, as far as they were concerned.

Another part of him reasoned that the link to the Fenton Ghost Portal could be also inferred from his unexpected disappearance from Amity Park, but his identity as Phantom or any of the other more dubious connections to the Ghost Zone could still be intact.

Despite what he tried to reason with logic, he needed to make sure.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt but, can we get back on track?” Danny asked.

The ghost of the much older man chuckled. “Oh, of course. My point stands: you were never alone.”

Danny pushed down any dark remarks about never being alone since he pushed that fateful button inside his parents’ portal. Instead, he shot the man a grateful smile and focused on the concerning revelation. “Thanks? But, uh, about these guys in white… what else can you tell me about them? Did they ask anything in particular?”

The medium made a mental note of how K decided to turn his attention to the shop’s entrance, seeming to ignore the conversation.

“They just mentioned wanting to look into possible leads for a murder case, but when I told them my medium’s Ouija board had broken, they lost any interest. Even called you a phony.” Mr. Olivander chuckled, but his mirth was soon replaced by concern. “I do wonder the kind of life you lead to have ghosts, government agents, and assassins looking for you.”

Before Danny could form any self-deprecating reply, the sound of a bell half-chiming by the entrance froze him on the spot. When he heard a faint “shit” uttered by a very familiar voice, Danny confirmed he was no longer the only living person in the establishment. In fact, this particular visitor made things much more complicated.

“Looks like your friend came looking for you,” Mr. Olivander called out, with a teasing tone the medium felt unable to decipher.

Danny went immediately invisible, not before gesturing at the ghost to remain silent, even if the only one who had to do so was the medium keeping his powers hidden from the world.

Making sure to also keep his steps as light and intangible as possible, Danny moved towards the entrance where, sure enough, “Detective” Alvin Draper was inspecting the scene with worry coloring his features.

The unexpected sight of his former companion made all kinds of emotions emerge within the wary half-ghost. Danny tried to recall their last interaction and the connections Draper had already found to Amity Park. Aside from the darker shade of the bags under his eyes, there were no other obvious changes. No dropped pretenses or evil cackle to allow Danny to confirm the man’s evil intentions.

Operative K’s shade floated uncomfortably close to the unwanted visitor, as if casting a curse on the so-called detective.

Draper pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen in quick succession before pulling the device closer to his ear. The call didn’t take long to connect.

“Hey, uh, Babs?” Draper walked around the shopkeeper’s body to look at it from different angles. “Yeah, hi. Right, sorry, I know…” there was a pause as Draper stared at the cut made by the blade, for once not daring to mess with the evidence. “No, no time to expl—I know, stop teasing me about it. I found a dead body here.”

The lack of mention of Draper’s whereabouts raised major red flags in Danny’s head: someone else already knew about the magic shop.

Mr. Olivander floated next to Draper and leaned his head close to where the “detective” held his phone, no trace of subtlety as he eavesdropped on the call. “Oh, the woman in the call sounds so tired, poor thing,” the ghost commented.

Danny wanted to ignore the remark and the conversation altogether. He wanted to run from his former partner and follow his plan of leaving Gotham, murder case be damned. But the more he listened to the private conversation, the more he realized he didn’t feel conflicted about going back to his past snooping methods. He wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery no matter what risks it took.

“Yeah,” Draper continued. “Uh, is there a way you can tell your—oh, thanks. Yeah, I’ve got a lead, but I don’t think it’s him—” Danny squinted at the pronoun. Draper suddenly stood up and looked around with wide eyes. “Wait, what? What footage?”

The so-called detective paused his visual sweep as he turned towards the “Open” sign, walking closer to it until he removed the small power box attached to the “O”. Danny watched in disbelief as Draper opened the box and pulled out a smaller device from inside it: a nanny cam.

“Oh, man, you gotta be kidding me,” Draper groaned and effectively voiced Danny’s thoughts as he turned the offending camera in his hand.

“Ah, smart boy,” Mr. Olivander complimented with a chuckle.

Danny remained motionless by the entrance of the séance room, cold arms hugging his half-open backpack closer to his chest. Of all moments to cling to his powers, he hoped his invisibility wouldn’t fail him now.

“Just the last 24 hours? How convenient,” Draper muttered as he put the camera in a pocket of his jacket. “No, I’ll see what I can recover from the memory card. I know, but… Is it too much to ask to keep B off his back?” There was a slight scoff followed by an exasperated eye-roll. “Fine, tease me all you want. Yeah, that’s all I’m asking. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

Before Draper had finished his call, theories began to form in Danny’s head, with important questions raised the more he thought about why Draper had decided to look for him here and now.

He got his answer moments later when the detective tapped away on his phone. Danny held his breath when Draper walked closer as he looked at a map with a mark pointing to the shop’s location.

Draper stared at it confused and stopped right where Danny had been standing invisibly, his sharp eyes scanning the area and turning towards the ceiling as if it would hold the answer he was looking for.

Cold dread pooled in Danny’s gut as the dots began to connect. The reminder of who else the detective could be working for reminded him of all the measures the medium had taken earlier that day to escape an obscure location in Gotham.

Not wasting another second after the newfound concern, Danny flew upwards, aiming for the roof where we hoped to find some momentary privacy.

As soon as he dropped the hold on his powers, a mental timer began and the half-ghost rushed to check anything in his belongings that might have been bugged or tracked. Old memories of one crazed-up fruitloop keeping tabs on his every move came rushing back to the front of his mind.

He was so lost in his mission to find a tracking device that he didn’t notice he still had ghostly company. As he took his shoes off to check for anything hidden inside, he jumped when he heard Mr. Olivander give out a low whistle.

“Oh, well, I’ll be damned,” the man commented behind Danny. “I can’t say I’m surprised that you already caught the attention of our local vigilantes.”

Danny froze and felt any remaining life left in him drain at those words. “The bats are here?” he whispered in horror, not looking forward to having to explain two murders or mysterious powers that could get him on the Justice League’s radar.

Mr. Olivander, however, shook his head with a solemn expression. “No, but it seems they’ll be here soon. Check your sweatshirt.”

It took the medium a fraction of a second to phase his hoodie off to inspect it. True to the shop owner’s words, a tracker could be seen close to the neckline on the back. His thoughts made another mad dash to find when this device could have been planted, but there had been so many moments in the past few weeks that it was entirely possible he had been followed the whole time.

The question now was: why would the dubious detective Draper have access to the device’s location? Was that how Red Robin got to his whereabouts the night before? Or was there any other party involved in this invasive surveillance he should be concerned about?

Without preamble, Danny squashed the tracker between his thumb and his index finger, relishing the small sound of crunching of plastic.

As Danny sat paralyzed for the umpteenth time during his visit to The Shadow Parlor, with no idea of what to do next or how to process the string of revelations that morning had brought, he realized he needed a moment to breathe and think.

Even if thinking led him to realize he needed to do things he promised himself he wouldn’t do again.

There was movement in the corner of his eye as Operative K’s shadow approached the medium’s backpack, white eyes focused on the box halfway out of the bag. A box that contained Danny’s last reminders of the half-life he led before he ran away and decided to perform his role under the cover of Gotham’s shadows and grime.

Before he became a prey who needed to hide, or the victim vigilantes needed to save, Danny had been someone stronger. Someone who had stepped up to face the likes of ghost kings and delusional billionaires. He had been the protector stuck in the middle of a bigger conflict between ghosts and humans than anyone had realized existed.

No matter how much he wanted to hide, Danny knew he still had a responsibility to those he left in the dark.

With renewed energy running under his skin, aching for release or perhaps mixing up his flight or fight response, Danny was reminded of the power he held to put an end to this situation before any other innocent lives were lost in the crossfire.

The sound of footsteps nearing the rooftop access made any lingering hesitation disappear, picking up his belongings and allowing his invisibility to hide his presence from the newcomer.

Alvin Draper stepped into the open space, his eyes focused on the spot Danny had just been standing on. Or, more precisely, on the broken tracker under his feet. The “detective” kneeled and cursed under his breath. Draper’s look of defeat and the hand tugging at his dark locks didn’t give Danny the impression of a villain’s plan foiled, but rather hopelessness as the last connection to the medium was lost.

Curiosity got the best of the half-ghost hiding in plain sight, another bad idea forming in his head before he could think the consequences through.

Perhaps some invisible surveillance was the kind of poetic justice this case was missing.

Chapter Text

There was something odd about this case that Tim Drake could not shake off. Something nagging at the back of his mind, like an item he kept forgetting to add to his grocery list.

The feeling had begun after his talk with Zatanna. At first, he reasoned it was due to the contrasting information warring in his mental corkboard for a more privileged spot. But as the day progressed, with a disappearing act at the safe house and a murder scene at The Shadow Parlor, the wariness grew stronger, haunting him with every step he took.

A part of Tim knew this case was getting to his head. Weeks spent chasing ghosts with Danny Nightingale, in an almost literal sense, had proven that there was more to a crime scene than what official reports had to show. Invisible threads became available with the supernatural help of the medium. Tim’s worldview shifted with the knowledge of spirits lingering for a sense of closure, perhaps even looking over his shoulder to see how close to the truth the detective was getting. Despite feeling so isolated in this pursuit for answers, the ghosts Tim imagined around him made the search less lonely.

Small comforts were all he had left for the kind of day he had endured so far; a day filled with high tensions that had only just begun.

After the fiasco at the magic shop, where he found the broken tracker that used to be on Danny’s hoodie, Tim decided to leave the scene to look for more clues on his partner’s whereabouts. Preferably away from the prying eyes of the GCPD, who were already on their way thanks to a call from Barbara Gordon.

Of course, finding Danny Nightingale would be easier said than done. After all, the medium turned out to be sneakier than Tim had thought. While the detective had half-expected Danny to run away from the safe house, the methods that led to his disappearance were still an enigma. None of the hallway cameras were able to detect how he escaped the apartment; the locks were also untouched, and there were no signs of any external interference either. The strange occurrence made Tim feel like a part of a bigger scheme to gaslight any coherence out of this case.

The Shadow Parlor was an even odder scene. Tim was led to the medium’s workplace with the help of the now-broken tracker. But instead of finding Nightingale scrambling to grab any belongings left at the shop, Tim found a dead shopkeeper and more mysteries to solve. For all Tim knew, Danny could already be at the mercy of the same attackers from the night before.

In which case, Tim would have lost more than a lead to solve the string of murders. It would mean he had also lost a friend to the claws of death.

The vigilante found himself in an aimless walk through The Cauldron’s alleys, sneaking away from the crime scene as the sound of a siren drifted closer to the neighborhood. As he followed the cover of the few early morning shadows, he reached a dead end, in the more literal sense. Surrounded by damaged bricks and the stench of garbage, he leaned against one of the alley’s walls to quieten his thoughts.

Moments later, Tim held his phone to try another option, opening a different tracking application to use the other ace up his sleeve: the phone he had given Danny weeks ago, where he had also included a tracker. He hoped the signal didn’t lead him back to the magic shop, which would mean he had run out of connections to reach Nightingale.

The screen loaded to show the device was offline, apparently out of battery. The location, however, was wrong. Tim scrunched his eyebrows in concern and reloaded the application one more time, showing no change in the coordinates. He turned his phone off and on again, clearing the cache, and tweaking a few options to reset his signal. But the pin on the map remained unmoving.

Unless there were concerning things happening underneath The Cauldron, Tim was certain the tracker should not have been pointing to the alley he was currently at.

A slight breeze fit for colder days settled around the detective, chilling his bones until his muscles felt numb. He considered for a moment if this was life’s way of setting a firm boundary and asking him to leave a case alone. After all, the missed clues, the lost opportunities, and the less literal dead ends had only traced a path of failure. He no longer knew what the point was in holding so many threads on the pinboard if he couldn’t materialize concrete evidence or even keep his partner safe.

Not for the first time, Tim wondered if he was losing his touch. There was no True Crime blog that could replace the intel he usually received from Oracle. No tablet filled with cold cases from the GCPD that could measure to the Batcave’s computer. And while he had enough tech and trinkets to survive and even surpass conventional Bat-grade reasoning, the fact of the matter was simple: he was not used to working alone.

He missed bouncing jokes and insults alike with his siblings; or the camaraderie in missions with his former Young Justice team. And a part of him even missed the snarky exchanges with the elusive Nightingale.

But now he was on his own. This was the path he had chosen after he pushed everyone and everything away.

Tim also pushed away his unresolved existential crisis, taking a deep breath to focus on the mission at hand: getting the case back on track.

With Danny gone and the two murders so closely related to him, Tim knew he had to consider other players in the equation. In other words, his only hope to find Danny would be to figure out his connection to the GIW, which meant finding the mysterious organization first.

Fortunately, Zatanna did give him a good place to start.

It was still too early to call it a day, and too late to have any patience left. Tim felt any lingering energy leaving him as he waited in the rented car, parked outside the fifth dry-cleaning service he had visited after the scene at The Shadow Parlor.

After running an algorithm to trace any location close enough to where the dead GIW agent had been seen last, Tim compiled a much shorter list of potential dry-cleaning services used by the organization. He was almost at the end of the rope, with not much time left to do some proper surveillance or break into each business. So, for his daylight stakeout to be a success, he needed one of two things to happen: a) follow any white-suited agents who walked in, or b) hope the people running the establishment were much more open to sharing a client’s address than the last four dry-cleaners he visited.

After about forty minutes of observing the beats of the foot traffic at the dry cleaners, Tim decided to take advantage of the empty business to find a new lead through mere conversation. This time, with a slight twist in how he presented himself.

To gather new information, Tim needed to make sure he wouldn’t be easily traced. As far as he knew, whoever was after Danny and the murdered GIW agent, already knew what Alvin Draper looked like. Perhaps even what Tim Drake looked like, considering he had not done his best to hide his features under his most recent alias. His presence at the right dry cleaners could potentially lead to a new target on Danny’s head or make the ones behind the whole situation aware of Tim’s next moves.

He needed to be someone else for this mission, someone who wouldn’t be easily identified or even confused for Danny Nightingale, if one considered their overall black-haired, blue-eyed similarities. He knew he had to be versatile, and fluid in a way that allowed him to feel more comfortable with any given scenario. And right now, he needed the reassurance behind another well-crafted identity.

Which led to reclaiming an old identity he hadn’t been able to use in a long while.

Caroline Hill, also known as Tim Drake when not on this kind of undercover mission, walked towards the spotless counter of the small dry-cleaning business. To anyone who asked about the young but no-nonsense woman who had just shown up, she was a new temporary agent transferred from Illinois to help the GIW in a new operation—or so the background said on paper. Tim had worked well into the night a few months ago to have a backup for different aliases in case he ever required to depart from being Alvin Draper.

“May I help you with something?” an older woman behind the counter asked as the new potential customer arrived.

Tim adjusted the ordinary sunglasses he hoped were enough to resemble any regular agent’s look. After all, he hadn’t had a chance to go back to his apartment to get the real GIW shades he left behind. “Hi, yes, I came looking for some suits my idiot partners forgot to pick up.”

The business owner picked up a hardcover notebook next to the old-fashioned register and looked through the pages. “Hmmm, we don’t have any pending suits for pickup. Lemme check if we had a recent one.” The old woman took her time to pass her index finger over the different lines on its pages, scouring through different items she and her family had meticulously registered by hand.

While Tim mused about the different options left if this turned out to be another dead end, a chill ran down his spine, a sudden breeze he hadn’t expected during this time of the year. His more pessimistic side told him this was an impending cold after all the stress he had endured more recently. Another part told him this was his paranoia imagining ghosts that were not there; he could never really detect their presence even with Danny around, after all.

“Ah, I see,” the owner muttered. “Delivered yesterday. Everything was in order. No picking up.”

Tim clicked his tongue. “How did you even know what kind of suits I was looking for without asking?”

The older woman stared unimpressed. “Honey, no one wears suits nowadays. You’re talking about the white suits, yeah?” The judgmental stare at the white blouse and pants Tim wore was enough to prove her point.

The mere recognition of the white suits was enough for Tim to call this trip a success. At the very least, this would give him more information to look into the GIW formally than he had before, without taking a trip to Illinois or trying to hack an impossible database neither Babs nor he could decipher.

Tim nodded, pushing down the satisfying smirk that would ruin his single break in the case. He adjusted his expression to a scowl, letting some annoyance slip into his deadpan tone. “So, you’re telling me they didn’t come to pick them up like I asked them to? They asked for your delivery service?”

The woman left her book on the counter and paid no attention to it. If Tim had been quick enough, he would’ve been able to see the address and go from there. “I don’t know what to tell you, sweetheart. That’s been the instruction since your—goons?” Tim scoffed and the woman shook her head with a defensive hand gesture. “I don’t even want to know, none of my business. I’ve lived long enough in this neighborhood to know the deal. But yes, we’ve always done delivery for your minions. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Tim decided not to lose momentum on the situation, a plan now forming in his head. “If the suits are still not at the office, then I suspect they didn’t make it to the right destination, hence why I asked them to do this in person.”

The old woman stared again. “I think I know what’s going on here.” She smiled knowingly at the confused customer. “You’re snooping around, aren’t you?”

Although Tim had experience with being on the spot in the past, the outcome of the conversation so far was not one he had expected. With pursed lips, the undercover detective refused to give in to the accusation. “I only need to make sure the missing suits are in their right location.”

Despite his efforts to remain calm and collected, there was no change in the woman’s smile as she leaned closer to the counter. “I told you I’ve lived here long enough to know what goes around. Word of advice? This is a safe place. I don’t go looking for trouble and nobody brings any trouble.”

“I think you got the wrong idea,” Tim replied with a glare behind his dark sunglasses. “I’m not looking for trouble of any kind. I’m just verifying information for—”

“Look, blondie,” the owner interrupted, making the detective softly scoff 'blondie?’ as he tried to remember the color of his current wig. It was not, in fact, blonde. “I don’t go asking around for information, I don’t go out of my way sharing any secrets. That’s why my clients trust me, alright? You see that sign over there?”

Tim turned to see the contents of said sign, the prominent ‘Keeping things clean for 52 Years!’ glaring back in stylized letters. A long time in the neighborhood indeed.

“You don’t stay open for so long in Gotham unless you’re a snotty Wayne heir or have a place people actually want to keep safe, you get me?”

A thousand thoughts to reply to that statement flew quickly in Tim’s head, the irony not lost on him. He figured this would take a different kind of approach, one that required a higher level of stealth mode in the form of a vigilante persona, as well as more breaking and entering than he expected this case to require, despite the precious time it would take.

The sensation of being watched felt more intense, but he blamed his growing wariness on the long-standing establishment and the protection it apparently had from different groups in the area.

With a heavy sigh, Tim cleared his throat and gave one last try to this approach. “Look,” he began slowly, the woman paying close attention. “I’m only looking for an address. I’m not sure how many lives are on the line if I don’t get to this place on time, and—”

The woman flinched. “Okay,” she blurted, her tone higher than a minute ago.

Tim stared in complete bewilderment at her sudden shift in attitude, analyzing every movement as she opened the book and put a finger on top of the address, tapping on the handwriting a couple of times. She struggled to get the words out, “Six… Eight… Four… Englehart Drive.”

Following the lucky streak, as it turned out, the detective recognized the building, located near Otisburg, an area he knew well as a former vigilante and as a Wayne adoptee.

Before he could offer his thanks in response to the generous information he received, Tim noticed something odd about the owner’s expression. A tense atmosphere began to fall into place, filling each muscle with dread and anticipation that felt almost foreign. A smile that looked all wrong appeared on the woman’s lips, seemingly fueled by the shift, turning almost as unnerving as the blank stare she now possessed. “We don’t speak of this again. You won’t ask for any other information, got it?”

Tim, who was used to all kinds of intimidation tactics, would not allow himself to be perturbed by the sudden eeriness. With a slight smile tugging at his lips, he let some Robin-grade sass spill over his undercover persona. “What information?”

The woman’s eerie behavior remained, adding a new touch of curiosity to the odd stare. “Good.” Her short reply was soon followed by a more somber look. “You better be careful, detective. Hell knows what you’ll find there.”

As soon as the ominous words were spoken, something like a curse was lifted and the woman’s body relaxed. She blinked a couple of times before she glared at the young man. “So, no. I won’t share any information,” she said with accusation heavy in her words. “End of story!”

With a loud thud, she closed the book in her hands and put it away from view. For a moment, he thought this was part of the inconspicuous act to keep her customers safe. But once again, there was something off about the situation.

In the end, Tim decided not to make additional remarks that could lead to the woman to change her mind and call for backup. “Thanks, anyway,” he replied.

Without further ado, Tim walked back to the car, feeling eyes heavily following him during the short trek. It made him wonder once again if there were goons actively guarding the place just in case someone decided to make a mess of it.

He decided that would no longer be his problem, at least as soon as he found a place to leave Caroline behind and anything associated with her visit to this side of the West End. He would just have to ignore the nagging in the back of his head as he drove to his next stop.

He still had to wonder, though, if the woman had called him a detective out of the blue or because she knew more than she let on.

Before Tim could get to the Ghost Intelligence Ward’s current office, there were certain measures he needed to take to prepare for his visit. Like making sure he wasn’t being followed after his trip to the dry cleaners, which led him to take 37 tactical turns around the city to lose anyone on his tail and two vehicle changes. Just in case.

After making sure the coast was as clear as his vigilante standards would allow, he made a quick stop at his apartment to pick up some supplies for the next part of the plan. He considered, if only briefly, taking the GIW-grade shades he borrowed from Nightingale. But there was the risk that, a) other GIW agents would be able to recognize somehow the missing glasses, and b) his luck would lead him to Danny and Tim would give away his connection to Red Robin.

While Tim wasn’t sure how the ghostly connection through objects worked, he was not willing to risk having the shades too close to Danny, knowing they could lead him to more danger.

The reminder led him to check the faulty tracker once again, hoping it would go back online at some point or another. After a minute of staring at the tracker slightly moving on the map, Tim found it still pointed to his current location. Throughout the day, that continued being the trend, which made the detective wonder if he was carrying the hidden tracker somewhere. The change in clothes and vehicles, however, proved otherwise.

