The flashing red-and-blue lights of the Gotham City Police Department hit the battered warehouse like an announcement from the gods of Bureaucracy: Prepare to Be Paperworked.
Squad cars screeched in from every direction, tires shrieking like angry banshees. Doors popped open. Out stormed Commissioner James Gordon, trench coat flapping like an angry seagull, flanked by Detective Harvey Bullock—puffing his umpteenth cigar of the night—and Detective Renee Montoya, who already had the world's most exhausted look on her face, and they hadn't even gotten inside yet.
Inside the warehouse, things were... a vibe.
Eidolon floated ten feet in the air like a one-man heavy metal album cover. His black leather armor gleamed with the blood-red veins pulsing across it, the crimson emblem on his chest throbbing in rhythm with some unseen heartbeat. His long, flowing cloak rippled dramatically behind him, because of course he could conjure wind magic just to look cooler.
Below him:
Half a dozen buyers, cuffed and muttering their life stories like regretful toddlers.
Amunet Black, shackled and snarling like an alley cat, shooting daggers at Beta-9, who hovered smugly overhead.
The charred husk of what used to be an Apokoliptian war engine, still gently sizzling.
Eidolon spread his arms wide. Crimson energy flared outward in a pulse that hummed through the cracked concrete. Bent beams straightened, shattered crates knitted themselves back together like they were rewinding time, and broken windows reassembled with satisfying little tinks. The whole building exhaled, grateful to still exist.
Bullock spat his cigar into a puddle. "Oh, great. Now he's doing magic tricks."
Montoya tucked her thumbs into her belt, unimpressed. "Would you rather the place looked like the Death Star after Luke got done with it?"
"At least that mess was honest," Bullock grumbled. "Now it's like a freakin' Disney ride in here. 'The Enchanted Crime Scene.'"
"Would you quit whining? You'd have screamed 'reckless endangerment of public property' if he hadn't fixed it," Montoya shot back.
"Not the point! He's contaminating evidence! Betcha by tomorrow, forensics'll be finding unicorn glitter in the blood samples!"
Meanwhile, Gordon moved like a man used to corralling chaos. He stopped next to Wonder Woman—who was calmly looping her lasso back onto her hip—and nodded approvingly at the neat row of suspects.
"You get all that we need?" Gordon asked.
Diana gave him a small, regal smile, her blue eyes twinkling like she had just politely dismantled a tank. "Full confessions. Names, transactions, connections. All verified under the Lasso of Truth."
Gordon glanced at Amunet, who glared back at him like she could peel the flesh off his bones with a single thought. "Well, that's about as open and shut as it gets in Gotham."
Bullock crossed his arms. "Too smooth. Feels like one of those times you find out your wallet's missing after you've shaken the guy's hand."
"You can check your wallet later," Gordon said dryly. "Right now, we're bringing them in."
Beta-9 hovered lower, her sleek black chassis gleaming under the warehouse lights. Through the Justice League comms, her voice came through in that honeyed, Beyoncé-like purr:
"Processing suspects. Tagging evidence. And no, Detective Bullock, I am not plotting world domination. Today."
Bullock jumped. "It's bad enough the Bat lets Alexa on steroids call the shots!" he muttered. "Now they've got smart fridges handling arrests!"
On the comms, Cyborg's voice—smooth and cocky—chimed in:
"Yo, Beta, if you did take over the world, you'd leave me a spot at the top, right?"
Beta-9 chuckled. "You're lucky you're cute, Vic."
Cyborg laughed. "Damn right I am."
While the humans bickered, Eidolon descended, boots touching the floor with a soft thud that still somehow felt like a thunderclap. His crimson eyes burned through the shadows of his helmet, scanning the room like a predator who had already won and was just waiting to see if dessert showed up.
Bullock turned, pointed, opened his mouth—
Eidolon beat him to it. "Structure restored. Forensic traces undisturbed. You'll still find blood spatter, ballistic markings, and..."—he tilted his head slightly—"Detective Bullock's illegal smoking paraphernalia, deposited in three separate puddles."
Bullock's mouth flapped for a second before he gave up and grumbled something about civil liberties.
