Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.