The former Robin decided to do what he was best trained to do: compartmentalize and shift his focus back to the mission. In this case, following the lead from the odd owner of the dry-cleaning service.

From everything Tim had learned in the last few weeks, which wasn’t much, the Ghost Intelligence Ward, aka the GIW, was the epitome of what one would call a “shady” organization. If his past as one of the multiple Robins under Batman’s wing had taught him something, it was how to be well aware of the different signs of concern that would lead to a full investigation. So far, the GIW had checked more than a few boxes.

✅ Location not registered in official records under the organization’s name.

Two illegal downloads of city blueprints and a fake call pretending to be a delivery service later, Tim made sure to have all that he needed to access the building when the time was just right. He even donned a white suit and a natural bald cap, to blend with most of the agents depicted in the few sites for the GIW he found with Babs.

The meticulous but quick planning led Tim to wait outside of the building in a different car, trying to find any security vulnerabilities with his tablet, in the hopes to “Mission: Impossible” his way into the GIW premises. The time spent looking into the offices was not as quick or efficient as he would have liked. For starters, there seemed to be many more employees than he expected at first, making any plan to infiltrate unseen a bit more difficult. A quick check for any mobile devices nearby had brought up more active signals than what he expected from such a small and limited organization.

The Bat-grade alarms in his head blared with the implications that discovery had brought.

✅ Undisclosed number of employees.

✅ Unusual use of underground levels.

✅ Too many safety measures for a half-defunct organization.

If the GIW were as bureaucratic as they sounded, Tim figured he would see an important decline in activity by five o’clock. However, when none of the mobile devices in the building moved out of the premises by then, he knew there wouldn’t be much choice but to enter amidst the multiple agents around.

✅ Sketchy agents in apparent need of a union.

In the good old days, Tim would have waited for the cover of the night, breaking in as Red Robin by using any number of methods taught by older Bats and Birds. The comfort of the night not only allowed them to have a higher stealth mode against criminals, but it also increased their urban legend status among citizens in one fell swoop.

But there was no time to waste when there were two murders to solve and a price on Nightingale’s head.

Tim’s infiltration would not be as stealthy or quiet as he hoped, especially since he required closer access to the GIW’s security infrastructure to render their surveillance completely useless. The closest access, however, was approaching the front desk to leave a signal jammer he designed to discreetly freeze all the cameras, alarms, as well as satellite and cloud services.

He hoped his last-minute disguise would keep him clear of suspicion. While he would focus on physical and digital archives rather than other more open spaces, accessing the building was part of the first hurdle as he entered the lobby.

A tall black man sitting behind the front desk raised an eyebrow high enough to peek out of the black shades he wore. “Are you lost?” he asked.

Adjusting his black tie over his white suit, Tim frowned. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied without hesitation.

The front desk employee leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Tim held back from running a hand through his temporarily absent hair. “I used to be in the Amity Park base, but I woke up missing the entirety of the last few months. There were signs of an ectoplasmic interference—” he huffed. “It’s like the information is in my mind but I can’t recall any of it.”

Another eyebrow was raised in his direction. “If you’ve been impaired by a Code 2319, which is now being reclassified as nearly impossible, I’m afraid the protocol is very clear in avoiding any compromised agent from regaining access to the premises.”

This particular turn of events was something he had already anticipated, which is why Tim had gathered enough personal information from one of the employees’ phones he managed to hack before entering the building. As he fiddled with the jammer in his pocket and began to sort through the story he saw would best fit his current situation, the man at the front desk shuddered and froze.

The GIW agent remained unmoving before he scrunched up his nose and cleared his throat. “There’s, uh, also this super strict protocol that says you should avoid at all costs the emergency exit by the alley.”

Tim tried to blink away his confusion at the particular turn of events he hadn’t anticipated. “The alley?”

The agent gave a dismissive wave that somehow seemed out of place. “We wouldn’t want another nefarious fiend to keep the door unlocked if you’re compromised.” The man looked at his computer, where he began to type something furiously without giving the detective another glance. “Now, I believe this is when you scram, Hardy Boy.”

Someone as experienced as detective Tim Drake knew when to get a clue, but his absolute confusion made him miss the cue to leave, as he stood rooted to the spot in front of the front desk. This case was leaning into stranger territory than usual. Another sharp glare over the agent’s dark shades finally got him to react.

“Right,” Tim said with more certainty than he felt. He used the moment to leave the wireless jammer underneath the desk. “I’ll make sure to follow due protocol. Apologies.”

Before he could find a swarm of GIW agents following him outside for impersonating someone in their ranks, Tim pulled out his phone to find any cameras to deactivate in the alley.

His brows furrowed in confusion as more cameras than he recalled hacking appeared to be offline before the jammer was activated. While he tried to make sense of the situation, he heard a metal door creaking close to him. An emergency exit was now conveniently wide open, showing stairs that went up and down.

With no one in sight, Tim took the path downstairs, where he expected the least visible threats would hide.

The walk was short-lived before Tim found another door opening, this time showing an empty hall to somewhere. The pristine white hallways didn’t reflect the cinder block exterior. The blueprints hadn’t shown this part of the construction, and the resources currently at his disposal were not allowing a full view of what each floor contained, only the vague locations of the various mobile devices in the vicinity.

Seeing the floor apparently devoid of mobile signals in the first few rooms, he silently followed a few more twists and turns. Until a metallic door creaked open behind him.

Tim held his breath as he realized he had nowhere to hide from any agents walking outside the room. When no device appeared on his scanner and no sound came from the room other than muted beeps, he took the initiative to walk very slowly towards the door.

The room behind the metal door was small, with no agent in sight. Inside he found a few high-end servers that had gone undetected by his initial scan. The place felt unnaturally cool as he entered, green lights surrounding the sophisticated hardware stacked in twin rows. While the setup wasn’t precisely on par with the one at Wayne Enterprises, it was surprisingly advanced for an organization that was no longer able to find ghosts and therefore would lack funding.

Tim secured the room and sat down on the floor, hiding in the intersection between two server towers to get started.

Less than a minute into his exploration, he was able to access the mainframe containing all of the GIW files. With information now available a few keystrokes away, Tim decided to look for employee information first, hoping it didn’t feature Danny Nightingale as a former agent, and also for anything related to their operation and structure. Perhaps some of the mysterious backers would shed some light on what was their ultimate goal.

As a starting point, Tim searched for their database for any organization chart. Thousands of profiles, a much higher volume than he had expected, appeared on a list, organized by singular alphabet letters, followed by longer alphanumeric combinations lower in the list. His only guarantee of someone working for the agency was “Ken”, Last-name-pending. As he clicked on the letter K, instead of a secondary list underneath the letter, the database opened the profile of a very familiar face, wearing a very familiar pair of sunglasses.

“K?” Tim whispered the name on the screen, or rather the designation for the operative shown. The chill that ran down his spine made him wonder if the agent’s wandering spirit was following him closely.

The rest of the file provided no other name for the deceased agent. With the man’s status listed as “Active”, Tim was convinced that the files hadn’t been updated with recent events. Further inspection on his file only provided assigned cases and performance reports, which the vigilante copied for meticulous inspection later.

Several of the cases listed had shown the letters AP next to their ID number. The initials struck him as he recalled another important lead in the case: the GIW often worked in Amity Park. A click on the latest file led to an active case, filled with updates around the disappearance of “a person of interest” by the name of Vlad Masters, a billionaire who was the former Mayor of the small city and owner of VladCo.

Tim vaguely remembered the name but thought that if it had been through a gala or through Wayne Enterprises, then it could be a man Bruce had already met. Of course, asking his adoptive father about Masters would lead to an actual conversation, which could open doors to topics he wasn’t ready to address with Bruce, such as why Tim was still working on unsolved cases pretending to be a GCPD Detective.

With such a high-profile case left unsolved by the agent, Tim theorized K’s death was connected somehow to Masters. However, it still didn’t explain how Amity Park and Gotham City were connected. Unless there was a third party at play.

The file on the case had a few leads that Operative K, aka “Probably Not Ken”, had followed in previous months with no conclusive information. One of the leads pointed to a couple of researchers from Amity Park who were leading important breakthroughs in the ecto-science field. In other words, they were ghost experts.

With ghosts being involved, a timeframe that coincided with the end of all ghost magic, a connection to the GIW through their disappearance, and a solid hunch, Tim felt he could almost grasp the connections that were tying all the unrelated pieces of the case together.

The loud sound of a door handle twisting made Tim turn right in time to see someone else trying to get into the server room, finding it locked. He clicked, and tapped, and clacked on some commands before the newcomer could get inside. Tim stood up and shifted to a deadpan expression, turning around as the door opened.

A shorter man in the usual GIW uniform studied the detective with a wary frown, his forehead creasing over the customary dark shades he wore. “Are you supposed to be here, operative?”

Tim, always a fast learner with a keen eye for detail, let his jaw set as his frown deepened. “We had a breach recently. Were you not briefed on case GC1939-DC?”

The other operative shifted uncomfortably as he released the door handle to cross his arms. “I have not been made aware of that case designation,” he replied with a hint of irritation.

Pushing down a smile, Tim tilted his head. “Then that means I have this under control and don’t require anyone else looking over my shoulder.”

Despite the confidence the detective projected, the GIW agent kept a tense posture. “I’m going to need your designation, agent. Just to confirm with your superiors that you’re following due protocol.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Operative R.”

The agent pulled out his phone, tapped on the screen, and paled. “I apologize,” he replied slowly, with a tone meant to appease Tim. “I was not aware of your level of clearance, Operative R. I’ll stay out of your hair—er,” the man paused and shifted uncomfortably. “I—you know what I mean.” With a small salute, the intruding agent was gone.

Despite the successful efforts to create a fake profile with a legitimate designation code and a credible picture in their database, Tim decided he needed to quicken his research and leave the premises unseen by any other agents. A part of him wondered if there were other restless spirits of fallen operatives lurking about that he would need to avoid as well.

As he continued to create a copy of any relevant information he discovered, while wiping any trace he left of his presence in their server, Tim tried to keep a mental list of all the specific topics he needed to prioritize once he had a chance to read into everything. He figured he needed to look more into the Fentons, the aforementioned ecto-scientists who might have more connection to the case. Given their alleged reputation, Tim wondered if Zatanna had heard about them as well.

A quick search in the database for any Fenton mention revealed they had at some point in past years been a part of the GIW’s payroll as independent researchers, detailing experiments, patents, and even papers on extensive research they had done with GIW funding. He skimmed through some of them to find anything of interest. The word “portal” nagged at him for some reason.

His scrolling came to a stop when another name caught his attention. Apparently, the Fentons had also reported their son as missing around the same time Masters was last seen.

Tim didn’t believe in coincidences.

Especially not when more pieces were falling into place.

And not when the name listed was Daniel James Fenton.

The detective’s cursor hovered over the missing person’s report, which was bound to show a picture to confirm or deny his newfound theories.

He wasn’t sure if the new chill that traveled down his spine was from anxiety or the suspected cold he was getting.

Tim’s vision began to swim as his consciousness drifted away, a voice chanting in the back of his head an expletive as if it were a mantra.

Waking up with a migraine was not new for Tim.

Waking up with a migraine and the strong smell of alcohol certainly was.

Tim’s eyelids gave him quite the fight as he fought against the need to lay down and go back to sleep. He managed to sit on the cushioned spot he was on, slowly realizing where he was: his apartment.

The place was dark, well into the night from the sounds of his surroundings. Only a lamp by the couch he was sitting on brought some lighting to the room. He turned to see around him, noting he was alone and in one piece. His dazed eyes landed on the coffee table, where he noticed an empty bottle of whisky. While its taste was present on his lips, he didn’t feel hungover and didn’t recall drinking it at all.

Memories from what he assumed had been events earlier that day came back to him in fragments. His visit at the safe house, the murder scene at the magic shop, a tour through different dry cleaners, and the GIW building all slowly caught up to him. However, he couldn’t recall his last actions before losing consciousness.

He knew he had given up looking for Danny Nightingale, but this notion felt odd, to say the least. He was never one to leave a case or a suspect alone for no reason.

There was a patch of white. Almost like snow. And green and—a part of him felt this was something close to death.

In an attempt to regain his bearings and figure out how he got back in his apartment, or why anyone would gaslight him into thinking he was drunk, he stood up from the couch and picked up the bottle to throw it away. His eyes caught the sight of a small device next to the bottle: Danny’s phone.

Tim’s eyes widened in panic. Someone had been in his apartment.

He went to check his bag for anything missing from the case. His tablet with the files, the notes he scribbled on a smaller notepad, the pictures, and even his corkboard were all intact.

The only thing missing were Operative K’s shades.

Tim couldn’t help but voice the expletive that had been on repeat at the back of his mind.

“Fuck!”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Danny Fenton didn’t miss from his life in Amity Park, it was the rush of adrenaline after a ghost fight. One could argue that he didn’t trade any blows with any of his rogues during his invisible mission to the new GIW headquarters. But, he reasoned, any struggle with his powers counted as inner conflict.

Ergo, a ghost fight.

Tapping into ectoplasmic energy after so long put every sense on high alert. Each rushed step through darkened alleys made him turn over his shoulder to ensure no one was following or watching his every move from the rooftops. Rationally, he knew they couldn’t, since he clung to his invisibility like a safety net. But that only made him even more anxious about getting caught if his powers stopped working properly.

In that same line of thought, Danny knew he had to be equally careful whenever, and wherever, he decided to return to the visible spectrum. The “where” remained unanswered, as his mental map of Gotham got muddled between memories of the day’s events and the panicked filtering of which places counted as a safe space after all bridges had burned down. His apartment was entirely out of the question. The Shadow Parlor was probably under police (and ninja assassin) surveillance after Mr. Olivander’s attack. And the diner…

His thoughts drifted back to the Detective. The one who had almost caught a connection between some kid named Danny Fenton and the medium who became his part-time partner. The one who possessed a wild assortment of gadgets and a concerning amount of red string. And, of course, masks. Both in the figurative and not-so-figurative sense.

Moments frozen in memory created a mental montage of sorts, looking for similar gestures or words in what little he could recall from his interactions with Draper and Red Robin. As the dots connected, it made sense that they were one and the same. The way Draper seemed concerned for the victims, the sense of protection whenever he looked after Danny, and even the curiosity to get to the bottom of things, even where he shouldn’t look into them; even when no one had asked him to do so.

The reminder of a particular case made Danny stop to tentatively add an answer to the “where” he had been missing. He looked around to check any street signs or landmarks to know exactly where he was currently standing. The tentative place he now recalled wasn’t too far from his location. It wouldn’t be the first place anyone would think about looking for him, either, as no visits or connections had been made to that apartment in weeks.

With a new target in mind, he mustered all the resolve he had left and ran as fast as he could through empty sidewalks and poor lighting while staying out of sight. It was late enough that the route was free from its usual transit. Once he reached his destination, the building was already quiet for the day, with barely any sound from its inhabitants. He was thankful the apartment wasn’t on the last floor. With so little energy left, he wouldn’t wish to waste it on long flights of stairs.

The door he had visited a few weeks ago came into view and he all but stumbled to pass through it like an exhausted runner collapsing at the finish line. He was thankful that the room was entirely dark. He was not grateful for the odd smells attacking his nose as soon as it regained tangibility.

The apartment looked dustier and just as forgotten as the last time he had visited with Draper (real name pending). No one appeared to have occupied the space in the meantime, which was all the reassurance Danny needed to shift back to the visible spectrum. As soon as he was his regular corporeal self, he removed his backpack and collapsed against the door with an exhausted sigh.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Danny noticed a shadow drifting closer into the room. A shade, with curious eyes that focused solely on the medium.

“Oh, hey, Patrick?” Danny greeted with less spirit than usual. “Sorry for crashing here. I just… needed a small break.”

The lively attitude and excitement from his last visit with Draper were hardly present as the vague shape of Patrick tilted his head, staring at his unexpected visitor in silence.

There were many things Danny hadn’t figured out yet about his new connection to spirits. He tried to recall which object had helped him see Patrick, but none of the books or pictures around him sparked any memories. Danny then recalled it had been one of the Detective’s curious boxes of missing objects from nearly-forgotten cold cases.

Danny’s thoughts took a detour as he remembered all the information Draper had from each case he brought to the table. Mostly detailed reports that only the GCPD should’ve had, which was enough for Danny to believe he was truly connected to the police, somehow, and not some impostor. Of course, in retrospect, it made sense why he had so many suspicions later on about the undercover vigilante.

“Pathetic,” a voice Danny hadn’t missed in the last twenty-four hours or so spoke as he crossed the door behind him.

Despite how exhausted he felt, Danny willed his last ounce of energy to glare at the other ghost. “Oh, right. I knew I should’ve left the glasses behind.” The agent floated until he reached the window at the other side of the room, keeping an eye outside. “Maybe I should’ve left you back at your evil headquarters, too,” Danny muttered.

Operative K, back in his obnoxiously white-suited ghostliness, twisted his mouth into an irritated sneer. “You won’t be as lucky next time, Phantom. You will face your punishment for every code violation that you—”

"Can we please not?” Danny interrupted with an exasperated sigh. He let his head softly hit back against the door as he closed his eyes. This, however, did not make the world stop spinning. “I just need a break, man. Is it too much to ask?”

The plea at least made K refrain from citing all the empty threats he wouldn’t be able to fulfill as a ghost. The silence was welcomed with open arms, in a room that grew colder by the minute. Danny was not entirely sure what was draining him the most: the lack of sleep, the lack of food, the stress, or the excessive display of ghostly powers. He knew he should have expected these results after not using his abilities much since he moved to Gotham.

The shade in the room, who Danny still wanted to believe was Patrick, began to drift closer to the medium, his message and intentions still unclear. Judging by the way it looked shorter than before, he apparently knelt in front of Danny, extending his shadow until it engulfed Danny whole. As the medium pushed down any lingering anxiety from the proximity, he realized the shade was not trying to throw him out for invading or to even seem threatening at all.

The shade wanted to offer support, Danny noted as he was given a shadowy side hug and a what looked like a gentle pat on the head. He could almost hear the “there, there” with each motion.

As hectic as his day had been, between loss and heartache, there was a sudden comfort from the simple gesture he didn’t remember feeling in a long time. He tried to recall when was the last time he felt a warm embrace from his friends, or his sister’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. He’d even take a bone-crushing hug from his Dad.

As Patrick’s form continued to surround him, Danny wished he could reciprocate the embrace and thank him for trying to cheer him up. Something that would show how much he appreciated the reminder that, no matter how deadly and obscure things were, they were still allowed to feel human.

The moment, however, was broken when a blinding light filled Danny’s vision, filtering his visible world with a hint of green. As the medium blinked the flash away, he realized the shade was gone, gaining back his presence in the world as a ghost. He recognized the face now visible and wondered if it was rude to stare in shock.

“Patrick! How did—what did you—“ Danny shook his head in disbelief. “No, wait… I didn’t even find any personal object to touch this time. How?!”

Patrick looked as shocked as Danny felt, touching his own face and staring at his hands in amazement. “You mean… you didn’t do this?” Danny shook his head ‘no’, lost in theories of new ghostly dynamics he barely understood. “Huh,” Patrick replied, looking away before a shit-eating grin spread over his face. “Then I have no clue. Ha!”

Danny squinted at the finger-guns pointed at him. “Wait, were you trying a detective pun?”

The ghost snickered giddily. “Sorry, couldn’t help it.”

“Might want to work on your timing,” Danny mumbled to himself. He then reconsidered the odd turn of events. “And thank you for, well… you know. The support? The pat on the back?”

Patrick stared with a curious look at the Medium from head to toe. The amused smile was quickly replaced with a gentler one. “Oh. Well, what are friends for, right? I got worried for a minute there.”

The word “friends” echoed in Danny’s head, bringing forth an unexpected warmth. As he recalled the solitary life Patrick had led and his excitement at having someone to talk to during Danny’s last visit, new melancholy settled and opened new implications about what the Medium knew about shades.

Danny heaved a heavy sigh. “I’ve had worse. Definitely had better, too.”

“Like what? Like ‘wanted by criminals’ worse or ‘wanted by the bats’ worse?”

The many ways Danny could summarize his week were not simple enough to contain all the emotional turmoil from recent events. He wondered if there was a way to explain why working with any of the vigilantes in this case would be worse than hiding from them. Or why a part of him still compelled him to take care of this situation instead of running away, as any other normal person with normal self-preservation instincts should.

Danny ran a shaky hand through his bangs. “Let’s just say it’s… complicated. And that I might need to lay a bit low to recover without getting anyone else killed in the process.”

His ghostly friend nodded solemnly. “That’s rough, buddy.” He then glanced at K, who kept looking through the partially open curtains. “So, you got assigned a new partner or something?”

K looked over his shoulder, raised a disdainful eyebrow at the chatty duo, and resumed his apparent surveillance. Even if he was not attempting to be in Danny’s corner, something told the half-ghost that there was perhaps the tiniest bit of hope that K was silently looking out for any danger. At times like this, wistful thinking was all Danny had left and he would cling to it even if it hurt him in the end.

“Or something,” Danny replied instead, sitting in a more comfortable position against the door. He wondered if he should use his remaining energy to move over to the dusty couch, but the piece of furniture looked farther away than it probably was. “Sorry. Another long story.”

Patrick nodded and got closer to whisper. “Well, in any case, I liked your other partner better. He was cuter, too."

Danny’s gut churned at the reminder of the so-called detective. As with everything else that night, he shrugged and tried to brush it off with a different topic. He looked for something else to talk about. He contemplated staring at K long enough to make the agent throw a ghostly insult that would shift the mood when he noticed something, or someone, missing. “Uh, where’s Mr. Olivander?”

K clicked his tongue without deigning to turn around this time. “Probably off to no good, like all ghosts.”