Diana approached Eidolon, her lasso coiled at her hip, looking like a goddess wearing an Amazon warrior's body. The corner of her mouth curved up ever so slightly. "You didn't have to fix everything, you know," she said, voice low, teasing. "We had it handled."
Eidolon's answer was a slow, amused chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest like distant thunder. He leaned in—close enough for her to catch the spicy, clean scent of his magic—his crimson eyes flaring briefly.
"Call it professional courtesy," he said, voice pitched low enough to make Diana's heartbeat stutter.
Off to the side, Mera watched them with a small smirk, arms folded. She looked every inch the Princess of Atlantis.
She sauntered closer, water from a busted pipe curling around her like playful snakes. "Careful, Diana," she said sweetly. "He flirts like he fights—dirty and devastating."
Eidolon flicked a crimson glance toward Mera, and for a second, the air between the three of them crackled—electric, heavy, full of promise and unspoken dares.
Diana arched an eyebrow. "I can handle devastating."
Mera grinned like she was already planning round two.
In the comms, Batman's voice—grim, gravelly, and serious—cut through the growing tension like a batarang through butter:
"Focus. Transport the prisoners. Secure the engine. Eidolon, Mera, Wonder Woman—rendezvous at Watchtower after cleanup."
"Copy that," Eidolon growled, though his gaze lingered on Diana and Mera for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Beta-9 zipped forward, releasing mechanical cuffs that snapped onto the stunned buyers and Amunet Black, who had not shut up for a second, throwing a colorful buffet of insults at everyone from Eidolon to Gordon to the city of Gotham itself.
"You're all going down! I've got lawyers so good they can sue the Justice League and win! I'm untouchable! I'm invincible! I—"
Beta-9 deployed a small dart and thwip—Amunet crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
Bullock winced. "Jeez. You packin' tranquilizer darts now too?"
"Less paperwork," Beta-9 said sweetly.
As the GCPD moved in to secure the scene, Eidolon passed Montoya. She gave him a nod that managed to be respectful, curious, and a little bit exasperated all at once.
"You always this dramatic?" she asked.
"Only when people are watching," Eidolon replied smoothly, his voice dark silk over steel.
And then, with a dramatic flare of his cloak, he vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a warehouse full of stunned cops, charmed superheroes, and one very annoyed Bullock.
—
A few months later
Somewhere in the sun-blasted heart of Africa—where even the sand seemed to mutter, "Turn back, idiot"—the ruins of the ancient empire of Kor lay crumbling like the bones of a long-dead god. Which, to be fair, might've been exactly what they were.
But Dekan Drache wasn't the kind of guy who listened to muttering sand.
He adjusted his cracked aviator goggles, stomped on a scorpion (which probably cursed him, honestly), and clutched a half-burned grimoire in one hand and a silver goblet filled with goat's blood in the other.
"Ahhh, smell that?" Dekan said, inhaling deeply. "That's the scent of destiny. And also, maybe, the goat. Jury's out."
He looked like someone had dared a thrift shop to create a wizard from a Quentin Tarantino movie. A patchwork of dusty leather, bone charms, and a frankly unnecessary number of belts. The kind of man who absolutely had a tattoo that said Carpe Diem in Comic Sans. And he loved to monologue.
"This is it, baby!" he announced to the empty air. "Kor! Lost city of power, secrets, and world-ending mystical hoo-ha! And here I am, ready to tame it like a drunk crocodile wrangler at a Florida rave!"
The ancient stone altar before him groaned, either in mystical resonance or pure exhaustion.
Dekan flipped open the grimoire (which screamed a little—books in this place had opinions) and began chanting in a language that sounded like it had been invented by a very angry, very drunk goose.
The wind picked up. The air crackled. The ground rumbled.
"Oh, I like this," Dekan grinned. "This is definitely the part where I get god powers and a Netflix deal."
Then—BOOM. A rift split open in the air, violet and furious, like a bruise in the fabric of reality. Shadowy tendrils slithered out, wrapping around the altar, the stone, the sky.
"Behold!" Dekan cried, arms wide like a game show host unveiling eternal damnation. "The realm beyond! Mine for the taking!"
What came out wasn't a god.