The cold reply made Patrick turn to look at Danny with concern. “Uh? Hello? What the fuck?”

“Don’t mind him. He died with a stick up his ass,” the medium replied in complete deadpan.

The deceased GIW agent turned around to protest but was interrupted by a familiar face phasing through the door.

“Oh, Mr. Olivander,” Danny greeted the ghost. “I was just asking about you.”

The old shopkeeper looked around the room before his eyes fell back on Danny, a sad smile to go along with the concern in his furrowed brow. “I was making sure there weren’t any government agents, contract killers, or vigilantes following us around.” Patrick’s low whistle and the look of horror on Danny’s widened eyes were enough for Mr. Olivander to backtrack. “Oh, no, don’t worry. I didn’t see anyone suspicious nearby.”

At those words, Danny felt his soul return to his body. “Oh, good. I was pretty confident I’d be fine just as long as I stayed invisible. I still don’t have much experience with Gotham’s brand of stalking.”

Mr. Olivander took out his pipe and focused on preparing it. “If that boy didn’t figure out you were following him with all his tech, I believe you’re in the clear.” He took a puff from his pipe and exhaled. “Just keep the windows closed, the volume down, and the lights off. We’ll be fine.”

Danny gave a solemn nod. “I definitely won’t overthink how you even thought about that. Or all the other worrying little details I’ve heard from you today.”

Another puff of smoke and a smile from Mr. Olivander. “You don’t live as long as I have without learning a trick or two about how this city operates at night.”

Danny looked away awkwardly and didn’t have the heart to remind him of his current status…

“I guess you should’ve learned a third trick to improve those odds, then.”

…and Patrick didn’t have the tact to avoid mentioning the obvious.

Before Danny could do some damage control to de-escalate a possible confrontation around Patrick’s insensitive comment, Mr. Olivander laughed heartily.

“Ha! I guess you’re dead on the money, there!” the man replied between chortles.

Danny shook his head, thankful to not have another thing to add to his long list of worries. “Glad you’re getting along, then.”

As he heard the ghosts exchange names and small talk as a manner of introduction, Danny decided he did deserve to move to the dusty couch to get some rest. Mustering whatever strength he had left, he pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the door as he dragged his backpack over his shoulder. New lights against a darkened backdrop danced in his vision as his head swam. With one hand on his brows and another placed on the adjacent wall to keep him standing, the medium started to regret getting up at all.

“Are you alright, bestie?” Patrick asked in a voice that sounded farther away than it had been mere moments ago.

“You probably need to eat something, boy.”

“I think past, living-me left a few cans in the kitchen? I haven’t checked since, well, you know… the whole life subscription expiring thing?”

“Oh, no wonder you two boys get along, what with your dark humor and all.”

“You can say it’s pitch-dark, even,” Danny mumbled as he leaned against a fourth wall that didn’t feel so stable. Once the world stopped moving and his vision decided to return, Danny blinked to stare at the worried ghosts scanning him. “Okay, yeah, food sounds good.”

Four concerned redirections to find his way to the kitchen, two scoffs from Operative K tagging along, and a solid effort to stay conscious later, Danny found himself opening and closing dusty cabinets and drawers searching for something edible.

As he moved objects around, he reflected on all of his life choices. Danny didn’t think he’d be able to admit it out loud, but perhaps leaving Amity Park had not been the best course of action.

In an ideal world, his plan of permanently closing the portal would have brought a new chance to build a life away from the chaos surrounding ghosts. But life wasn’t as kind. Instead of a quiet night at home, he spent a quiet day at the GIW’s new offices following a so-called detective. Instead of managing to get some better sleep, he was living a constant nightmare, surrounded by the recurring presence of spirits who couldn’t reach the Ghost Zone, worried about the GIW’s interest in Vlad, and with two murder cases somehow linked to him, guaranteeing a restless night.

His search through the kitchen also left Danny with limited options, like a dubious can of tuna he found in the pantry, an old bag of Bat Burger leftovers he didn’t dare to open, and a box of cereal that shouldn’t be moving on its own.

“Potentially expired tuna? You seem to have a constant death wish,” Operative K commented as he stared at the can on the counter with a critical eye.

Patrick took offense and floated in front of the agent. “Hey, this isn’t expired! Canned food can last for ages if it’s kept in the right conditions.”

Mr. Olivander hummed while leaning down to inspect the can as well. “Are you sure? These don’t seem to be the best conditions.”

As the three ghosts continued to discuss the logistics of canned food handling and expiration labels, Danny was not in the mood to deal with any more stress. “Guys, would you mind?” He voiced loud enough to make them stop. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I have a high survival rate for someone who’s only half alive. I’ll be fine,” the medium replied absentmindedly as he checked again the drawers that were closer to the stove.

The last drawer made Danny hum. While there was no can opener in sight, its items were close enough to the same semantic group: a pizza slicer, a dull knife, and an ice picker. When his hand went further inside to inspect the back, he felt something crawl across his fingers.

“Oh, ew,” he exclaimed with a shudder, phasing his hand out of the drawer as fast as inhumanly possible. He hurried to the sink to try to wash his hands, only to find a couple of droplets before the water was entirely out. “Great. Just what I needed tonight.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Patrick spoke appearing by Danny’s side. “I think they cut all services like… two months ago?”

Danny nodded and sighed, pushing all the weight of the last few days into the heavy exhale. “Amazing. The one thing the Gotham administration didn’t have to do so promptly. Don’t they have collateral damage to fix? Insurance to collect? Bats to fawn over or whatever?”

No acid was spilled in the making of that sentence.

Patrick shrugged in response. “Money takes priority, I guess.”

“Right…” Danny replied and conceded the battle against his bad luck. “Thanks for letting me look through your stuff and all.”

“It’s less exciting than watching your partner rummage through my things for clues, but it’s fine,” Patrick replied light-heartedly.

Danny wanted to scoff at the insistent mention of his former partner. For one, he wouldn’t call his previous visit with Draper an exciting one. If anything, it had been the least eventful case since the so-called detective started calling him to work on cold cases. On the other hand, it sent Danny a sour reminder of how much had been revealed and how it changed things moving forward.

The medium opened his mouth to retort anything that would keep Patrick from his "let’s make Draper return” agenda but closed it shut with a click. Other pending battles would require his remaining energy. And energy was in short supply.

The mere thought of the meals he had skipped sent another wave of dizziness, making Danny hold himself up by placing both trembling hands by the sink.

“Okay, plan B?” Patrick voiced with a hint of alarm in his tone. “There’s a couple two floors down who probably have some food that’s still fresh and they won’t miss. They’re on a cruise or something.”

Danny stared at Patrick for a moment, turned to look at Mr. Olivander’s worried frown, and then closed his eyes in resignation. “I mean, what’s one more haunting if it means I’ll get some energy back, right?”

Operative K tsked in disproval. “Stop being dramatic, Fenton. I seem to recall a shot of ectoplasm among your belongings.” In a lower tone, he muttered, “I still don’t understand how it went undetected in our facilities.”

A small smile appeared on Danny’s lips. Nothing like getting the upper hand on the GIW to lift his spirits. “The same reason why your glasses don’t work. They ran out of ghostly energy to be able to do anything.” Danny moved away from the sink, taking a deep, steadying breath while the spots in his vision kept dancing. “Wow, okay. Those lights will feel like I’m in a rave if I don’t eat something. Two floors down, you said?”

Once Patrick nodded in affirmation, the half-ghost sunk through the floor invisibly until he found the right apartment. Two attempts to stay conscious and undetected later, Danny triumphantly returned to Patrick’s apartment, materializing in the living room with a box of Hot Pockets™ from the neighbor’s freezer, as well as a couple of canned goods.

“Oh, no, honey,” Patrick cooed as he saw Danny’s smile and the frozen food that inspired it. “No electricity, no microwave, remember?”

Danny stared at Patrick, then at the frozen Hot Pockets, then at their other ghostly companions. He had longed for the taste of one of his perfect comfort foods. They were even his favorite flavor. Before he could rename the mission as Ripperoni, the medium was struck by an epiphany. He hastily opened the package until the two pieces within were in his hand. With a soft exhale, he willed his hands to glow with green light. Once the smell of hot pepperoni reached his nostrils, he stopped.

“Ta-da,” he weakly announced…

…Only for his legs to immediately decide they’ve been supporting the medium too long.

“I think that’s enough of the parlor tricks, Danny,” Mr. Olivander muttered as he tried, in vain, to pull Danny to a sitting position.

“Damn, those are some sick tricks, tho,” Patrick added with a low whistle.

Danny sluggishly noticed the old man’s vain efforts, ghostly hands going through him as he regained enough awareness to sit on the floor and lean against the couch. “Yeah, I guess I overdid it there, huh?” was the weak response.

As he took a bite from his improvised meal, ignoring the slight taste of ectoplasm from the crispier bits, Danny noticed the ghosts staring at him with varying degrees of concern. “Do I have something on my face?” he asked the small group.

Patrick sat on a chair across from Danny, the dust unperturbed by the movement. “Welllll… is looking half-dead a common look for you?”

Danny shrugged. “You get used to it after half-surviving high school fighting ghosts and trigger-happy government agents.”

Mr. Olivander and Patrick looked at each other and then at Operative K, before staring back at Danny with renewed concern. “Is that part of the long story you haven’t shared or is there a SparkNotes version, somewhere?”

Danny huffed as he let his head fall back, the movement allowing dust particles to dance in the air only to his discomfort. "Honestly, dude? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“How about you start telling them how you ran amok in your hometown, terrorizing civilians and destroying property whenever you could?” Operative K commented from the other side of the room, returning to his spot by the window.

The silence in the room felt like a cold shower and Danny could only find enough willpower to glare at the agent. “Seriously, what’s it going to take for you to stop treating me like shit, man? I was only trying to help back then, but you guys kept shooting at me without a reason.”

K tilted his head with a heavy glare that was perceptible even behind his glasses. “We had a reason. To keep citizens safe and your taxes in use. Did you forget who was keeping the ghost infestation under control?”

“Uh, me?” Danny retorted with a mouth full of his snack.

Patrick used the opportunity to dive back into the conversation. “Hold on, you were dealing with… ghost infestations? I can understand if you said aliens. Or super humans, or killer robots. Those would be totally reasonable. But ghosts? I only knew ghosts were real when I became one.”

Danny debated with himself about how much we wanted to disclose about ghostly matters. After all, there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t get to the Observants’ ears (if they had any) once his ghostly friends crossed over. “Let’s just say I grew up in a very strange city. And this guy,” he pointed at K, “was a pain in the ass by trying to destroy ghosts.”

“Negative. We kept the ghost situation contained within Amity Park,” K amended as he unclenched his jaw.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Contained? That just means you kept outsiders believing it was just a quirky tourist town and kept us isolated.”

“And you’re welcome, you ungrateful punk,” K shot back. “Be thankful we kept other parties with special abilities from making an already complicated situation much worse.”

At this, laughter bubbled uncontrollably from the medium. “Oh, wow, thank you for keeping other heroes from helping Amity Park out. It’s totally not making things awkward as they try to go figure out what happened to all the ghosts.”

Mr. Olivander stared confused. “What happened to all the ghosts, Danny? I used to have the best of the best tarot readers, spiritists, and other kinds of mediums at my shop. Our reputation is what inspired the local gang to call themselves The Ghosts.”

Danny looked between the expectant eyes of the three ghostly figures, each with their shade of curiosity, before he focused on the remains of his improvised meal. “Maybe when this is over. Not sure I have the stomach for that kind of story right now.”

Anyone with half a heart would’ve taken the monumental neon sign of “Please let it be” for what it was: a boundary that should be respected. But contrary to Patrick and Mr. Olivander, hearts were out of stock for K.

“You do know what happened to the portals,” he demanded, a sneer on his face as the last word settled.

Danny took a big bite out of his Hot Pocket and munched as he spoke. “That depends… do you know what happened the night of your murder?”

The GIW agent clenched his jaw, refusing to say any word.

A tired shrug was the fast response to the gesture. “Figured.”

Silence fell uncomfortably over the group, like a suit too tight around the shoulders. The soft munching from the medium continued.

“Man, I can’t believe I’m getting homesick from frozen food,” Danny whispered to no one in particular, closing his eyes to savor the taste. “My sister used to get me one of these after school, whenever Mom and Dad ended up making our food sentient.” He stopped to reconsider his words, shaking his head. “Uh, don’t ask.”

Patrick stared with horror. “Sentient? Sentient food? Learning about ghosts was already too much, what the fuck?”

Danny opened his mouth to reassure his companion. But as his mind raced for comforting words, he realized he had none left to share. Instead, he took another bite of his food.

Some horrors were better left unsaid, anyway.

“Does your partner also work with ghostly things or is that exclusive to you?” Patrick asked, pausing as he looked around. “Wait, I didn’t think to ask… he’s not dead, right?”

Another pang of sadness, or perhaps an incipient heartburn, made Danny frown. “It’s… complicated.” At Patrick’s alarmed look, the medium rolled his eyes. “But still alive, as far as I know.”

Operative K leveled a glare from behind his dark shades. “I warned you about your friend. Several times, in fact.”

The medium huffed a small chuckle. “That you did. Does that make you and I friends now? That’s not depressing at all.”

K crossed his arms. “Do not mistake our overlapping missions for sympathy, kid.”

“And what mission is that?” Danny challenged, allowing any ghostly energy left to light up his eyes. “Surviving? Because I have some good news and bad news… mostly bad ones.”

“You’re insufferable,” K huffed as he moved to his guarding spot.

As Mr. Olivander and Patrick quietly compared notes about the things they both knew to understand the full picture, Danny’s mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t help looking at K with some pity. Here was this ghost who did not want to be a ghost or near Danny, at all. However, it couldn’t be so simple when the agent had not opted to stay elsewhere either.

“Ok, real talk…” Danny started as he brushed small crumbs off his hoodie. “Why are you not helping us solve your murder?”

K scoffed. “That’s classif—”

“You’re no longer an active agent!” Danny blurted out, making the room silent again. “You’re seriously still going to treat me as public enemy number one despite being the only one who can help you?”

Danny was not exactly looking for the right words to convince K, but he was well aware that sometimes word spitting whatever his heart desired had a more effective effect. The moment Operative K furrowed his eyebrows, Danny knew he had gotten slightly through that stubborn head.

“If by ‘helping’ you mean turning yourself in and confessing your involvement in Vlad Masters’ disappearance, then, by all means,” the agent gestures towards the door.

The conversation was not going where the Medium had expected. He sighed a tired sigh, getting off the floor enough to sit more comfortably on the dusty couch. “Okay, I still don’t know how you tied me with Vlad, but that was not my fault.” A pause brought more aspects to consider. “Wait, is that why the GIW came to Gotham? Did anything lead to me here?”

Silence reigned once again, making even Patrick and Mr. Olivander hush their conversation to stare at the two other men expectantly.

Danny licked his lips and leaned forward on his seat. “Listen, I’d drop it and mind my own business if this were any other GIW case that didn’t have my name attached in there. But not when Red Freaking Robin already stole more data than he should,” he added, his voice low. “I need to know how much more trouble I can expect.”

To admit Red Robin’s identity out loud when there was no guarantee the others had connected all the pieces of the puzzle left a sour taste in his mouth. However, he knew peer review (and validation) was always important. Especially when Danny knew that Red Robin led to Batman. Batman led to the Justice League. The Justice League led to the Justice League Dark. And both organizations led back to the government, aka the GIW.

If they found a way to connect a medium with a ghostly connection (which the Detective knew about) to the portals closing (which the GIW and possibly the JLD knew about)… none of it would’ve been worth it. Even Mr. Olivander would have died in vain. Maybe even the stubborn GIW agent as well.

And as much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it out loud, there was something akin to betrayal from realizing Alvin Draper, aka Red Robin, had lied about everything all along. Not knowing how far the lies went made the dread and disappointment grow.

“You Fentons are already much more trouble than it’s worth,” the agent interrupted Danny’s internal soliloquy with a dry tone. The right flavor of pettiness that might have actually helped shift the young man’s mood. “You should always expect trouble.”

“Huh. Fenton?” Mr. Olivander asked while exhaling ghostly smoke from his pipe. “So it’s definitely not Nightingale.”

Danny made a “so-so” motion with his hand. “Close. Nightingale was an old name my ancestors had. Easier to remember than some random last name.” He turned back to K while the shopkeeper and Patrick continued talking in whispers. “Anyway, your file points out that I disappeared. So, if I’m in the city where you were found dead and someone at the GIW finds me, they might make the wrong connection there. See why I’m rightfully concerned here?”

K crossed his arms. “You were not our person of interest. We came here for a different mission.” Danny opened his mouth and the agent cut him short with a simple, “No. Classified.”

Danny rolled his eyes and sat back on the couch. “I don’t know… your other files for my alter ego beg to differ on how much interest the GIW has in me.”

The agent clicked his tongue. “I admit your connection to Phantom was not expected to be this close, despite initial suspicions. That can still be amended once my team gets to you.”

With a look of complete disbelief, Danny threw his hands up in the air in defeat. “Yeesh, what did I ever do to get that much hate from you, anyway?”

“I don’t hate you,” K replied nonchalantly, unnecessarily dusting some invisible dust from his white sleeve. “I’m not emotionally invested like that. I merely seek to destroy your kind.”

If Patrick’s and Mr. Olivander’s eyes could’ve gone any larger, Danny’s sure they’d look closer to cartoon characters. Danny tried not to think much about the casual hatred in these words, but that didn’t mean they didn’t sting.

“Again with the anti-ghostly discourse?” Danny huffed. “Man, wake up! You’re a ghost! Whatever you think can hurt me, it could still hurt you too. I know you’re not dense.”

The tension in the room settled again like a heavier layer of dust. It was evident the two other friendlier ghosts were unsure of how to help, which left them to process the scene silently and without any apparent judgment. Danny wanted to apologize about for the mess the conversation had been so far when K’s voice surprised him.

“I understand that my… condition changes things somehow,” K replied firmly but with a wary edge that was barely there if you knew where to look. “But I’m reserving judgment until the effects of my demise take over. The evil impulses, the need for destruction, the despair…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Danny interrupted. “That’s horribly prejudiced for someone reserving judgment.” He then turned to his former boss, gesturing with his chin towards him. “Hey, uh, Mr. Olivander, do you feel more evil since you became a ghost?”

This made Mr. Olivander scoff in shock. “Why, no? If anything, I feel an infinite sadness of everything I’ll miss.”

“What about you, Patrick? You’ve been around longer as a shade,” Danny asked his other friend.

Patrick hesitated. “I… I would love to troll some people I didn’t like? But nothing too serious. I don’t have anyone to haunt or people to avenge, or whatever.”

That was all Danny needed to turn back to the undead Operative. “So, tell me, K. Why would you be any different? If anything, I think you’re already free from any evil impulses as it is. Your whole spiel probably repels any ghosts that might be actively looking to be a bad influence.”

K’s jaw clenched in response. “I’m not listening to your lies. Even your parents, leading ghost experts or not, knew that wasn’t the case, didn’t they? Is that why you ran away?”

The direct jab hurt more than Danny would've been able to admit, but his iridescent eyes did a better job of transmitting his resentment. The young man stared for a long second, sending the temperature of the room a few degrees lower. While physics in the living world did not affect ghosts, the same couldn’t be said when an aura flared dangerously.

“Fine,” Danny muttered as he grabbed the backpack forgotten on his shoulder and set it in front of him. “If that’s how you want to do this, I guess I have nothing to help you with.”

The Medium rummaged through the contents of his bag until he found the dark shades he recovered from the Draper’s apartment. The one confirming and damning piece of evidence that connected the mysterious detective to an even more mysterious vigilante. The weight of the sunglasses dawned on Danny as he realized how much damage they had caused. Their discovery could’ve been what tipped Draper about who the GIW was. They became the one thing that led him to distrust Red Robin, who needed the shades back for some odd reason.

There was also no guarantee they didn’t contain a third tracker he should be wary about. The mere idea of being trapped no matter how far he ran fueled his resolve about what he was about to do.

“What are you doing?” K asked as Danny held the glasses with a firm grip.

“Breaking the glasses,” he answered coldly. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth. And it’s obvious you don’t want to move on, so I’m sure you can figure things out on your own.”

Danny’s hands lit up with the small energy he recovered, making part of the frame start to bend as it slowly melted.

“Wait,” K said hurriedly, placing a gloved hand on top of the shades. Danny turned to face him with a tired glare. “When you say ‘move on’, do you mean… I can be stuck as a shade forever?”

There was a hint of abject fear behind those words. Danny understood the weight of “forever” and the horror of being stuck one way or another without options. To see this more vulnerable, human side of K was not something he thought was possible with how heartless he had been in the past. But, as usual, hope was all that Danny had left to cling on.

Danny paused his plans for the glasses and gave the agent a sadder look. “I don’t know, man. The access to the Ghost Zone is closed. The least I can do is help people stuck on this side to be free. You know, unfinished business and that kind of shit?”

Patrick and Mr. Olivander’s whispers resumed, with the younger ghost raising his voice enough for a well-deserved, “You mean we still have homework left before we can pass this class called Afterlife 101? That’s so unfair, man.”

While Mr. Olivander comforted Patrick with a pat on his back, the GIW agent crossed his arms to add more punch to his glare. “The idea of unfinished business has been debunked even by your parents. That would imply that ghosts have some kind of sentience.”

Danny sighed. “I will hold your hand as I say this gently…”

“Release my hand, Fenton,” K protested as Danny managed to hold the agent with some ghostly energy.

“K… my acquaintance, my violent pal…” Danny spoke slowly. “Do you not feel sentient?”

The agent’s face remained twisted in disgust, but Danny could see some of the initial barriers begin to falter. “My assessment is inconclusive. That still does not mean I require your assistance.”

The voices of both Patrick and Mr. Olivander overlapped as they tried to reason with Operative K about the grave mistake he was about to commit. Danny merely shrugged as he held the glasses up in one hand. “Great, then I can get rid of these so that I don’t have to be linked to you against your will.”

The smell of melted plastic mixed with the acidic tinge of ectoplasm filled Danny’s nostrils. The green flame was small and almost frail but effective in the task he had sought to fulfill.

“Freeze!” K suddenly shouted, tensing as he would during the attacks Danny recalled in their past.

Danny could only laugh while his actions were paused once more. “Seriously? ‘Freeze’? Are you trying to intimidate me for old time’s sake or asking me to destroy them that way?”

The background whispers of “I have no idea what’s going on” and, “You and me both, boy” from Patrick and Mr. Olivander filled the silence as K mulled over his next words.

“I won’t help you with the case and risk compromising the rest of the Ghost Intelligence Ward,” the agent finally replied.

“Okaaaay,” Danny replied after a long pause. “Dully noted. What’s the ‘but’, then?”

“But,” K dragged the word out. “I do have one unfinished business to complete.”

The Medium perked at that, leaving the slightly melted glasses on top of his head as a sign of good will. “I’m listening.”

K floated again to the window, gesturing to the scene outside with his chin. “I recognize this area. My… teacher used to live a few blocks from here.”

Danny scrunched up his brow. “You lived in Gotham? Huh… I thought you were far too attached to impossibly white suits for that.”

“Hey!” Mr. Olivander protested, which Patrick hushed with a low, “You know what? Valid.”

Instead of a similar protest, K tilted his head, his focus on Danny not wavering. “He was like a mentor to me. If I have any pending business, it’s with him.”

The thing about unfinished business and not being able to work at The Shadow Parlor was that it put Danny in a very tight spot. The magic shop had given him a way to justify any oddities in his connection to ghosts. Some of them simply wished to contact their loved ones one last time and that sense of closure was enough to complete their business. In the séance room, Danny was able to pull any theatrics necessary, have people seeking him out and not the other way around, and keep a reputation of an aloof Medium who might or might not be “the real deal” for most customers.

Looking for someone outside of that safe space brought many other dangers, like alerting others of his privileged connection to the ghostly plane.

Danny got up slowly as he considered his options. He walked towards the door to get a bit of distance from the agent, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “Okay. But, uh… I’m not sure he’ll keep my visit or my abilities to himself with the whole GIW probably looking for you.”

“His home is not on their radar,” K replied. “We can find a way to keep it simple.”

Patrick sucked air through his teeth and floated close enough to the Medium’s hearing range to whisper. “I’m not sure, Danny… I think this guy’s full of shit.”

Danny sighed and whispered under his breath. “Yeah, but this is the closest I’ve been to getting information from him.”

Mr. Olivander got closer as well. “We’ll be by your side, boy. Keep an eye on things.”

“Well?” K asked once Danny let the silence settle again around them.

One thing was certain: any possible response Danny could give, wouldn’t be the best idea.

“Hey, Danny?”

“What’s up, Patrick?”

“Is it a good time to ask for the long story summary?”

“Uh, sure? I guess? Where do I even start?”

Danny’s hand hovered over the white door in front of him. A part of him wanted to avoid leaving any fingerprint or sign of his presence in this location. With both Patrick and Mr. Olivander confirming there were no cameras in place, knocking seemed like the best course of action.

His knuckles hit against the wood and Danny tried to keep a nonchalant stance in case the home’s inhabitant was looking through the peephole, adjusting the cap and glasses he borrowed from Patrick to confirm they were covering his face right, just in case.

“You got this,” the younger ghost whispered behind him, reminding Danny of the small, invisible entourage following him to his current destination. K, who was also floating nearby, remained silent.

Slow steps echoed from the other side of the door. “Yes?” an old man’s voice called.

Danny lifted the white envelope he prepared earlier that morning towards the peephole, the name he was given scribbled haphazardly on it. “Uh, I have a message for… Mr. Ducard?”

Tense seconds passed before the sound of locks and keys finally came through the other side of the door. The man, who looked quite old and brown-skinned, greeted Danny with a warm smile. “Ah, it’s been so long since I last got any traditional mail.” Danny tried to place the accent, but he was only certain it did not come from the US originally. Mr. Ducard then scanned the young man in front of him with curiosity. “Oh, are you not from our Postal Service?”

Danny tried to keep a poker face despite the quick callout. “Uh, no. This is a private service. No tip necessary or anything, though.”

Mr. Ducard stared at the offered envelope and shook his head. “Then in that case, please come in so I can write back a response.”

“That’s not necessary, sir. I'm just the messenger and I—”

“Nonsense!” The man replied with a small chuckle, opening the door wide enough to allow Danny to follow him inside. “If there’s no return address, you’ll just make an old man’s life harder if I have to go place a letter somewhere.”

Danny had many options, like leaving the note by the entrance and disappearing from this man’s life forever. The fact that K hadn’t pushed him to go inside didn’t give any indication of a trap.

Mr. Olivander, who Danny hadn’t seen go away from his small group, appeared by his side to whisper. “The place looks like an ordinary house. No cameras or surveillance I could find. Lots of interesting antiques in there, too.”

The Medium hesitated, looking at the message in his hand, the ghosts at the porch, the ordinary and empty street where nothing seemed amiss… and then there was Mr. Ducard, whose connection to the deceased agent seemed like a complete mystery he was very curious to try to understand.

The old man entered what looked like a kitchen, disappearing for a moment before he set a teapot and two cups on a small table, gesturing Danny inside as the man shakily took a seat. “Come in, come in.”

This could be his only chance to get any insight about the GIW agent, and possibly find other ways to solve his case.

“Why not, right?” he sighed.

Danny closed the door behind him as he stepped inside, taking slow and silent steps towards the kitchen, almost expecting a GIW squad to jump him if he got distracted despite Mr. Olivander’s reassurances. The place was filled with old bookcases and paintings showcasing flowers and people alike, piles of books and boxes scattered in the hall. His two friendlier companions walked through the walls in silence, probably looking for anything unusual. K, however, trailed behind him without a word.

“I apologize for the state of my home,” Mr. Ducard commented once Danny was closer to the kitchen. The man poured a nice-smelling tea into the two cups and turned to the Medium with a smile. “Sometimes I forget where I have my head.”

The half-ghost tried to summon his charm and Mid-Western friendliness as he stood by the end of the hallway. “Oh, no, please. Thank you for the hospitality. Love the décor.” He turned a curious eye toward some of the antiques on the wall closest to the kitchen, noticing a small sword above some old pictures of a small family. He pointed at the blade. “Is this real?”

Mr. Ducard leaned a bit to see what Danny was referring to and smiled. “Ah, yes. Most of my collection has been in my family for generations.”

Danny nodded. For a moment, he wondered if people like Draper went to some sort of detective school to learn how to do small talk that would eventually lead the conversation to what he wanted to hear. While he had dealt with some questioning (“To practice,” Draper had said), those rare times he had the support of the ghost involved in the case, and at least some guidance from Draper beforehand.

“Sounds nice,” he settled on replying as he took the offered seat. “Uh, so, about your message?”

“Ah, yes. What an unusual thing,” the man said with a small shake of his head, his gray hair unperturbed by the movement. “My children don’t keep much contact. I do have to wonder if this is an old flame. Or, heavens forbid, an old enemy.”

Danny didn’t know how to respond to the odd statement until the man chuckled.

“Don’t look so scared, young man. I’m jesting. You surely wouldn’t be calling me Mr. Ducard if that were the case.”

The Medium perked at that. “Is that not your name?”

Mr. Ducard picked up the envelope from the table. “It’s a very formal name, that’s for sure. But please, please, have some tea.”

Not wanting to look impolite, Danny took a sip of his tea while the man focused on opening the envelope, careful not to rip the paper too hard. In some ways, the gentle movements reminded Danny of Mr. Olivander, who despite his hunger for selling to customers, he had cared deeply for every book or artifact in his shop. As the small note inside was revealed, Mr. Ducard’s face changed to a more serious look. Danny wasn’t sure if the furrowed brows were anything to be concerned about or if it was just a sign that the man didn’t remember who wrote the message.

Mr. Ducard’s gaze softened as he reread the note several times from the looks of it. “I don’t think I can thank you enough for this message,” he said nearly in a whisper. His green eyes turned to look at Danny. “It means everything to me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny could see K relax and exhale. A blink later he was no longer in the room, leaving Danny to wonder if he had found the resolve to move on. It also made Danny wonder if a simple “thank you, Fenton, maybe not all ghosts are evil, I can see that now,” was too much to ask from him.

“It’s… nothing,” Danny replied with a small smile.

Mr. Ducard placed a warm hand on top of Danny’s and gave him a soft squeeze. “If this came from the student I remember, then I might have something for him if you could help me deliver it.”

Danny’s thoughts halted as he tried to think of a way to get out of the situation. As much as he wanted clues to find a new angle for Operative K’s murder, if he was given something that could be traced to him somehow or reveal his connection to K when the agent was pretty much on the deader side of things, Danny didn’t think he’d be able to walk away free from any suspicion.

“Uh, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” Danny quickly replied.

“Nonsense,” the man dismissed. He then stood up from his seat and slowly walked towards a bookcase in the hallway, staring at each book in it. He then turned to another pile of books by the stairs, until he moved inside the living room, a faraway “Aha!” echoing a few moments later.

Danny waited until the man returned with an old book. “A gift for my old apprentice,” Mr. Ducard exclaimed as he took his seat with the tome open, shifting through pages to find something specific.

The Medium tried to see what the book was about but he couldn’t catch sight of the author. He did, however, reread the message he helped pen on the small piece of paper, as requested by K, just in case he missed anything.

The message was very simple and had no signature. Danny had asked if that was enough for Mr. Ducard to remember K. The agent had only nodded solemnly. Danny decided not to question it much, with how secretive K had been through the whole ordeal. He was not concerned for any foul play if he remained careful. After all, if the GIW hadn’t been able to detect Danny, there wasn’t much the agent could do beyond that.

“There,” Mr. Ducard said, placing the small note Danny delivered between some pages before closing the book and sliding it across the table for the young man to take. Goethe, the name of the author read, with a title citing the 9th volume of his complete works. “I’m sure he will know with this that all my appreciation goes back to him.”

Danny took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Uh, I actually don’t know where to find this guy. I was just given this message with instructions to leave it here. But that’s all I got for you, Mr. Ducard.”

The man nodded slowly and sat back in his chair. “Huh, that is the most unusual situation.”

Danny saw a sliver of hope out of this outcome and started concocting the most farfetched idea yet. With K nowhere to be seen, he realized he had a golden opportunity without any ghostly opposition. “But… if you have any idea who he is or where he could be, I could try looking for him. A name, an address, any particulars.”

As Danny felt the judging looks from his two remaining ghostly companions, he also noticed the moment Mr. Ducard’s eyes lit up at the idea.

“Well, I did get news that he came to Gotham for work, I believe. When he was younger, he loved to hang out with his group of friends at an old and abandoned place in Park Row. I remember he lived close to that place. It’s the only information I have that can be remotely useful,” the man said and took a sip of his tea. “I’m not sure if he’s comfortable with me revealing any other personal detail. But if you can help this old man find him, I’d be forever indebted to you.”

Eternal debts were not at all alluring to the young half-ghost. The threat of eternity posed by the Ghost Council made sure to inflict that psychic damage years ago.

“How long ago did this visit happen?” Danny asked. “Maybe that’ll help me to look for more information.”

Mr. Ducard shrugged. “Time goes on differently when you’re as old as me, I’m afraid. But it couldn’t have been more than a week or so ago when I heard about him from an old acquaintance.”

Danny froze at the implications, not even daring to breathe. “Are you sure?”

The old man nodded with a curious expression. “I can’t confirm, unfortunately, but it was fairly recent. That helped me narrow down who might have sent this thoughtful message.” He then took out a piece of paper and wrote something down. “This is the place, if it helps.”

Danny muttered to himself as he read the name next to the address. “A theater, of all places.” He then turned to look at Mr. Ducard and gently pushed the book back towards him. “I hope you don’t mind me looking into how safe this place is before taking the book with me.”

Mr. Ducard nodded. “Of course. Safety first, especially in this hopeless city. I’ll be waiting for you, then.”

“Uh, thank you, sir,” Danny replied, standing up from his seat. “And, I’m sorry for taking so much of your time and hospitality.”

“No, thank you—oh, I’m sorry, I missed your name,” Mr. Ducard added with a chuckle.

“Uh, Alvin,” Danny lied, internally making faces at the name he decided to borrow. “Thanks again, Mr. Ducard.”

The man stood up with a warm smile, placing a mildly trembling hand on his shoulder. “Please, call me Raul.”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Tim Drake didn’t miss from his life as a vigilante, it was having to report a failed mission back to the Batcave. One could argue that he wasn’t technically debriefing anywhere close to Wayne Manor. However, reaching out to Barbara Gordon with the latest update on the case was close enough to B’s radar.

Ergo, a Batcave report.

Barbara stared at Tim for a long moment in silence. Her hands were pressed together in front of her mouth as if trying to summon all the patience she could muster. Tim should have expected this reaction. But, in all fairness, he hadn’t had enough time to ponder his actions and merely took the best possible decision given the circumstances.

The stench of alcohol still lingered in his mouth, while the dread of being compromised loomed over his head like a death sentence. This was not only about his identity as Tim Drake. Or Red Robin, or Agent R, or Caroline Hill, or even Alvin Draper. He knew this could potentially impact all those who had ever been associated with him, especially those hidden behind a cowl or a pseudonym.

He wondered what Bruce or even Dick would think of his current state, then cringed at the idea of how they would’ve approached the situation.

No. Babs had always been his only option.

To deter any spiraling thoughts from the “overthinking” territory, the semi-retired Robin brought his lukewarm tea to his lips and braced himself to face the music. It didn’t promise to be a campy surf tune from the 60s.

The sounds of the clock tower filled the uncomfortable stillness in the room, until Babs took a deep breath and lowered her hands to her lap. “Okay,” she drawled. “Let’s see if I got everything you just told me. You went directly into the GIW Headquarters, despite being warned not to go alone. And you didn’t even take your boyfriend—”

“Not my boyfriend,” Tim mumbled with a tired exhale.

“Not the point, Alvin.” Tim grimaced at her tone and glare. “The point is that you didn’t even take the guy who already knew this sketchy organization because he… ghosted you?” Tim shrugged noncommittally. “And you didn’t think to tell me something that important so I could, I don’t know, help you?”

“Well, I’m telling you now, okay?” Tim shot back, meeting her glare with the same intensity. “And you know this case got way more complicated, and now…” The knots in his stomach gave another twist. “I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”

Babs held the glare for a moment before appraising him once again. Tim didn’t want to think about how desperate—no, how pathetic–he must have looked to make her expression soften.

“Well,” she started with a calm yet firm tone, “for better or worse, we’re in this together, and we’ll figure it out.”

The comfort in her words did nothing to reduce the tension claiming Tim’s shoulders. There were so many threads still out of his grasp, even as invisible stitches had started pulling his mental pinboard together. The dead phone in his pocket felt so heavy with questions and even heavier with implications. Especially when so far every piece of evidence put one elusive medium at the center of it all.

The more he thought about Danny, the more he realized his partner’s situation might be much harder to unravel than he had first assessed.

However, a little nagging voice in his head kept telling him not to focus too much on the medium, lest he jump to the wrong conclusions again. Maybe that wasn’t a terrible idea, after all. Focusing on the leads he still had from the GIW files could take priority.

“Where do I even start?” Tim mumbled as any lingering anger burning in his chest was drowned by his warring feelings. He pulled a small thumb drive from one of his pockets and placed it slowly on the table between him and Babs, leaving his hand close to the device. “Everything I've found so far is there. I wanted to look into it at home, but…”

He let the words fade on his lips. The detective couldn’t stop retracing his steps since waking up on his couch. The horror that crept under his skin when he realized his apartment had been invaded. The confusing memories and inconsistent details out of place. Such as how he recalled taking a sip of a bottle of whisky and then tilting it in the kitchen sink when he felt like throwing up. Or how he saw himself in the building’s footage but couldn’t recall fumbling for his keys in the wrong hallways.

Babs stared at the device on the table. “A thumb drive. How vintage,” she said drily.

Tim huffed as he tugged at one of the strings of the random hoodie he picked from the chair in his room. He tried to ignore the way it clashed with the red jeans he hastily changed into. “Look, I panicked, okay? I made this copy just in case my server’s been compromised too. I didn’t have time to run any analysis on the data, but from what I read at their HQ… it’s more convoluted than we expected.”

“You mean this goes beyond a dead John Doe?” Babs asked, reaching out to pick up the drive.

Before Barbara could get ahold of the small device, Tim covered it with his free hand, giving her a meaningful look. “This also stays off B’s grid, okay? At least until I can understand how safe it is for… for everyone.”

Babs smirked. “Oh, please. Bruce wishes he could have access to everything I do.”

Tim let the drive go with a soft snort. Barbara turned her wheelchair around to connect the device to the Oracle mainframe. A big part of Tim knew this was the right call, but there was something that continued to nag him to stop following this direction, warning him of a dead end ahead.

It was the same sensation that made him reconsider calling Zatanna. He knew she might have more answers to fill the new blanks on the case. But whenever he reached his phone to message her, a wave of caution made him hesitate. And there was a sense of wrongness whenever he tried to look back at their conversation, where missing details warred with the new information he got from his quick skimming through GIW reports.

If he couldn’t trust his memory and he couldn’t trust Zee, he knew at least Barbara would be able to find a new route to navigate through the evidence.

“Oh, Vlad Masters again?” Babs muttered.

Tim perked at that, now recalling how the billionaire’s disappearance was what brought Operative K to Gotham, of all places. “What do you mean ‘again’?”

Babs pushed her glasses back in place as she faced her visitor. “I looked into him a few years ago. Bruce was suspicious about one of Masters’ business ventures. Something about the other party not being interested in selling before, and then claiming they had a change of heart.” A dismissive hand gesture. “Or… something like that. We didn’t find anything on paper or otherwise. You could ask Bruce about it.” She turned around to stare back at the main screen. “Or not. You’re old enough to make those decisions.”

Tim rolled his eyes and walked to stand behind Barbara, looking attentively at the way she began to filter the data he provided. “Well, he’s back on our radar for going off the radar.”

“So I heard. Months ago, right?” She cursed under her breath as she tapped on a document and opened it on another screen. An article detailing Masters’ political career a few years ago appeared. “I knew the name Amity Park sounded familiar.”

Tim patted her shoulder. “There there. The all-seeing, all-knowing part is not a mandatory aspect of your codename, you know?”

At the sight of her glare, he decided to keep any smiles to himself. Perhaps some of his self-preservation skills had remained intact, after all.

Tim then watched as Barbara's system pulled details from the files to organize them into different categories. New windows with web searches and past files emerged in synchrony, dancing on the screen as they were allotted in the right pile. He often made fun of her digital pinboard of sorts, but he'd be willing to admit it was a very efficient way of using the system she built for the Bats.

What he wouldn’t admit was how out of the loop that made him feel, now that he didn’t play in the same sandbox, with the same toys as everyone else in their group.

Between Barbara’s curation of what bucket the data belonged to and the way her system found additional sources to consider, Tim saw a few details start to line up. “So, the GIW had an interest in Masters because he manufactured their gear?” He noticed a continuous stream of projects being classified into a group. “Damn, I didn’t realize he had all those patents.”

Babs scrunched her nose as she pulled forward some of the files and tapped a few commands. “Oh, he manufactured them, but those weren’t his designs.” Tim stared at one of the screens, trying to read details of what he had only skimmed through during his undercover visit. After a moment, Barbara hummed to herself. “I guess you didn’t copy that information in your scavenger hunt, but the ones who designed them were a couple of paranormal scientists named… Drs. Madeline and Jack Fenton? Huh. Weren’t those the loony couple who appeared in the Amity Park brochure talking about ghosts?”

Tim paused, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. He had known that, hadn’t he? “Uh, right. The name sounds familiar. So, what’s this about their work?”

Barbara typed a few more commands and pulled new information on another screen. “They sold some to the GIW, the GIW seized a few others, and I think they might have worked on some exclusively for Vlad Masters. They went to college together.”

The younger detective leaned closer to read over Babs’ shoulder. He focused on the list of patents on the screen, all listed alphabetically. But no matter how many times he tried to read past the ‘Fenton Ghost Peeler’ line, he found himself going back to the start of the list.

He was certain he had already read part of this during the raid to the GIW headquarters; however, he didn’t remember it well. The blackout from his visit came back to haunt him, making him question if his mind had been… manipulated, somehow, during the ordeal. As if he hadn’t been there for all of it.

“Huh, I see why we didn’t have their information coded by the algorithm,” Barbara’s voice said nearby. “Did you delete part of the file on them?”

Tim blinked slowly a couple of times. The screen suddenly felt several feet away. “No? What do you mean?”

Barbara’s hand pointed at one of the windows. He blinked again, slower. Her finger was tapping on a broken string of text. It mentioned something about the Fenton family. “There’s a gap in their file.”

Tim tried to make sense of the scribbles on the screen. He couldn’t recall what it had been about. His fingers started feeling numb. “That can’t be. I copied everything,” he heard himself say.

He remembered opening a safe connection. Deleting any trace of his presence on their server.

Where did he go wrong?

He remembered dropping file upon file that caught his interest. Further reading, he told himself.

He remembered reading the Fenton name in the darkened room. Fenton sounded familiar. Familiarity and dread fought in his memory of that moment. He couldn’t recall if it had been before the other agent’s interruption or after.

He remembered panicking. Dread won over after he read…something. Now it felt so foreign. So distant. Like going on autopilot before fading into darkness. But part of the dread remained.

All wrong.

“Earth to Tim,” a voice called from afar. “Tim?” Babs insisted.

The detective felt Barbara’s hand on his arm, holding on like an anchor that kept him from drifting away. He took a deep breath, holding and releasing it softly. Not inconspicuously enough to keep Babs from frowning.

His hands felt shaky. Maybe he was low on sugar. Low on pressure. Low on energy. Low on coherence. Or at least plummeting, plummeting, plummeting...

He hid his trembling hands under his armpits, arms crossed. Babs moved her hand with the shift in posture, now rubbing his upper arm.

“Sorry,” he replied as his slow blinks became more deliberate. “I got too engrossed with the document.”

The all-seeing Oracle raised an eyebrow. “Ah, almost forgot you adopted the Wayne coping mechanisms, too.” At Tim’s scoff, Babs gently squeezed his arm to keep him grounded. “Listen… you’ve already had a rough day. And I know for a fact you don’t stay up this late anymore.” 3:40 am, she pointed on a screen. He hadn’t even realized it was that late. “Why don’t you go to take a break? Maybe a much-needed shower? Or food. Ever heard of it?”

As much as Tim wanted to argue, he was well aware that he didn’t paint the best Tim Drake picture. Stumbling in a panicked frenzy into the clock tower, with mismatched clothes, incomplete files, a dash of dissociation, and concerning memory gaps while claiming he was probably compromised… Barbara would no doubt get in touch with the others if he didn’t at least listen.

Tim had to wonder if getting the rest of the bats involved in the case would be too terrible of an idea at this point.

“I don’t want to keep messing this up,” he muttered through a deep exhale.

Barbara gave him a warm smile. “Hey, you're not messing it up. You even came here instead of panicking alone in your apartment. I’d say that’s enough sign of how you learned from past mistakes.”

He looked away from her pointed look. “I still got Danny in danger,” he insisted, running a hand through his hair. “Probably kidnapped. Nearly murdered. Maybe worse.”

“Tsk, not so sure about that,” Babs replied as she leaned back in her chair. “Whatever your friend can do, he’s pretty resourceful if he can sneak out of a safe house and the magic shop while you were around.”

Tim stared blankly.

Babs rolled her eyes. “The camera at his workplace?” She patted Tim’s hand when she saw the look of recognition on his face. “Yeah, no. You’re benched for the next twenty-four hours or until you get your bearings together.”

Tim gave her a bewildered look. “Twenty—No, no, no, hold on… You do realize we have trained assassins—” he began counting with his hand, “—government agents, ghost hunters, a missing billionaire, and Houdini’s apprentice on the same plate, right?”

He purposefully omitted the ghosts apparently tying most of it together. He knew that any mention would get the Justice League Dark involved, since Barbara and the rest of the Bats wouldn’t be able to add much to the magical aspect of the ongoing investigation. At best, the JDL would keep him off the case. At worst, they’d just put Danny in more danger if his skills were uncovered.

The unimpressed rise of Barbara’s eyebrow was all the reply he needed to know that she wouldn’t back down.

With a resigned huff, Tim mumbled a “Fine” in reply. A beat followed to settle the air. “Four hours, while I shower and get some food.”

Barbara did not blink. “It’s not negotiable, Tim. Twenty-four hours. And you’ll go through standard protocol checks to make sure you’re not really compromised. The full Bat-special.”

Tim groaned. “I know I wasn’t drugged or had any other toxin in me.”

“Then it should be a walk in the park,” Babs replied as she pushed back her glasses in place. “It’s for your own good. You need to take a break. I’ll even lock your case files and ask the girls to keep me posted if they notice any odd activity in the meantime.”

Just like in old westerns, two unmovable wills stared each other down before sunrise as the giant clock continued ticking. But Tim was smarter than to believe he had the upper hand after how things had unfolded during his visit.

The younger detective broke his stare to glance at the multiple pieces of information displayed across the screens Barbara had been working on. The patents, the names, the few faces to cross-reference. And yet, he knew there was more not available in those files. Details only he was privy to about the medium.

“Will you at least tell me what you found on the video before I go?” he finally asked.

Barbara pursed her lips. “Will you tell me what’s Danny’s real deal?”

“It’s not relevant to the case,” he replied, a practiced calm taking over his rising concerns.

“Then the video will not be relevant to you in the next twenty-four hours,” Barbara shot back triumphantly.

Tim’s curiosity was fully piqued. He had seen enough of Danny’s ability to wonder if the video showed him talking to other ghosts. Perhaps even the owner of the magic shop. But asking that would be enough to further cement any suspicions Babs might have about Danny.

He licked his lips. He could handle a day benched. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Okay,” he conceded. "Could you at least call me if you have a breakthrough?”

“Only if you promise to rest and let me work,” she said with the same stern look from before. “And trust me… I’ll make sure you can’t escape your mandatory break.”

The ominous threat was not one Tim would dare take lightly. But unbeknownst to Barbara, he had other ways to ponder the case. After all, he still had other methods up his sleeve.

“Loud and clear, B,” he said with a mock salute.

In hindsight, he deserved the extended protocol checks he got in retaliation.

Twenty-four hours felt like an impossibly long sentence to fulfill when so many things were still unresolved. At least for one Tim Drake, the concept of taking a break was almost unheard of. But as with everything in his life, he learned when to compromise if things weren’t going in his favor.

His visit to the clock tower went on longer than he first intended. Between the various scans, tests, and checks to make sure he wasn’t tracked, drugged, or manipulated somehow, and a mandatory nap on a very comfortable couch Babs had originally set up for the girls, he was at least thankful that it helped to reduce his time-out.

And, as much as he wanted to deny it, he did need to regroup and reduce the tensions that threatened to escalate with every catastrophic mental detour he took on the case.

With only sixteen hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-four seconds to go, he decided to leave this temporary sanctuary to get something good to eat. Not that he didn’t appreciate Babs’ sandwiches, but he needed a break from his enclosure and his hunger for answers was now manifesting in a growling stomach.

He needed to move and stop feeling like a shadow of himself.

Tim’s usual diner was not too far from the clock tower, even if the ride there felt impossibly hard to complete. A part of him worried he would find Danny and the medium would disappear out of thin air before Tim could ask anything, considering how the last time they met Danny believed "Draper” was trying to kill him.

A different part of him told him that at least an encounter like that would guarantee his partner was still safe, somehow.

As soon as Tim opened the door, the diner’s smells and sights filled his senses, from the freshly brewed coffee to the smell of bacon. A couple of regulars, as usual, turned to the entrance and nodded in greeting when they saw him walk toward his usual booth.

Olive, the waitress, who had been serving coffee at another table, soon noticed his presence and moved to his table.

“Well, so nice of you to visit us,” she greeted as she served him a cup of coffee. “We thought you got in trouble somewhere.”

Tim gave her a small smile. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

He tried to figure out when he had last taken his usual seat. He recalled his last visit with Danny. His wariness when Tim asked him about Amity Park, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Had it really been three days ago? That morning felt so far away after all the things that happened in between. The attack from the assassins, the talk with Zatanna, the murder of Mr. Olivander, the GIW infiltration, his time-out at the clock tower…

Maybe he was deeper in his old Red Robin ways than he cared to admit.

“Well, you were gone long enough for us to take notice,” Olive said with a small smile. “Still, no one tried to take your booth, in case you showed up. I’ll get you the usual.”

She then promptly turned to leave before Tim could form any coherent sentence.

Somehow his heart felt fuller at the gesture. While he had become a regular since he embarked on his new role as a detective solving cold cases, he hadn’t realized just how much of a comforting space the diner had become beyond the need for privacy and a decent meal. Somehow, the small booth he was used to haunting had become a shelter of sorts. A place to think, to regroup, but also where he could silently heal some wounds. After all the tension in the last few days, perhaps taking a moment to enjoy the simple joys behind a cup of coffee and the concern of people who only knew him from a distance was more than welcoming.

And maybe it was ironic that he had this chance to just be a regular Joe. No one called him for his first name because no one asked for it. In a way, everyone who came and went at the diner had somehow created a story about who he was, just like the thousands of theories he had created for other regulars when he was bored.

As he drank his cup of coffee, embracing the warmth and familiarity of its brew, Olive soon arrived with a plate of their breakfast special for him, prepared the way they already knew he liked it.

“Will your friend join your table today?” she asked with some concern still etched on her face.

Tim knew Olive was a very caring soul, looking out for those who needed a pick-me-up every once in a while. She usually offered a pie on the house for Danny whenever she saw him. He couldn’t blame her: there was something about Danny that always felt tragic. Tim figured it was a combination of his posture, the dark bags under his eyes, the tired exhales, and the fact that he was always wary. There was something… haunted in his eyes. Even when no shades were apparently around, the heavy weight about him was enough to instill this need to protect him.

Maybe that’s why Tim had given him the benefit of the doubt so many times when he wouldn’t have trusted him in other circumstances.

The frown on the woman’s face deepened as Tim struggled to get back on track. “Oh, uh, he’s… busy.”

Olive clicked her tongue and gave her eyebrows a quick raise. “All right, I won’t pry. I'll mind my own business.” She then turned to leave his table again.

Tim sighed deeply, thinking how this break was not doing much for him if everything reminded him about Danny and the unresolved mysteries around the medium. The phone on Tim’s coffee table hours before continued to bring more questions than answers about what it meant. Babs had said he was resourceful. Tim believed it. And perhaps there were other clues he hadn’t seen in the rush of leaving his apartment that could tell him who else could’ve been involved.

If the assassins going after Danny could really be part of the League or some new player he hadn’t figured out. If there was any legitimate reason, or a change to their MO, that would explain why they’d target Danny or Mr. Olivander for being involved in the GIW’s case, or if he was jumping to conclusions because he had no other leads to follow at the moment.

If Vlad Masters was actually behind this or whoever had been responsible for his disappearance. If there was a larger scheme of things he hadn’t considered.

“Oh, no, he left them behind again?” Olive exclaimed from the counter as some woman gave her something. “I swear that man doesn’t leave his head behind because it’s attached to his neck.”

Tim stared at the object Olive picked from the departing customer while they both chuckled. It was a pair of reading glasses. They seemed familiar and Tim recalled other occasions where the staff had complained about a regular who usually left his glasses behind.

Glasses.

The reminder was enough to cut through the fog of things he forgot to look into. Like a spell lifting to open a path forgotten.

But how could he have forgotten about the dark GIW shades that were taken from his apartment?

Tim knew Barbara had cleared him from any drug or manipulation actively making him forget things, noting he could recall them if he focused enough. And he knew there had been a long string of other revelations to occupy his mind.

But why hadn’t he recalled the one crucial piece of evidence that could lead him to continue looking for Danny?

After Tim took the glasses and met with Zatanna, he returned to an empty safe house that sent him spiraling with questions. He knew there was a high chance that Danny had discovered the absence of the shades, probably feeling betrayed by one of Gotham’s heroes. Hence why, as soon as Tim realized his mistake, he decided to leave a micro-tracker inside of the frame. That would allow him to make sure he wouldn’t lose sight of them if Danny recovered them and decided to make a break for it.

The detective pulled out his phone, navigating through different menus and looking into hidden apps for deeper investigative work. The tracking app came to life, allowing him to see all the numerous trackers he had left on relevant objects in the past. The long list showed everything as “CONNECTING…”, including the one he named for the GIW shades, the one he left on Danny’s hoodie, another one on a different jacket, the one inside the phone that someone had left on his coffee table… maybe he needed to rethink his tracking strategies.

The waiting time felt unusual, but he knew that once the connection status shifted to “ONLINE” or “OFFLINE”, he’d have the answers he needed for so many questions.

When minutes passed without a change, Tim remembered one tiny detail that affected the outcome: Babs’ lockout was still in place, impacting anything connected to his personal server.

He huffed in frustration, leaning back against his booth. He stared at the time. Still fifteen hours and fifty-seven minutes left before his sentence was over.

So much could happen during that time. It was enough for Danny to skip town if he was the one behind the invasion in Tim’s apartment. It was enough for anyone else in possession of the shades to do some considerable damage, either to Danny or anyone else involved in the case.

Tim imagined he could reason with Barbara to grant him some access back, to allow him to follow the lead he forgot was there. Or get someone else to follow the lead, if that’s what it would take to keep Danny safe from whatever was happening in the meantime.

Except, if Danny was the one to take the shades, and if he was really resourceful enough to escape a bat-grade safe house, to slip under Tim’s nose at the Shadow Parlor, and even possibly find a way to steal the shades in Tim’s apartment, it could mean potentially losing Danny if he felt cornered by the other bats. It would mean having to explain his abilities to Babs and the others, leading to an eventual involvement from the JLD.

And back to square one.

So Tim was facing two realistic options: calling Barbara to discuss this lead and get someone else involved in his case, potentially losing all connection to Danny, or waiting the almost sixteen hours left of his time-out, hoping it wasn’t too late to follow wherever the shades were last seen.

Either option would hurt.

At least Tim had learned to be patient when a case required it.

As he ate his brunch, he wondered if eating slowly would help to ease some of his rising anxiety. Maybe he could still pretend he was just Alvin Draper, a regular patron and coffee enthusiast when he needs something to lift his spirits.

Maybe he could still pretend the vigilante life he buried in the past wasn’t creeping up in every tense minute waiting for answers. Maybe he could pretend the stakes weren’t that high, that he was still chasing cold cases where no one was bound to get hurt if he took more time to look into more details.

Tim decided he couldn’t stomach the taste of dread rising in every bite.

He got up, the plate left unfinished as he left an empty cup of coffee and a hundred dollar bill on the table, offering Olive a sad smile before leaving.

Alvin Draper was gone the moment he closed the diner’s door behind him.

Waiting was not Tim’s forte. While he had complied with Barbara’s request to take a break, he couldn’t stay entirely still waiting for the countdown to end.

He had used some of his time disconnected by training at the clock tower, figuring he needed to keep his reflexes sharp. Of course, he had asked Babs for some leniency and some time off his sentence, only to be met with a negative response. She hadn’t even allowed him to look over her shoulder as she worked, claiming this was for his own good after seeing how burnt out he looked from the case.

She promised she’d lift her ban if there were any signs of concern or immediate action. She reassured him that she had her cameras set to look for any sighting of his friend in her feed. He remembered the lack of surveillance in The Cauldron and decided he couldn’t stay to keep catastrophizing next to someone who could extend his time out.

He found a new “cage” to carry out his time left. The safe house he chose for the day was very close to his apartment. Just in case. After all, he had kept an eye on the compromised location through surveillance inside and out, as a way to ensure no one came back after he locked the place up. He still hadn’t been able to eliminate any other suspect that could have been behind his blackout, but a gut feeling—and a lack of bugs, notes, or traps to threaten his very existence—told him it wasn’t necessarily someone trying to be hostile. Or so he hoped.

Danny was still his top choice and his main source of distress.

The warm shower he decided to take to appease his anxiety was not enough to keep all the inner demons at bay. On the contrary, shower thoughts often led to brainstorming, lifting some remaining fog to encourage him to find the missing link in the case.

He glanced again at the clock. Roughly ten hours left.

As the detective dried his hair with a towel, he felt ready to get back in gear. Or as much as Barbara Gordon’s digital block would allow. He sat on a dusty couch in the living room, trying to ignore the smell of a place that didn’t have enough maintenance when it wasn’t in use.

He looked over the objects he managed to collect from his apartment before his visit to the clock tower. The pinboard on the coffee table mocked him with the glaring disinformation on display. The red string linking names and places was outdated at best.

The lack of “Vlad Masters” in the theories he concocted not long ago was the most glaring change. There was also a post-it with “Ken?” listed as Operative K’s real name, thanks to Danny’s misdirection. Mr. Olivander hadn’t been a victim yet. And the Fentons were only an obscure reference in Amity Park’s tourist brochure.

If he wanted to find the right answers, perhaps he needed to start filling the gaps in the information he wouldn’t get from the GIW files: the extent of Danny’s abilities or his whereabouts, the connection between Vlad Masters and Gotham, and, apparently, the way this case tied to the Fenton couple he forgot he read about.

Tim opened a spare computer that he used to work off the grid. While it was true he couldn’t access his files or personal server, there were always other options he could try. And a little bit of digital ethnography coupled with some vox populi could always do the trick in a pinch.

He licked his lips as he opened a familiar admin page.

He rewrote the entry a few times, editing to his usual format, using a different VPN to post his entry and hide any traces of his current whereabouts, as vague as they might be. Tim knew this was still risky. Like lighting a flare in his direction in case anyone found out about his meddling at the GIW building. But even people looking into the location where the post originated would have a hard time tracing it back to Tim Drake per se.

If all went well, it could open the door to a tip to set him in the right direction. A lot of the time, readers with genuine information just wanted someone who could hear their story without any risk. Like leaving the burden out of their chests to share the load with others. Sometimes they just needed a little time before breaking the ice.

He stared at the clock again, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table.

Eight hours and forty-two minutes left.

Tim groaned and decided to pick something else to do.

He had already spent his time after the visit to the diner cleaning the space where he would work, doing some perimeter checks close to his apartment, and even taking that long shower. Time was still conspiring against him, dragging each second as slowly as possible.

Tim decided to start pulling at the pins and strings on his pinboard to rearrange all the information with what he knew now. He could still fill the other missing boxes in the case, picking from where his case really began. With Danny.

Not “Nightingale”, he noted on another post-it, since the medium seemed to be a runaway, almost confirmed by the man himself. ‘I don’t go by that name anymore,’ had been one of his admissions while he spoke in private with the GIW agent. Tim had tracked his record back when their partnership started and noted there were no connections to any crime that could be tied to his fingerprints. The missing-persons database had not picked up on any report either, and it had led Tim to theorize if this was because he wasn’t reported as missing or if he had covered his tracks well enough to keep people from finding him that easily.

But, as far as Tim could tell, there was nothing to indicate he was a criminal or even a suspect in Operative K’s murder. Not to mention, the medium had a keen desire to help ghosts, something he did at The Shadow Parlor, where he had been working for roughly 9 months. Now, with Mr. Olivander’s death, the future seemed unsure in that aspect.

The shop-now-turned-murder-scene had been the last place where Danny had appeared. Babs had confirmed as much from what little she had shared about the footage at the small business. And somehow, Tim had missed the medium entirely during his visit, following a tracker that had shown Danny on the move the whole time and not just malfunctioning. He marked the location on the map he had included, adding another red string to connect the dots.

And here’s where the detective found his first roadblock and the start of a headache.

While Tim knew Danny had abilities, perhaps he miscalculated the extent of them. There were tell-tale signs, like the flashy green eyes whenever he picked a relevant object connected to a ghost. But considering his Houdini act at the safe house and the magic shop? The detective was almost inclined to believe Danny had other skills up his sleeve. Maybe disappearing was not just a runaway act.

Tim took the dead phone out of his pocket. The one he had snuck into Danny’s jacket a few weeks ago, as a way to stay in touch but also to be able to keep a closer eye on the medium. The fact that the tracker had shown its location wherever Tim had been could only mean one thing: Danny or someone who had his phone had been following Tim the whole time.

This had to be impossible, unless they were able to stay out of sight, which only added more credence to the theory that Danny could disappear somehow.

If Tim hadn’t been well aware that ghosts were no longer fully connected to this plane of existence, he might’ve believed Danny was a ghost himself.

From the sounds of it, ghosts had been a part of Danny’s life before his job at The Shadow Parlor. The fact that he knew Agent K could only lead to a possible conclusion: Danny had lived in Amity Park before. And if he had known the GIW, had he known other ghost experts such as the Fentons? Did he have any connection to Masters? Could that have tipped the GIW off to look into Gotham?

As he added Masters’ name on the pinboard, Tim recalled one of the muddled details he almost forgot after his blackout: Vlad Masters had disappeared close to the end of all ghost magic. Something he remembered Zatanna had mentioned was possibly the GIW’s fault.

But if the GIW were looking for Masters and the group hadn’t found a lead, something didn’t fit with the story. There had to be something connecting the lack of ghost connections and Gotham to the case. And a reason for Agent K to have died.

Tim took a sip of the cold cup of coffee he left on the floor at the start of his brainstorming session. He had to wonder: what if Masters was behind the lack of ghostly connections and not the GIW? But what motivations would he have for such a move, when most of his empire was built around technology, including weaponry against ghosts?

He looked at the clock again. Six hours and six minutes left.

The detective leaned back on the couch, his head against the wall, wondering if he had made a mistake by not waiting for Babs to provide more information.

After a moment of contemplation, he decided to check again his blog for any possible comments. It had only been a short time since he began to ride the rollercoaster down his newest rabbit hole. As per usual, some of his top followers had already shared their surprise at the case, and some of their own theories. However, they had no additional information to provide out of pure speculation.

Maybe he needed to give it more time.

A long trip later to a Thai restaurant a few blocks away to get some food, keeping his face hidden under dark sunglasses and a face mask, Tim was ready to continue working. As he returned back to the safe house, take-out bag in hand, his first instinct was to look at the clock, again.

Less than four hours left.

He sat down with a huff to eat as slowly as he could, intent to watch some lighthearted show on the TV, if Babs hadn’t blocked that yet.

Despite the break from his investigation, the distraction had not been nearly enough. Around two hours were still left, and no update from Babs was available, no matter how many times he had already asked, just to make sure.

Minutes later, his computer pinged with an e-mail notification from his blog. He rushed to the couch and picked up his laptop to open the new message. As soon as he read its contents, he went cold:

The Fentons, again.

Following a hunch and ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him to follow a different lead, Tim decided to look up the date he estimated Masters had disappeared with the word “Fentons” in it.

He had already done all the web searches he could on the Fenton doctors before finishing his post on Masters. He knew some bits of information from what he recalled from his research at the GIW, no matter how blurry it was. However, most articles were old but high enough in traffic to keep them relevant, mentioning all the achievements they had in Amity Park back in the day.

But he hadn’t thought to connect the date. The small precision got him a result he hadn’t seen in his initial search.

Of all the sources he could’ve stumbled upon, a TikTok video was not on his Bingo card.

The content uploaded by some local reporter by the name of Lance Thunder had a short ghostly forecast of sorts mentioning it had been six hours without green clouds or a ghost attack. The man then went on to mention how reports from neighbors of FentonWorks indicated there had been an outage after the Fenton Ghost Portal shut down.

The name tickled something in Tim’s memory, like a persistent itch impossible to place and to reach.

Tim went on to look for “Fenton Ghost Portal”, in the hopes that there had been other reports around the ominous name. None popped up. Vaguely, he wondered if Zee had something to do with that, even if that line of thought didn’t make sense.

He opened a different search for the words “Fenton” and “lab OR experiment” to see if something else appeared.

The thirty-minute video that had been uploaded six years ago showed a blonde reporter named Tiffany Snow following a couple dressed in eccentric clothing at a lab. The initial scene looked like a sci-fi mockumentary, with an assortment of neon lights, metal panels, and odd weapons similar to the blueprints Babs was already analyzing.

After several minutes into the video, the couple explained their most precious invention: the portal. Tim had to pause to stare at the uncanny green vortex swirling in the background. A familiar-looking green. The sheer size of it should have been enough to make alarms blare at the Watchtower, if the invention actually did what it claimed: connect the ghost world with the living world.

Before a full theory could be formed in Tim’s head about how the GIW might have used the portal to breach the ghosts’ dimension, therefore coinciding with Zatanna’s claim that the organization had been responsible for it, two new faces came into view as the Fentons talked about their family dynamics. One of which Tim was a hundred percent certain he had seen before.

As he stared in awe at the young face of one unimpressed Danny Fenton, he realized the connection the GIW had to Gotham had been right under his nose.

“Fuck,” Tim said under his breath.

Danny Fenton. Danny Nightingale.

Something about that newfound knowledge nagged at him again.

He had already known that, hadn’t he?

Flashes of his time at the GIW headquarters came back in full force. That had been the information he stumbled upon before he blacked out. Before a rush of panic took over him, making him feel like he was accessing forbidden knowledge, somehow.

“Danny Fenton” soon appeared on his search bar after furious keystrokes that almost ended in a few typos. A missing persons report came up after he explicitly looked for it with very specific keywords. He wondered if Babs had been able to find it as well or if it had missed her radar entirely.

Danny Fenton had gone missing after the portal was shut down. Around the time Masters had gone missing. Around the time all ghostly connections were severed somehow. Before Danny Nightingale had any trace known in Gotham.

Danny Fenton had the ability to see and talk to ghosts. He also had other skills Tim couldn’t fully decipher, but that continued to tie him to impossible feats.

Tim’s rabbit hole was deep and endless, new holes opening up as he pictured the new connections he discovered in the case and the implications behind them.

A new message appeared on his phone.

As soon as the words dawned on him, he rushed to his tracking app to see if his hunch was right.

All trackers appeared OFFLINE, except for one.

Except for the GIW glasses, that blinked as ONLINE on the map.

They appeared at The Cauldron. Eerily close to The Shadow Parlor.

Tim ran a hand through his hair as he tried to figure out what he should do now. Should he call for backup? Should he stick to his plan of going after Danny (or at least who he thought was Danny), on his own?

The detective held his breath as the dot moved, leaving the area.

Chapter Text

The trek back home had never felt as exhausting as today. When one was walking towards an open grave, especially when it’s been dug by one’s own hands, each step felt deliberately slow to avoid reaching a foretold doom.

Especially when the question remained on whether Danny still had a home to return to, given the circumstances.

The drastic turn of events in the last few days made him feel… inadequate. Out of his element. Like a Jenga piece that fell on a chessboard, rolling high on every sore thumb check.

Perhaps the bad analogies were another symptom of a larger problem. His entire purpose of helping lost souls move on made no sense when the soul that needed to move on was not even interested in solving his own murder. When Operative K disappeared as soon as his message was delivered to Mr. Ducard, Danny was left with a sour aftertaste: did he continue caring about solving the murder without K’s help?

All answers led to an inevitable yes.

For starters, someone had murdered an agent closely tied to Amity Park. An agent who was led to Gotham on a case to find Vlad Masters, for some reason still unknown to Danny. These were all ties closely linked to a missing Danny Fenton, if anyone looked too closely at the coinciding dates of disappearance. And even if things didn’t exactly add up, Danny was sure it all spelled trouble for him and his anonymity in the long run.

“Isn’t it dangerous to come back to The Cauldron?” Mr. Olivander asked as he floated closely by Danny’s side.

Danny moved his head from side to side as if weighing his thoughts, not really in the mood to engage in the opening of that particular can of worms. “Kinda. But I also need to check any other possible leads to K’s murder. Or… yours. For all I know, Mr. Ducard’s tip could be a GIW setup. Pretty sure that wouldn’t help us solve anything, if that’s the case.”

The silence from his two ghost companions felt heavy with judgment that didn’t dare call the medium out. Danny opted to ignore it with a small shrug to adjust his backpack and a light pull of his cap to partially cover his eyes. He turned around to make sure his surroundings were still clear. The last thing he wanted as he navigated the shadows of The Cauldron’s chilly evening was to end up being mugged by some Ghosts, from the local gang variety.

The brief respite from ghostly conversation was broken when Patrick chimed in, stepping in front of Danny with placating hands, which finally made the medium stop. “I totally get that you felt betrayed by the other detective and all, but… wouldn’t it be better to contact him? You know, get some tips and clues…”

The souring levels in Danny’s mood were raised another notch. While Danny wouldn’t admit it out loud, the fact was that he had considered contacting Draper, even hours before he knocked on Mr. Ducard’s door. He thought of the many ways he could just run back into the detective’s apartment to beg for his help and guidance. But then he had to acknowledge the harsh reality of their dynamic. How they weren’t partners but rather strangers playing each in their own field for whatever undisclosed goal they had set.

The truth was that Alvin Draper was also Red Robin. And with great bat-power didn’t just come great responsibility; it also brought the inevitable descent of the rest of Gotham’s bat-shit night shift. And the Justice League. And their magic department of odd cases to solve.

They wouldn’t see a poor young man who was struggling to keep his half-life barely together. They’d see a threat. A catastrophe. A problem to contain and turn back to normal… or whatever meant normal these days.

Someone guilty of closing a vital connection and who had at least one skeleton in the closet, so to speak.

Danny resumed his path with a small headshake and a tired sigh. No. He wouldn’t look for Draper. “For all I know, he probably thinks I made Vlad disappear.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, but you can just explain that you didn’t.”

The medium looked away and was suddenly very interested in the sidewalk beneath them.

Patrick and Mr. Olivander exchanged concerned frowns. “Wait, you didn’t, right?” Patrick asked.

Danny grimaced. “It’s… complicated?”

Before the ghostly duo could get ahead of themselves, with how they whispered behind Danny’s back, the medium took a deep breath and turned around with a sharp stop. The whispers came to a simultaneous halt as well.

Danny’s tired blue eyes looked between them, darkened with the weight of his choices from the last few weeks, months, and years. “Look…” he said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I’m sorry I can’t give you all the explanations you might want about… whatever happened. With Vlad, the Realms, the ghosts, and everything. But this is so not the time nor the place.”

His eyes shifted to the right, to the sight of a small group of people who were talking among themselves, several feet away from the direction Danny had come from. They didn’t look particularly dangerous and they didn’t resemble any of the gang members he could recognize from his time living in this forgotten hole in the city. But as the tension on his shoulders rose, the group’s stares lingered longer on him from a distance.

He needed to keep moving, Danny concluded.

Mr. Olivander and Patrick turned behind to look at the source of Danny’s newfound unease. Instead of a spoken reply, which the medium was aware no one would hear except for him, his ghostly companions nodded firmly in a silent vow to continue some other time with their questions.

With a truce somehow in place, the three continued their path in silence, allowing Danny to seek refuge in the evening shadows without raising any more alarms around the neighborhood.

Now that he was back on his original track, Danny shifted his focus to the purpose of his visit. Leads. Clues. Any sliver of hope that could convince him not to go on a different route that might lead to his probable doom.

His plan had been fairly simple: look around, ask a few questions, take notes, find a trail to follow, get the villains, fix his life, and perhaps get the hell away from Gotham. All in the span of a night, if at all possible.

Of course, Danny had never been a good planner. Years as a small-town hero who faced the usual threat of the week in either human or ghostly form led him to believe in the power of improvisation. He knew that adapting to the emerging conditions was the only way to survive, especially when his attackers could hide so well they could wear someone else’s skin to deceive him, or when some even slept under the same roof, thinking how to rip him apart molecule by molecule.

So instead of throwing himself fists-first into an uncertain fight against the GIW at the location Mr. Ducard gave him, he decided to adopt a different approach. One he had lived nearly first-hand during his invisible surveillance and during weeks of detective work: he would throw away his Fenton Manual for Half-Survival and take the Alvin Draper, aka Red Robin, Approach this time around.

The method was simple in Danny’s mind, stopping to wonder a very straightforward question: What Would Draper Do?

With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders to project more confidence, which he deduced was a brilliant first step and patted himself on the back. For all intents and purposes, he’d project his role as a man with a plan—for the first time in his half-life, at least.

Once he pushed away minor distracting thoughts, such as a bitter ‘Draper would lie and steal to his partner’ or a sarcastic ‘Draper would dress up like a ghost and go undercover as one’, Danny was left with the realization that he hadn’t been privy to the process of how Draper gathered intel or leads. From Danny’s recollections, Draper had always been prepared with a case file, along with a list of potential witnesses to interview or places of interest to search. His shoulders slowly began to hunch.

Danny’s not-really-superhuman skills to learn on the fly, therefore, told him the first step was to identify the potential witnesses and places of interest in Mr. Olivander’s murder. While Danny had no guarantee that the people behind his murder had also been behind Operative K’s demise, he had a solid Phantom-approved hunch that his involvement in the case was the catalyst that set everything into motion.

With that into consideration, the first place that came to mind was The Shadow Parlor itself. However, once he walked close enough to see the police tape indicating an active crime scene, the place had become a solid no-go.

Patrick’s voice spoke behind him. “Is that your shop? Look! They even set up a memorial!”

From what Danny could see from across the street, the main window became the spot where people left lit candles, notes, flowers, and even small mementos such as a plush toy or a book. Small pictures of Mr. Olivander saved the lasting memory of his warm smiles that somehow lit up his eyes.

Mr. Olivander replicated the same smile, tears pooling in his eyes as they slowly got closer. “This is our shop. Decades of work and so many fond memories. I used to be in here day in and day out. My ex-wife was worried the shop would be the end of me.” Patrick sucked in his breath at the mention, while Danny pretended he wasn’t accidentally eavesdropping; the pang of guilt wasn’t as kind to pretend the same. Mr. Olivander got closer to Patrick and lowered his voice more, but not enough to be out of Danny’s earshot. “That’s why I hired him. To get some time for myself. And you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing about it despite, well, the dead aspect of it.”

Patrick gave a soft gasp. “I know, right? Dying still sucks. But if I’m stuck here anyway, at least it’s exciting to follow a real detective with all their clues and high stakes and all that. Like we’re in a TV show or something.”

Danny didn’t have the heart to tell them his only references were old-fashioned buddy-cop dramas. Now, he was left without the buddy cop, but still had plenty of drama.

Changing his gears back into focus, channeling his former buddy-cop once more, Danny looked at the only other light still casting a soft glow on the sidewalk. A shop right across The Shadow Parlor, owned by Mrs. Mora, an old Latin lady who had been a friend of Mr. Olivander for years, or so he heard. While the venue made the most sense to visit as a starting point, he hesitated to walk towards the door.

“Ah! Graciela, of course!” Mr. Olivander suddenly said out loud, floating closer to the shop. He turned to Danny. “I know you don’t like coming in here, but I can assure you, Mrs. Mora is the sweetest and kindest soul you’ll ever know. She’ll help you.”

Danny, of course, was well aware of Mrs. Mora’s welcoming nature. He knew, for instance, she had an uncanny gift of remembering faces and a collection of minor random details about people’s lives. She always had an old saying at her disposal, even if she refused to translate them into English at times. And from what Danny was told, she lived alone after her husband passed away, making her always happy to have a nice chat over coffee at her shop. That had turned her into someone young families sought for advice in the community.

Under different circumstances, Danny would have been more relieved at the prospect of seeking her guidance and relying on her sharp memory for his ongoing investigation. But when a half-ghost felt personally attacked by a particular cleansing herb in her store, he had to take into account how that would impact his companions who were fairly new to the ghostly side of existing.

It wasn’t really much of a choice, Danny considered. Between an itchy nose or, as he catastrophized, guaranteed doom, he braced himself to open the door to the shop. The Pura Vida slogan painted on it almost shining with life as he approached it. “Right, let’s do this,” he mumbled.

The sound of a tired electronic chime greeted Danny as soon as he stepped into the store. The small place, filled with a diverse assortment of natural and organic items, including a corner with tea, coffee, and other blends. However, the highlight was a section with unrelated imported goods from Costa Rica, cherished by those who would have otherwise not been able to indulge in the flavor from home. It all had the welcoming warmth he had always associated with the lady who managed it.

The experience was broken the moment he felt his nose twitch with the all-too-familiar smell of the bundle of herbs Mr. Olivander had asked him to give his old friend to keep her safe. Ruda, she called it; a name he learned out of necessity. After all, he became uncomfortably aware that blood blossoms were not his only botanical worry.

He heard a second chime and noticed it happened once Mr. Olivander and Patrick floated behind him. The three of them exchanged glances, full of confusion from the Medium and surprise from his ghostly companions.

“Wait, did you just—?" Before Danny could make sense of the implications of having ghosts triggering old-fashioned retail devices and rewriting his understanding of the new rules of the ghost world, a short woman with graying dark hair, holding two bags of coffee beans, appeared from behind some shelves.

Her brown eyes landed on the young man, widening as if she had seen a ghost.

“Danny,” she rushed to say, haphazardly placing the bags on a random shelf and putting her hands over his. “Oh, mijo, I’m glad you’re safe! I thought they had taken you away.”

The fact that so many groups were apparently after him did not make Mrs. Mora’s worry clear. “Uh, taken? By whom?”

Danny noticed from the corner of his eye that both Patrick and Mr. Olivander hesitated to move past the entrance. The experienced medium didn’t know how to tell them that sometimes the things that affected ghosts didn’t discern between good and evil spirits, as living people claimed.

Mrs. Mora followed Danny’s gaze with confusion. “The cops, of course!”

“Oh.” Danny realized his long list of groups after him was not getting any shorter. “You mean… they think I did it?” he asked with a twist of his gut.

“No, no, to ask you questions,” Mrs. Mora said as she tapped his hand. “I know you’re a good kid. Even Rupert said so.” Her eyes glanced beyond the window at the front, staring in the direction of The Shadow Parlor. “He… he was a good man, too,” she added with tears in her eyes.

A feeling of inadequacy left the perceptive medium at a loss for words of comfort. Especially when one could still see the manifestation of the soul being mourned. Danny turned to see Mr. Olivander, who had a watery smile as Patrick said something softly.

Danny tackled the lump in his throat like just another hurdle and looked back at Mrs. Mora. “I’m so sorry about your loss. I know you guys were close. He was a really good guy.”

Mrs. Mora nodded, leading Danny gently to the store’s counter, where she pulled out a small stool for him. The one she usually pulled out of Mr. Olivander. The stinging smell of rue felt like just a minor inconvenience compared to the weight of this gesture. “He was. He cared for his community, his friends. And even the odd case of someone needing help,” she said with a sad smile and a pointed look as she sat on her own chair. “He believed in saving the most important thing in The Cauldron, you know? Its soul.”

Danny hesitantly sat down, feeling undeserving of the seat he had taken. He looked at the store’s entrance, at the man who gave him an opportunity to build a life in Gotham despite not having any experience or documents to show. Mr. Olivander was in the meantime convincing Patrick to take a break outside to avoid the uncomfortable herb. That he would have “the kid’s” back.

“He didn’t deserve what they did to him,” Mrs. Mora continued softly.

The medium could not pass his next lumpy hurdle to say another word.

As things usually go with poorly-baked coping mechanisms, Danny put a cover on his guilt in favor of his recently-adopted vision: getting a new lead to solve this case and hopefully bring justice for Mr. Olivander. He mentally recalled all the things he had already observed and remembered. The woman dressed in black, the type of wound on Mr. Olivander’s body, the state his store was in, the timing…

The medium cleared his throat as he tried to channel the professional detachment he often saw on Draper. “Do you… do you have any idea who would’ve done that? Anything you might remember? Sometimes small details end up being important.”

He added to his mental notes to stop using cliched dialogues from bad police procedural TV shows as inspiration.

Mrs. Mora lifted her glasses and cleaned the tears that had started to roll out. “Diay… Let me tell you something about this city, with you being new and all. You see enough people running around the roofs and doing backflips, and you start to think it’s background noise. You stop looking up. So you don’t usually pay much attention, okay?”

Danny nodded as if he understood the feeling, despite not having seen many vigilantes doing backflips around roofs during his time in Gotham. Except for one. His nose twitched, but if it was due to the rue's vile smell nesting in his nose or the foul reminder of the vigilante he met up close, he was not able to tell.

The woman continued, her glasses and determination back in place. “But last night, when I was closing—you know that feeling? Like when someone’s looking? I’d say that was Rupert coming to visit, but no. This felt like… like ñáñaras? Uh, scary vibes? I rushed inside and looked out through the curtains, and there was someone up there, on the building next to Rupert’s.”

“A Bat?” Danny asked, sure that this might just be Draper keeping an eye on him. Maybe he had to consider in his assessment the different things Draper would do when not pretending to wear a badge.

“No, no. This one was different. They had a sword on their back. And I know there was a Robin with a sword, but he hasn’t been out in a while. This looked like a woman. No cape.”

The mantra Danny had begun to invoke in his investigation worked in overdrive. Draper would dissect everything said and look for the nearest suspects that fit the picture, Danny replied to himself. A woman with a sword matched the story he knew so far. Yet, there was something off.

"You said this was last night?” Danny paused. “You mean, this figure came after Mr. Olivander was attacked?”

They were still looking for him, Danny concluded. He pictured the vigilant eyes of darkened silhouettes on the rooftop, searching for any sign of their prey. Keeping guard over every place he had ever visited. Every neighbor, every shopkeeper, every friendly face on the street could be scrutinized as they looked for a missing medium.

The danger wasn’t over for The Cauldron.

Draper would do recon. He’d call for backup. He was a Robin too, right?

Danny’s eyes darted to look at Mr. Olivander, a silent plea in the exchange. The old shopkeeper nodded and went outside to meet Patrick and gestured to the buildings around the parlor.

Mrs. Mora stared at Danny with concern. “Are you trying to work this case on your own? Rupert told me how you were working with some detective. He thought you were in trouble at first.”

Danny returned his attention to Mrs. Mora with a small frown. “Really? Uh, why?”

“Well, you had this cop around you, and then some government guys asking questions about Rupert’s medium…that’s some mal de ojo, right there.”

While Danny wasn’t sure what Mrs. Mora meant, he understood the word eye. He considered the eyes haunting him before he closed the portal and considered it was a fair assessment for something evil looming over him.

“I know it doesn’t look good," he started. “But I’m trying to fix it. I promise.”

Mrs. Mora’s look of concern shifted to a more stern scowl. “No, no, you don’t go doing anything stupid. Let the Bats handle it. You can stay here for as long as you want. I can call my son and ask him to bring you some clothes. He’s about your size.”

Danny stared at the kind hand she offered. At the genuine concern on the old woman’s face.

It felt like a trap, like poison. Like a death sentence.

Not for him, but for those who dared to get close. If he had lost Mr. Olivander because of their work together at The Shadow Parlor, he couldn’t bear doing the same to anyone else. He couldn’t keep adding more targets on people’s backs.

Maybe Mrs. Mora was better off keeping dangerous spirits away from her shop. The rue should have been his first sign of a boundary he shouldn’t have ignored.

Danny slowly stood up from his stool. “I really appreciate it, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be dragged into whatever this whole mess is.” He backed away, moving towards the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mora. For everything.”

Before Danny could cross the door’s threshold, Mr. Olivander floated in a rush in Danny’s path. The man who became the grim reminder of his failure to protect those he cared about stared with profound concern.

“My boy, be reasonable,” the late shopkeeper pleaded. “You can’t keep running and doing this alone. You need someone to help you.”

The medium huffed, a mixture of guilt and anger crawling under his skin. Draper wouldn’t have lowered his guard at the face of danger. He wouldn’t have let someone die under his watch.

The old Danny wouldn’t have, either. And perhaps closing the portals also took away another spirit he hadn’t expected: his own.

“Thank you, Mr. Olivander,” he said loud enough for Mrs. Mora to hear, a soft gasp leaving her lips as she stepped closer. “Any other advice I should take before more people get hurt? Any message for your friend, Mrs. Graciela?”

Mr. Olivander looked at his former employee with weary dejection. His hands fell helplessly by his side. “You don’t have to do this, Danny. This path will end up hurting you, don’t you see?”

The tension on Danny’s shoulders didn’t recede. He wondered if Mr. Olivander would ever understand how Danny was the one factor destroying what wasn’t broken in the first place. How The Cauldron, just like Amity Park, were much better off without his own brand of poison.

He sighed, his back still turned to the old lady whispering Rupert’s name. “He told me…” Danny said loud and firm, Mrs. Mora’s footsteps stopping short at his words. “He told me you’re the sweetest and kindest soul I’ll ever know.” He turned around with a fierce look, ignoring the rising discomfort from the herb by his side. “He would like you to be safe. Keeping your doors locked and forgetting about me is a good place to start.”

Mrs. Mora’s expression shifted from grief to a stern frown. “I don’t have to talk to spirits to know he’d want you to stay safe too.” Danny could see Mr. Olivander nod slowly as he floated next to her.

A sad smile danced on his lips but didn’t reach the eerie glow in his eyes. “It’s kinda late for that.” Before she could utter anything else, he left the shop with a sad chime echoing behind.

He needed to leave as soon as possible. Even if there was no one casting a watchful shadow over The Cauldron, the stakes were already high enough to keep pushing them further.

And yet, amidst the storm brewing, there was a small whisper of hope. A missing connection calling out between the darkness despite the bad omen it heralded. A voice that continued nagging him: Draper wouldn’t run away, Danny thought bitterly. He’d look for a way to outsmart those who were looking for him in the shadows. He’d think of a way to turn the tables and make the playfield his. And if they were after him, Danny knew there was only one place left to check: his apartment.

As Danny walked with newfound purpose and the weight of his guilt keeping him grounded, Patrick returned to their group. He told a silent Mr. Olivander, “Didn’t see anything. No bats, no ninjas, no ghosts, or whatever.”

Danny ignored his companions. Even if the message held some reassurance, it didn’t change his current focus.

A part of him considered using a flicker of invisibility to navigate the area better, the buzz of ectoplasm already tingling under his fingertips. But his last experience with drained powers did not paint the best prospect if he needed to fight or hide from bigger dangers. He could wait for the right time.

“We need to talk about this, Danny,” Mr. Olivander suddenly spoke, after exchanging a few words with Patrick about the surveillance concerns that the medium had no interest in eavesdropping. “You won’t always be able to make your problems invisible.”

“Did I miss something?” Patrick asked in a lower voice.

Danny, committed to his stealth mode, refused to answer the two ghosts trailing behind him. He noticed from his periphery that Mr. Olivander shook his head but offered no explanation.

As he came closer to his street and his building, a sense of dread hung on to him like an old cape. He knew there could be a trap waiting in the small studio he had once dared to call home. However, he wagered there wasn’t much they’d be able to find. Between the confined space, the limited personal belongings he kept, and the neighbors who kept as far away from him as possible, they were more likely to think he escaped to some undisclosed location.

Perhaps with a red-clad vigilante who had saved him from their past attempt to attack the medium.

Danny decided to stop pursuing overthinking paths that led to nowhere. His role was supposed to be more in tune to a methodical detective who would use the fire-escape stairs instead of the front door. Then he remembered this methodical detective could also use grapple hooks and capes.

“Hey, friend,” Patrick whispered by his side as he reached the second floor, using slightly intangible steps to stay as silent as a ghost. “Why don’t you let me check first if there’s someone inside before you—”

“Already done. All clear,” Mr. Olivander replied somberly instead, materializing on Danny’s other side. “But it’s evident they were here.”

The medium paused his ascent, brows furrowed as he stared at Mr. Olivander. It was one thing to imagine there could be a potential breaking-and-entering situation. Another entirely different thing to confirm the bad omen was true.

A part of Danny wanted to still find the culprits in his apartment. Put an end once and for all to the constant tip-toeing if it meant sparing others from another senseless murder.

“We’ll see,” was all Danny offered as he resumed his path to his apartment.

The first thing he noticed as he reached the open window was the overwhelming darkness. The lack of outdoor lighting, which he had once appreciated as a ghostly runaway, had now backfired as he wanted to inspect the place as a cautious wannabe-detective.

Danny stepped inside to the crunchy sound of old wood and something he could only describe as “broken”. His eyes, still conserving an unnatural glint, took a moment to adjust. He could recognize the shattered pieces of his old TV, one he found at a garage sale while looking for new and innovative ways to communicate with ghosts.

“Oh, bestie, this is so fucked up,” Patrick muttered by his side as he began floating around the room.

Danny didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in those words, greenish-blue eyes darting between the remnants of a life he started to build nine months, twenty days, and fifteen hours ago. A sanctuary he found in the least likely place he thought he would be found in the whole cursed city.

His breath caught as he noticed a gutted book on the floor, its pages citing old practices on the occult. A gift Mr. Olivander gave him for the made-up birthday he crafted for Danny Nightingale, using Jazz’s birthday to be exact.

He had forgotten he left a picture of Sam and Tucker in it as a bookmark and a memento of the people he wanted to contact the most. Some nights he imagined his newfound skills would allow him to perform an astral projection, but those were mere illusions in outdated material of dubious research. Now, it was ripped in pieces.

“I’m sorry that they did this to you, my boy,” Mr. Olivander lamented with a translucent hand hovering over his shoulder.

The man’s figure towered over him and Danny realized he had fallen to his knees next to the ripped mattress he had rescued from a curb, as if laying on a patch of snow created by its stuffing.

What would Draper do? Danny thought pathetically as he tried to file in his head the small tells of a place torn to shreds. No message was left on the walls. No footprints he could see next to the spilled coffee grounds. No grandiose object to threaten his half-life.

And then he focused on the splinters from the doorframe, and the violence of the full picture, that spoke not of assassins sneaking in but a message left loud and clear: there were no locks to keep a runaway medium safe. There was no one to call. There was nothing that wouldn’t go unturned.

He had never felt his life ripped apart, molecule by molecule, as in that single moment.

“Maybe you could anonymously call the cops?” Patrick offered. “Get more surveillance that way?”

“No, no,” Mr. Olivander interrupted. “They might try looking for Danny instead. Despite how misguided his plan might be, I’m not sure getting another group involved would solve this situation favorably.”

Patrick huffed. “Okay, fine! You have a point there. BUT… what if you—”

“Can you guys give me some space?” Danny interrupted with a low tone.

He didn’t see the faces his companions had made and he wasn’t sure he had enough in him to care. He only heard the soft “Danny…” offered by Mr. Olivander and he felt a cold armor forming inside.

“Please,” Danny cut off once more. “I just need time. Alone.”

This time Danny could see the two ghosts kneeling in front of him exchanging worried glances. He was close enough to see their hesitation, their need to protest, and what the medium could only interpret as the resigned resolution prompted by Mr. Olivander’s experience in Mrs. Mora’s shop.

Patrick breathed a world-weary exhale, one that was ultimately unnecessary for a ghost. “I’ll… be close if you need me, okay? I can go look at your shop and—”

He cut himself short when Mr. Olivander cleared his throat.

“Right, sorry…” Patrick amended. “We’ll see you later, bestie. Take as long as you need.”

Mr. Olivander rose next to the younger ghost but lingered a moment longer. “I’ll show him the place. Don’t do anything rash, my boy. We’ll find another way.”

Danny nodded numbly, like a puppet who felt his strings too broken to provide the desired response. As the two ghosts drifted away from his area of influence, Danny could feel the diminishing connection, the ectoplasmic web that held them together spreading thinner with each floating step.

The hole left from the dual connections was unbearable in the middle of the wreckage that was his life.

Draper wouldn’t break down to auto-flagellate for what he did wrong. He’d spring into action to fix things. What had he said a couple of nights ago at the safe house? That he was trying to keep innocent people from ending up hurt?

He thought of Mrs. Mora, but also Olive the waitress, or those he helped in the past who would visit in gratitude. He thought about the Ansley family, who sometimes brought cookies after their baking class. He thought of the kind neighbor two buildings down who sometimes asked if Danny needed help washing his laundry, but whose offer he’d been embarrassed to accept. For all he knew, even Draper could have a target on his back, even if it was just an added hazard to an already dangerous line of work as a vigilante.

And perhaps it was the thought of anyone even breathing the same air around him ending up in danger because of his mere presence. Or it might have been the small gestures of kindness he’d received even when he hadn’t recognized them for what they were. The fact was that Danny James Fenton, aka Danny Nightingale, was tired.

He wondered if Draper got tired as well and if there was a Bat-lifeline that could reorient lost heroes back to the right track. Maybe a roadmap to guide the next beats he needed to follow, preferably beating the hurdles on his way.

The medium recovered the firm stance he forgot during the loss of his sanctuaries. He kept looking for signals and clues by following Draper’s Detective Decalogue. But maybe there was some merit in the Fenton Fist-Fighting Fundamentals.

In the end, a reinforced conviction guided his next actions through the fire escape and to the rooftop: maybe all he had to do was stop running and face his demons head-on.

Once he could see the foggy skyline of an ordinary Gotham night, he settled on top of an air conditioning unit at the rooftop. It reminded him of late patrols looking for ghosts with Sam and Tucker. Of waking up at odd hours because of his ghost sense. Of needing to steer clear from his own home when his parents developed something that messed with his ghostly side.

And while it wasn’t his usual M.O., Danny chose to wait. Wait until his attackers decided to confront him directly. Or even until his former partner grappled into view. Or until the sun decided to grace with some light the silent contours of the city. Whichever came first.

BAM!

Danny jumped in surprise at the sudden clash of hollow metal below in the alley. He chanced a peek and noticed a trash can spilling, a couple of cats scavenging its remains for food.

He noticed how he was clutching at the cuffs of his hoodie, at the way his jaw had clenched. He released the tension with a soft chuckle that held the last vestiges of humor he had to spare. He shook his tense shoulders and made small circles with his head to ease the strain on his neck. It made him realize how much time he had lost between dissociation and his usual spiraling. The streets were suddenly quieter, save for the faint wail of distant sirens that usually filled the night.

When Danny felt that enough time had passed perched like an off-brand vigilante, he felt his resolve crumble. Maybe the Fist-Fighting Fundamentals were a bit rusty if he believed “head first” was the same as “sitting duck”, especially when his attackers and tormenters were nowhere to be found.

The medium turned to the street below. His eyes followed the dimmed glow in front of the barely visible Shadow Parlor. In the distance, he could make out two figures standing in front of the memorial for Mr. Olivander. Danny recalled the gestures of appreciation to grieve a life snuffed out of The Cauldron itself.

The figures shimmered like shadows. Like shades, vague and wispy. Danny then recalled his companions and their announced visit to Mr. Olivander’s old haunt. His heart sank at the reminder of all the ways he had already failed the people he cared about.

He put his hands in his pockets and found a crumpled piece of paper in the process. He pulled out Ducard’s note to find the address he’d been trying to ignore all night but now had become the sole mark in his misleading map.

What Would Danny Do?

He’d pull something incredibly risky when there’s no other way out, Danny realized. Inevitably, some decisions were already partially made for him. And he knew, with resigned confidence, that he had enough aces up his intangible sleeve to be able to come out unscathed.

Danny owed it to the friends he lost and the ones he could still lose to at least try.

With one last wary look at the shades of his companions caught in his vigilante drama, he silently left the rooftop with a new address in mind. The probable trap at the potential GIW’s den:

The thing about Gotham before sunrise was that one never knew what to expect. It was the prime-time of valiant heroes dashing across the urban landscape to catch the whispers of crimes in progress. But as Danny had come to learn from months of hiding in the city, not every corner got a watchful eye. Park Row seemed vacant of protection for the night.

The shadows around The Monarch Theater felt ominous with secrets as Danny got closer between alleys and corridors to stay unseen. The darkness that engulfed the building was deeper than mere appearance. He could feel the rising hairs on the back of his neck, and the way his dampened ghost sense struggled to warn him of danger ahead. Each step closer felt like a cloak of despair and desolation clinging tightly over his shoulders.

These were not shades in the strict sense, from what little Danny had learned about the new ghostly dynamics. These were deep sorrows buried in the very foundations of the theater. It reminded him of the overwhelming dread in the morgue, surrounded by restless echoes of spirits beyond recognition.

With no lurkers detected around him but still feeling like a bug-ghost under a microscope, he slipped unnoticed through a side door. The broken handle and years of the building being abandoned kept his need for intangibility low, for now. As he took his first steps inside, he braced for the impending attack of GIW tactical teams and deadly ninjas alike.

He braced for the swish of a sword, the faint whine of some unexpectedly-functional ecto-gun. Anything.

Except for the unsettling silence.

The dust looked unperturbed down the halls, debris devoid of any footprints or any other signs of life. Even as he went deeper into the main chamber, the stage stretched in shadows like an open maw, ready to devour anyone fool enough to wander inside.

And yet, not a single soul could be seen. No ninjas peeling out of the dark corners. No GIW agents lamenting the dry-cleaning expenses they’d require. No “gotcha” from his personal vigilante.

It all felt so utterly empty.

Danny shivered from the drowning mourns of the theater’s walls but could not sense any signs of an imminent source of danger. Or if the danger was everywhere all at once. He wondered if the space had been brimming with ghosts before the portals were shut down, now turned into a void of aimless spirits who could not even form a single shade.

He wouldn’t blame his attackers if they were overwhelmed by the sensations even ordinary humans might be able to sense.

As Danny turned around to leave, to at least try to find a different corridor he might have missed, he almost jumped out of his skin at the sight of the traditional GIW white suit looming behind him.

With a shriek he would forever deny, his flight or fight response made him throw a punch towards the newcomer.

A punch that went cleanly through the agent, who only rose an unimpressed eyebrow.

The medium stumbled to regain his footing, his arm still tingling with energy, and frowned at the reaction. Belatedly, he got his gears active enough to recognize who the agent was.

“K?” he asked in disbelief, millions of questions racing in his head as his mouth resembled a fish out of the water. “What the actual fuck, man? I thought you moved on!”

The deceased agent adjusted his translucent gloves but didn’t react otherwise to the accusation. “There’s still work to do, Fenton. A good agent never abandons a case.”

Danny glared. “You’re a dead agent. We haven’t even solved your murder!”

Despite his coiling tension from hours ago, Danny felt all his stress unravel into annoyance. He began pacing the small hallway with a hard pinch on the bridge of his nose to fend off the imminent headache.

“Okay, fine…” he began to mutter under his breath. “This isn’t a dead end, you can still help me. As helpful as you've always been.”

K clicked his tongue. “This isn’t about me. This is about your reckless behavior putting others in danger.”

Danny stopped his frantic pacing and turned to look at K with wide eyes. “What do you mean my reckless behavior?”

The agent started floating down the stairs of the theater, towards the stage. “You were being followed when you visited my mentor. You can’t trust your own shadow anymore.”

A wave of dread clung to his lungs as Danny tried to remember how to breathe to form words, following the agent close. The thought of more innocent people caught in the middle stung deep in his bones. “Did they… did they—is he alive?”

“He was taken,” K simply replied. “He told his captors where you were going. They’re probably waiting in a different area in this theater.”

The relief that washed over Danny still wouldn’t reduce his guilt. “It’s fine, it’s fine… I can handle them, probably.”

The agent’s brows furrowed with heavy judgment. “I’m not counting on your pathetic display of power. If you want to save the old man, we need to act now.”

“Is he here?” he whispered, turning around just in case he saw anything out of place.

K took a moment to simply stare at Danny, his expression hesitant. “He’s underneath the stage, but the place is almost like a maze and he’s injured.”

Danny steepled his fingers in front of him, “Okay, we just need to—”

The words were cut short as the shadows from above the stage descended upon them, the gaping maw of the curtains closing in.

The figures moved swiftly until they were mere steps in front of Danny. As the medium cursed under his breath, the buzz of ectoplasm under his skin begging for release, he noticed a glint of metal from the first shadow: the blade that had sliced his arm a couple of days ago. The same attackers who were following him through Gotham.

As the familiar assassins surrounded him with a slightly extended display, Danny began an old and familiar dance, moving backward and circling slowly to find a different way out. The retired Phantom had no intention of taking his eyes off the figures closing in on him, but he didn’t have the opportunity to see where exactly he could drop and roll out of the way.

“Geez, I forgot what’s the show tonight,” Danny taunted. “Maybe something that ends with you guys pursued by a bear?”

The woman with the sword, who Danny wished he had thought of a better name designation to provide, continued her menacing approach. “I was told to deliver you intact, but you’ll find I can break some rules if you’re uncooperative,” she threatened with a sharper tone than last time.

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Danny replied, taking the opportunity to drag this out the best way he knew how: banter. “So when you were trying to ‘take me out’ it wasn’t in a murderous way. You meant like some fancy dinner and a movie first, huh?”

A figure to his left moved so fast to tackle him, Danny barely managed to dodge the attack, sending him careening towards another assassin instead. The motion sent everyone on alert and soon they all were in Danny’s personal space holding him down. As much as he tried to fight with a punch or a kick or even a headbutt that only increased his growing migraine, he did not have enough strength as Danny Fenton to fight the forces on top of him.

Despite it all, he kept his ghostly nature subdued, static controlled under his anxious fingertips. He wanted to phase through the grunts who held him tight, use a dash of invisibility to leave unseen, perhaps even a sprinkle of ice to make them stumble.

And in the middle of his desire to give in to the power that coursed through his veins, his mantra from earlier that day came back in full force: Draper would wait for the right moment to show his hand.

“Is that all the fight you have, Phantom?,” K growled by his side. “Where’s the dodging pest I met in Amity Park? You couldn’t even make your jokes land on the enemy.”

The last line hurt deeper than any punch could. Danny's look of mock-betrayal was all he could manage in lieu of a verbal response, as two assassins dragged him to a standing position to face the lady with the sword. It was then that he could assess how many people had been required to handle him. Eight killer ninjas counted as a high honor in his books.

"We have the asset,” Danny heard the woman with the sword say into a communicator in her ear. She sized him up and suddenly punched him in the gut, making him groan as he bent slightly over. “He’s a bit roughed up. He gave a fight,” she added to the communicator and started walking with the rest of her committee in tow.

Before they could reach the end of the acting area, a different kind of bear entered, stage left: a new group of assassins burst into the scene.

Danny reconsidered his initial count. This group doubled in numbers, but something caught his attention. Subtle differences in the colors of their belts and the bands on their arms made him doubt they were all the same.

The lingering shadow of a doubt disappeared as soon as the new group charged against Danny’s captors. Blades sang as swords clashed against sais, and grunts echoed as fists connected to someone’s face.

One of the assassins holding Danny tightened his grip on his arms and tried to drag him back, aiming for a subtle retreat as the first group attacked fiercely. However, he was soon overpowered by the new assassins. One of the newcomers used a shorter kind of blade to attack Danny’s original captor, but managed to stab Danny’s shoulder instead.

Danny yelped in pain and he pushed his attacker away as soon as his hands were released. He used his right hand to cover the wound on his right shoulder, placing a discreet sheen of ice underneath his hoodie out of instinct to mitigate the potential blood loss.

As the assassins around him were occupied tearing each other apart, Danny took the opportunity to roll out of the way as much as his injury would allow, stumbling haphazardly into the orchestra pit.

He took quick, uneasy breaths as he reeled from the drastic shift in the battle. The lingering burst of adrenaline kept screaming at his whole system to get ready to fight. As he took a peek at the action above him, he wasn’t sure this was a confrontation he was prepared to have, much less while injured.

For starters, both groups fought each other in deadly synchrony, with the first group outnumbered but not outmatched. His ghost fights had always been chaotic in nature, but knew he was out of tune with this kind of rhythm. He tried to remember how long ago his last physical fight had been and how the different styles he learned back in the day would fare if he had to use them to fend off more grazing blades of fury.

Danny also wondered with an anxious knot in his gut if the second group had been after him as well or if their endgame was entirely different. One that required expiring the half of his half-ghost status.

“What are you waiting for, Phantom?” K spat as he materialized next to his crouching form. “This is your chance to save the old man!”

Danny’s eyes snapped to stare at K, who was playing the tactical agent role he hadn’t successfully followed in life. The ghost turned around looking for something. The medium, in his distraction, nearly failed to dodge a grunt who had been thrown in his direction.

“Over there!" K yelled as he pointed to a small door to their right. “There’s a hallway that can also lead us to the door we need.”

Danny wanted to stop for a second to assess other alternatives, but the pain numbing his left arm and years of experience told him time was not always an option. As he ducked from a hand that tried to pull him back to the central stage, he followed the lead from Agent K to reach the door before anyone caught on.

Muscle memory cooperated with reason as he pushed the door open and closed it behind him once he crossed the threshold. The darkened hallway had less of the thunder of fighting groups, but the sound was still enough to maintain its anxious hold on Danny.

As he fought to catch his breath and forget about his aching shoulder, he realized he was out of sight now. This gave him the advantage to turn invisible, phase to the room they needed to reach, use a small ectoplasmic flame to light up his way. As long as he didn’t wear himself out or use his powers for too long, he could still use some ghostly boost. It was all a matter of time and carefulness, two things he often lacked.

Just in case, Danny reached over his good shoulder, relieved that his backpack was still on him despite the attack.

As his resolve to use his powers strengthened, he saw Agent K hovering over him. “Your eyes are glowing,” he accused with venom laced in his words. “You’ll give yourself away. They might still be watching.”

Danny glared. “Weren’t you the one who said he was below the stage? The place is swarmed now. We need some creative problem-solving.”

The agent’s nose scrunched up in disdain. “There is nothing ‘creative’ about how ectoplasmic entities operate. According to GIW code—"

“Fuck your GIW code!” Danny spat harshly, regretting the way his small outburst sent a shot of pain through his arm. “Look around you. Do you see any other guy dressed in white jumping to his rescue?”

Silence was the only response from the begrudging agent, his jaw clenching.

Danny plowed on, the spike in pain and adrenaline not allowing him a second to stop to think about his response. “Are you seriously going to let Mr. Ducard—your mentor die just because you want to take the long way around?”

K’s scowl had not reduced its sour tinge, but the resounding CRACK from the other side of the door and Danny’s pointed look were enough to make the agent huff. “Fine. We’ll do it your… ghostly way,” he said, emphasizing disgust at the mere mention.

The weary medium ignored the usual GIW-grade jab and took a deep breath as he let invisibility take over, a cold and tingly sensation substituting the static he felt under his skin and bringing immediate relief to his injury. “See? Easier to navigate already. Where should we go now?”

The agent stared at the ground pensively, as if searching for the right door to open underneath it from memory. “The exact location is beneath the orchestra pit,” he offered in casual debrief. “Three floors down, following an intricate tunnel his captors abandoned earlier in the day.”

Danny nodded, the gesture still visible to the other ghost. “Floors. Plural.” He took a weary breath. “Fine. How many guards, bombs, or whatever?”

“None.”

The medium stared skeptically. “None?”

K crossed his arms. “Yes. None. No one expects a rescue from some scrawny kid with a dubious career choice and no sense of self-preservation.”

The medium mimicked his look and raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to offer some snarky comeback about at least having self-preservation as an option, but clicked it shut as he felt the rising tension on his shoulders.

With a weary sigh, Danny fell through the floor and decided to confirm the underground landscape, bracing himself for the worst.

The navigation below The Monarch Theater was as swift as one could expect in an ancient building burdened with tragedy. The underground floors had proven difficult to navigate with an injured shoulder, even with Danny’s limited ghost powers opening new ways to explore. Between confined spaces where no light dared to wander, and the layers of cobwebs and dust forgotten through decades of abandonment, the foundations of the theater surrounded the medium’s senses with restless anguish, like death gripping harshly against empty bones.

As soon as he reached the third floor, the scenery changed to an old hallway that was barely lit by old light bulbs from the earlier 1900s. The right way, Danny deduced. His new potential compass, shaped as an unhelpful bureaucratic guy in white, started paying more attention to the details around them, where there was some evidence of its path being explored more recently.

The two invisible men navigated the space with cautious whispers. “Where?” Danny would suddenly ask in a lower voice as adrenaline drummed in his ears, waiting for his guide’s instructions.

Agent K floated in the middle of the hallway and looked in the two possible directions. When he turned right, he nodded that way. “Approximate location: two chambers from our current spot,” he replied in his tactical voice.

“Chambers?” Danny asked in hushed tones, limiting his words in case they could be heard.

The agent took the lead and guided the medium. “You can do your research on Gotham’s bunkers later. For now, we’re on the right path.”

Danny had so many questions but invisibly trailed behind the agent. He created small frosty distortions to random lightbulbs along the way, hoping he would use the deeper shadows later on as a cloak, especially if his shoulder continued to give him trouble on the way back.

They passed through the first metal door, thick enough to keep the assassins away, potentially loud enough to give away his location to every thug within a mile. Once they phased through, the next area looked similar to the last. For a brief moment, Danny imagined his current torment as an endless loop between chambers, a fitting punishment for keeping restless spirits trapped in the living world unless he interfered.

By the second door, the one separating them from Ducard’s captivity, it became clear this might be the end of the line for Danny’s powers. He checked every corner for possible cameras that could compromise the connection between his identity and his skills. Once he was certain that there were no attackers or surveillance in sight, Danny produced a localized burst of ice to disrupt the energy of a few more lights, creating a darker corner to hide in.

But first, he needed to make sure the next chamber was just as devoid of vigilant eyes.

A quick invisible peek revealed a quieter scene than what he had anticipated: an empty room with a single source of light that looked ready to fade out, vacant from any assassin guarding the place. Danny focused on a corner and located the frail old man in restraints: Mr. Ducard, who was sitting unconscious on a chair by the corner, his tweed blazer marred by a bloodstain on his left side that became the most worrisome part of the whole picture.

Danny wanted to rush to the man’s side and take him in a mad burst of ghostly energy to the nearest hospital. But he knew his own injury would not allow for such display, and there was simply not enough energy to pull the heroic rescue through.

He also knew he couldn’t be sloppy for this. After all, a ghost saving Ducard would only give the man a heart attack. And Danny already had enough souls nagging at his conscience to add another torment to his penitence.

The half-ghost floated back to the previous room and returned to the visible spectrum with the cover of the shadows he created along the way. He looked at the door and then at his companion. “He’s bleeding. I have to get inside, but… will you lead us out?”

Operative K remained silent for a moment before he gave him a firm and solemn nod.

The medium took a deep breath and turned the heavy handle on the door as gently as he could to avoid any screech from the old metal. Every muscle he tensed on his shoulders felt like burning, like tearing and breaking his whole arm apart. Once he heard the final click and felt the handle couldn’t move anymore, he used his good arm to pull it open and moved inside the room, closing the door again behind him with a muted thud, leaving him alone with Ducard in the barely-lit space.

Danny rushed to the man’s side and placed a hand on the side of his neck. There was a pulse, at least. Up close, the wound looked more superficial but was still in need of medical attention. “Mr. Ducard?” he asked as worry laced his tone. “Can you hear me?”

The man stirred, his breath uneven as he sluggishly opened his eyes. He blinked and slowly turned to look at Danny, a mixture of awe and relief coloring his gestures. “Oh, the messenger! You came!”

Danny gave him a small smile as he worked on the ropes restraining him to the chair. “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t bring the cavalry along. We need to hurry while everyone’s distracted upstairs.”

Mr. Ducard gave him a worried look, blinking away any of the remaining haze. “Oh, my. Of course, why would you bring help? You weren’t prepared.” The man’s eyes closed with heavy regret. “And I led you to a trap without realizing. I’m so sorry, child…”

The knot in Danny’s gut twisted as he finished untangling the last of the restraints. “I think it was the other way around. You shouldn’t be a target at all.”

Mr. Ducard reached to put his released hands on Danny’s shoulders but stopped at the sight of the wound. “I see they found their target.” He then stared directly into his eyes. “See? You can’t control the desire others have to hurt just like you can’t control your need to help.”

The medium looked away. He knew he didn’t have the luxury of time to argue with the old man. “We need to move,” he said as he stood up and offered Mr. Ducard a hand.

The man leaned heavily on Danny’s good arm and then gave a gentle pull that made Danny stop with a questioning look. “Hold on, boy. That’s where they left. I’m not sure if it helps, but I might know a different way out.”

Danny perked at that. “You do?” He subtly turned to look at K for confirmation but the agent was silently staring at the scene, offering no additional guidance.

Mr. Ducard coughed as his weight felt heavier on Danny’s arm. “I worked here decades ago. Maintenance. I know some of the tunnels and catacombs that fill this place with echoes.”

“Is that how you met your apprentice?” Danny asked as he scanned the space for other exits he might have missed. Only a door similar to the first ones was present on the opposite wall.

Mr. Ducard smiled. “Precisely, how perceptive.” The man gently pulled Danny towards the door. “That’s the way to the southern tunnel. It’s a longer way out, but it’s harder to reach for those who are not familiar with this location. They used to connect to the old subway lines and could get us closer to Otisburg in no time.”

Danny furrowed his brow and weighed his options. Neither of the two paths offered any certainty of safety. In the worst case scenario, he’d be back to square one, trapped by his attackers and potentially endangering Mr. Ducard’s life once again.

While his Phantom instincts had taken him this far, he evaluated if his Draper mimicry could get him out.

“I understand your hesitation,” Mr. Ducard broke into his thoughts softly, hissing as he moved, disturbing his injury. “We can also try your path first and head back if it doesn’t work out.”

“Time’s running out, Fenton,” K said in a grave voice, suddenly speaking over his shoulder. “Whatever choice you make, you need to make it fast.”

Choices made under stressful situations were not Danny’s forte. He tried to deduce once again if Draper would go into any situation without a full file delimiting the pros and cons of each choice. Or, if contrary to his usual analytic display, he’d just play things by ear.

“Fine, let’s take your route,” Danny finally said, feeling the weight of a death sentence on his partially-bleeding shoulders no matter which way he moved.

Mr. Ducard’s spirits recovered a fraction and Danny could see how a need to survive could give a tiny boost to anyone. “I’ll do my best. It’s the least I can do.”

Danny walked towards the new door, ignoring the man’s comment. “This is the way, right?”

“Yes, and you’ll find a door on the other side to your left,” Mr. Ducard instructed, leaning against Danny once more.

The next few steps through doors absurdly positioned only fueled his rising sense of dread. Danny could feel the increase of the suffocating energy, ghastly shadows drifting through walls as old weeping wounds woke up to the disturbance of strangers. He wondered how many of these unnatural voices had come from shades who coalesced into a haunted and shapeless form, and how many came from the building itself.

As they passed a new door, all light from the semi-functional string of lightbulbs came to an end, engulfing the path ahead in darkness. Danny turned his backpack around and used the last light available to look through its contents for anything that might be remotely useful. His only other option would be to navigate in pitch-black murkiness of the tunnels without giving away any ghost ability.

As he opened one of his smaller pockets he saw Mr. Olivander’s large set of keys, the prized object that had helped the medium to establish their connection. Something in his chest felt heavy and he almost closed the zipper when he noticed one of the things attached to the keychain: a small flashlight.

“What a resourceful young man,” Ducard commented with a small chuckle. “I guess I forgot how dark these tunnels could get. I’m glad you found a way around it.”

“That’s me, rolling with the punches,” the medium muttered.

Once Danny removed the keychain from the rest of the set, he pulled his backpack on his shoulders, accidentally brushing his injury and hissing in the process. He couldn’t wait to get out of the theater.

Mr. Ducard patted his good forearm. “You need to get that looked at. Let’s not waste more time.”

Danny felt a smile tugging at his lips from the irony of having the man he rescued thinking about saving him in turn. “I promise I’ll try to stay half-alive.”

K, who had remained as a completely silent observer, did not even scoff this time and Danny decided to count it as a win.

Guided by the soft LED light from a cheap novelty keychain sold at any given convenience store, the two men and their invisible companion continued. As Danny closed the last open door behind him, he noticed something new besides the lack of old-fashioned lightbulbs.

Cement walls had been replaced with rougher rocky contours, despite some of the pipes from previous chambers remaining. He noticed the faint echo of water drops, pausing between each other achingly slow. While the floor had not changed as drastically, there was a crunchier texture from dust clumps and dirt.

Danny sniffed as the last offender suddenly hit his nostrils. “What’s that smell?”

“Hmm?” Ducard replied beside him, still holding on. “Oh, that’s the tunnel’s natural decay. The passage of time, you might say. Rust, stagnant water, musk… I guess you get used to it after years of working in places like this.”

The medium scrunched up his nose, hoping this didn’t follow them all the way out. There was something else that felt unfamiliar, out of place. Almost chemical.

“I didn’t think the theater was that old,” he commented to keep himself from focusing on the smell.

Mr. Ducard hummed once more before he continued, his voice a comforting anchor in the middle of Danny’s inner turmoil. “That’s true. It might not be as old as the city itself, but the way it left a mark in its history? That goes deep into the very foundations of Gotham’s heart.”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked when the man made a longer pause.

With nothing but decaying walls and the long way ahead to get to safety, talking felt like the best way to settle his anxiety. He was already feeling the tension on his hurt shoulder numbing down, soothing the constant fire frying his nerves.

“The theater witnessed tragedy that reshaped its course,” Mr. Ducard continued, reminding Danny of the man behind the large book collection in his home. He could picture the old mentor sitting down in his chair next to the chimney, telling old stories to a captive audience. “I’m sure someone as young as you might already know the Wayne history.” Danny couldn’t remember but he didn’t want to stop the man’s story. “Yet, despite its significance, despite how much wealth the Wayne family now possesses, it’s such an odd thing how it was never sold, never demolished, and never rebuilt. It became a symbol of mourning. And some might even say that it’s the reminder of promises still being kept.”

“Sounds… ominous,” Danny muttered as he tried to focus on the solitary path ahead.

“It does, doesn’t it? Oh, watch your step,” Ducard warned as he held Danny’s arm to stop him from tripping on an uneven edge on the floor that should’ve been obvious.

Danny furrowed his brows with concern. Maybe the slight blood loss and the initial rush of adrenaline had affected him more than he thought.

Mr. Ducard stared at him with compassion. “You’ve already done so much. I already feel better. I can lead the way to warn of anything else I might have forgotten to mention due to muscle memory.”

Danny hesitated, knowing Mr. Ducard was hurt as well. He turned around to see K’s reaction and to look for any sign of disapproval or a hateful jab about how weak he was. Anything.

But K was nowhere to be seen.

“You look pale, child,” the old man’s voice cut through Danny’s confusion, taking a firmer grip on his arm as if to ground him.

Despite the rising concern about K’s whereabouts, Danny knew he couldn’t offer any explanation that could hint to his unique skills. He also had not intended to worry the man he was trying to save, an unsuspecting victim in the middle of the chaotic events from the last few days.

The medium blinked slowly to dispel his signs of worry. “It’s… nothing. Why don’t you tell me more about this place?”

Ducard raised an eyebrow and looked at Danny for a moment. “Very well,” he finally said, releasing his hold on the young man’s arm, switching to steady himself with the walls in the tunnel. He resumed his slow walk, Danny following a second later, using the opposite wall for support. “Alvin, was it?”

Danny’s mind raced in alarm at the mention of the name until muddled memories brought back the name he offered at Mr. Ducard’s home. “Uh, yeah,” he managed to say.

Vague thoughts of Draper learning about his name choice began to emerge, but a mixture of worry for the missing agent and the uncomfortable numbness from the restless aura underneath the theater suffocated any chance to form the full idea. He needed to keep his mind away from spiraling.

“So, where were we, Alvin?” Ducard’s voice resumed the silky tone of a natural storyteller. "Ah, yes. The legends inspired by this place. Did you know there were rumors of shadows haunting this place? Spirits whispering from the back of the stage, footsteps heard in the empty hallways.”

Goosebumps trailed on Danny’s arms as he experienced first-hand the source of those rumors, the way shapeless shades kept lurking in every corner, enveloping anyone in their path in their calls from beyond, even if they went unheard to the human ear.

Ducard continued. “All could be explained by some natural occurrence, of course. That didn’t stop the folk tales about something still lingering in this place.” He paused a couple of steps ahead and chuckled softly. “But I’m preaching to the choir, right?”

Danny stopped and stared at the man who had turned to stare inquisitively at him. His mouth went dry as he tried to grasp how to understand whatever meaning was in those words. How to use his own voice to give an appropriate reply. “I’m… not sure what you mean.”

Mr. Ducard hummed in response and resumed his path despite the limited reach from Danny’s flashlight. “I figure someone as sensitive as you would be able to see these spirits more clearly.”

The words sent a shiver down the medium’s spine as his feet slowly tried to catch up with the man he was trying to save. Danny tried to parse through the muddled memories of his time at the theater, his time with Ducard. He couldn’t recall if he had talked to K in the process, but he remembered the cold silence that had become concerning from the agent’s looming presence before he disappeared.

“As sensitive as me?” he asked softly, feigned obliviousness quickly at his disposal as if he had Mr. Lancer asking him why he hadn’t been on time for a test. “What are you talking about?”

Mr. Ducard kept his steady steps forward, not turning to see Danny’s panicked look. “Oh, I’m not looking for a confession, Alvin. Don’t you worry. I can understand why you’re keeping it a secret. It’s the reason those assassins are after you, isn’t it?”

Something closer to relief settled on Danny’s gut as he realized this wasn’t a slip up. This could be prior knowledge. “Wait, the ones who took you? Did they say that?” he asked with renewed interest as he caught up with the man, almost missing a step on the way.

Mr. Ducard took a glimpse over his shoulder, a small smile in place. “They said you were no mere messenger. That your line of business was less… conventional . A medium. But isn’t a medium a different kind of messenger in a way?”

Danny felt numb, as if dissociation had been peeking in the corner waiting for the right moment to pounce. “You got me confused with someone else,” he heard himself say, while his mind threw expletives left and right.

Of course the assassins knew who he was. But this was the fine line he didn’t want to thread between giving a message that Ducard might learn came from beyond the grave, his made up identity as The Shadow Parlor’s medium, and the mess between the assassins and GIW looking for him.

“Nonsense, child,” Ducard answered with a tone that felt lighter and effervescent. Danny tried to remember if effervescent was even a word. “How else would you have delivered the message from my apprentice?”

Something in Danny’s gut plummeted. His hold on the wall almost slipped as he tried to shift the world back into place. “What?” he managed to ask as the dread grew in his chest, in his lungs, each corrupted breath increasing the need to reach to the surface.

Ducard stopped, his warm smile almost too warm. He leaned back against the darkened rock behind him. “Think about it…They say dead men tell no tales, yet you managed to get one to give me a specific message given after his passing.”

Agent K’s message. Agent K’s murder. Danny turned around to look one more time for the supposed apprentice, trying to find the reason for his departure and not liking the dark conclusions his mind tried to supply. “How do you know the guy’s dead?”

Ducard walked towards Danny slowly and deliberately, the way his figure loomed over him making him realize he was drifting towards the floor. The warmth in his smile was betrayed by something cold and detached in his eyes. “Well… because he offered.”

Danny felt the room tilt and he realized the light from the flashlight was trembling in his hands. “No… no… I don’t understand.”

The words from Ducard’s lips felt like poisonous honey as Danny tried to replay what he heard over and over. Draper would dissect each word. The GIW would dissect each wound.

“Your mere presence here is already miraculous,” Ducard continued. “It’s amazing how well you were able to reach my exact location. I am impressed.”

“You… set me up,” Danny spat as he blinked away the spots in his eyes. He needed to stay present, coherent, conscious… half-alive.

Ducard clicked his tongue. “I did no such thing, my boy. You merely decided the best course of action. Your compassion for others, your desire for answers, your need for closure. Those are invaluable gifts to have.”

Each line felt like a blow and perhaps Danny’s consciousness was not prepared to handle each with grace. Gone were his Fist-Fighting Fundamentals and Detective Decalogues and any lingering grasp on his powers. He searched for any last resource, a miraculous hail mary, looking for the tingle under his fingertips, the coldness settled next to his heart, the buzz from paradoxical matter linking life and death and after-life… “Something‘s… wrong.”

Ducard placed a firm hand on Danny’s good shoulder. “You should sit down. Take some deep breaths,” he lulled as he helped him sit on the floor against the wall. “These tunnels can feel like they’re closing in once you’re too deep in them.”

Danny tried again to reach for something, to increase his threatening aura, to turn intangible to slip away. He only found words slipping out breathlessly “Please… stay away.”

The man crouching next to him looked with compassionate eyes. “I’m merely trying to help you. The same way you’ve helped me.”

“I don’t want to help you,” Danny fought against the fog. “You did something, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, child,” Ducard said with hurt painting cheap brushstrokes on his features. “I’m merely a man trying to help the world.”

“Bull…shit…” Danny bit out.

“Oh, such crass language,” Ducard said with a soft scoff. Something in the way it mocked him reminded Danny of Vlad and his gut twisted in alarm. The man stood up, his figure looking tall and imposing over the medium. “But be completely frank with me, Mr. Nightingale. Do you not hear the pain left in the world? Something’s… broken.” There was a pause that allowed Danny to belatedly realize his other made up name had been used. “A fundamental part of existence was ripped from us, one that allowed this world to have balance and closure. The voices that once filled this world with their infinite wisdom were silenced abruptly by an unknown force.” Danny looked away, reassuring himself that Ducard couldn’t know. “It broke our link to our ancestors and the possibility to build a future. Do you not hear those echoes of what’s missing?”

Danny refused to confess how he heard the echoes. And the screams. And the wails. He also heard the way his heart continued to beat loudly against his eardrums, how for the very first time since he arrived in Gotham there was no shade staring at him with lifeless white eyes. But he also couldn’t hear the impending whine of ecto-guns, the roar from the fiery depths of the Infinite Realms.

“The world was broken already,” the medium said defiantly, trying to regain some coherence. Some solid ground.

His words did nothing to reduce the certainty in Ducard’s look. “Why, yes, that’s a fair assessment,” he said. “War, hunger, greed, illness… Humanity found a way to pollute the very soul of the world in a vicious race for power. But do you know what happens when humanity is faced with its own mortality and loses any opportunity to think about life beyond death? Mortality, without the promise of life beyond the moment they touched, becomes desperate.”

The man kneeled down and touched Danny’s injured shoulder, making him wordlessly wince in pain, a mental shriek that cut through the molasses of the rest of his thoughts. “You saw the results out there. Betrayal, even from my own blood. Everything I tried to give to the world, my vision, centuries of my life to shape a better future, at the risk of being lost to the whims of someone younger.”

Danny’s mind couldn’t form a single coherent thought as he tried to navigate past the pain.

“I knew this could happen. That’s why I prepared. That’s why I need you.” He placed a gentler hand on Danny’s other shoulder. “You might hold the key to cure the world from this devastating disease.”

“No…,” Danny spat back. “I closed it for a reason.”

Danny’s eyes widened when he realized his mistake. No amount of mental backtracking would be able to repair the damage that was done.

Ducard’s smile was no longer warm. It was predatory. “Well, I believe this was no mere chance. This was destined.” He dropped to Danny’s level with a spark of hope in his eyes. His hands almost shook as he reached for the medium’s face. “Don’t you see? We can fix this, together. We can restore the balance. We can ensure my legacy doesn’t die with something as arbitrary as death.”

Danny wanted to steer away but his muscles were no longer responding . “No… you’re with the Guys In White,” he felt his words slur against his will. “You’ll also bring death. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Something in Danny’s words made Ducard’s eyes fill with mirth. “Oh, no, you’re misinterpreting my intentions. Their creation was to gain invaluable knowledge in case I needed to replenish the fountains of life.”

The confession broke something fundamentally deep in Danny’s core that he couldn’t entirely grasp. Something akin to betrayal slipped through his metaphorical fingers. “You’re lying.”

The man stood up and extended a hand towards the Medium. “I can show you.”

Danny stared at the old and frail hand he once thought belonged to a helpless man caught in the middle. His bony fingers felt like serpentine warnings. He looked behind him, the long darkened path they had once followed, the path ahead, which he now realized had faint lights illuminating a cleaner path. He couldn’t recall if they continued walking or if the place itself shifted somehow. Everything impossible felt possible now and he waited for the Observants to jump out of nowhere to say ‘gotcha!’.

“Come now, Daniel,” Ducard insisted soothingly.

Time moved slowly, almost aided by the meddling of a certain Master of Time. Or perhaps Danny finally caught on with the external factors impairing his judgment. A part of him wanted to fight, to escape, to follow, to get this over with.

Another part wanted to stay conscious as he felt the ground shake. An explosion, something in his head supplied. Years of fighting Skulker taught him how to identify the different ways the ghost could blow up a wall. He imagined the tin can floating to remove his prey from some other predator’s claws.

Hands grabbed him and pulled him upwards, until he felt dragged on someone’s shoulder. He belatedly remembered the pain pulling his upper muscles apart. The words of comfort felt more genuine next to his ear. Familiar. Welcoming.

As welcoming as the darkness that made it all fade to black.