It wasn't even remotely friendly.
It was a presence, ancient and bitter and very clearly not in the mood for introductions. The air went cold, despite the savannah heat. A figure emerged—a tall, spectral shape with burning green eyes and a voice like velvet laced with venom.
"You opened my prison," it said. "How quaint."
Dekan blinked, then smiled his signature charming sociopath smile. "Hey there, shadow-daddy! You're welcome. No need for groveling, though I do accept sacrifices and gift baskets."
The thing tilted its head. "Who are you?"
"Dekan Drache. Grand Magus of the Obsidian Dawn. Arguably the sexiest warlock in the southern hemisphere. I have a LinkedIn."
"I was Felix Faust," the being replied. "Archmage. Seeker of the Flame of Life. Slayer of would-be kings. Bane of Nommo, last wizard of Kor."
"Oho! We've both got résumés," Dekan said, then wagged his eyebrows. "Wanna compare CVs over a demonic blood pact? I got punch and a Spotify playlist."
"You are a fool," Faust said.
"Pfft. I prefer 'visionary.'"
"You are mine."
Then, things went downhill faster than a cursed sled on a volcano. The air thickened. Dekan's cocky smile slipped. A pulling sensation gripped his chest.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Time-out! I didn't agree to any possess—"
Too late.
Faust surged forward like a tidal wave of malice and arcane fire. Dekan screamed as his soul was yanked out like an overcooked noodle. His body twisted. Bones snapped, then reformed. Skin bubbled. His goggles shattered. His last words were, "This is not how I wanted to meet Morgan Freeman."
And then… silence.
Faust—now wearing Dekan's freshly updated meat suit—staggered to his feet. He looked down at his hands, now solid and trembling with weak power. He growled.
"So fragile," he said. "But it will do."
He raised one hand, trying to summon fire. The spell fizzled like a wet match.
Faust scowled. "Of course. Nommo's chains. His spell still binds the Flame."
As if summoned by name, the wind around him shivered. A deep, thunderous voice echoed through the ruins.
"You may rise, Felix Faust," it rumbled, "but you shall rise hollow."
Faust turned, eyes narrowing. "Nommo."
High atop a cracked spire, a shimmer of gold formed into a tall, regal figure with dreadlocks like sculpted obsidian and eyes that glowed with ancient wisdom and exhausted patience. His cloak rippled in the wind like a living thing. This was Nommo—the last true wizard of Kor, or at least his spirit, lingering like a stubborn guardian program on a very old operating system.
Nommo crossed his arms. "You should've stayed where I put you."
"And you should've died properly," Faust snarled.
"I did. But I made sure you'd suffer long after. And look at you now… trapped in a fool's skin, leaking magic like a cracked pot."
Faust tried to stand tall. "I will reclaim the Flame."
Nommo's eyes hardened. "Then the world will burn. Again. And I will stop you. Again."
Faust gritted his teeth. "You can't stop me, ghost."
Nommo stepped forward, and the very ruins seemed to bow to him. "I don't need to. There are others now. Heroes. Watchers. Champions who will rise, like I once did. And they won't be alone."
Faust grinned, a dark thing full of hate and hunger. "Let them come. Let them all come. This time, I'll be ready."
And somewhere, far away, something flickered.
A warm light.
A living Flame.
Still burning.
Still waiting.
—
Absolutely! Here's the rewritten version of your scene in a third-person, Rick Riordan-inspired style—with banter, irreverent humor, Kat Dennings-as-Death vibes, and punchy dialogue to boot.
Meanwhile—somewhere between the sigh of a soul that just realized heaven has a dress code and the slow tick of a grandfather clock stuck on "5 minutes to doom"—a very goth accountant sat at her desk, chewing the edge of her pen like it owed her rent.
Her name was Death.
No frills. No spooky middle names. No melodramatic title cards. Just Death. And yes, the capitalization was mandatory. She'd checked.
Today, she looked like what would happen if Hot Topic had an HR department: black slacks, sharp blazer, combat boots with just enough scuff to say I've kicked a necromancer before, and a dark lipstick named something like "Corpse Kiss." Her eyeliner was a weapon. Her vibe was Wednesday Addams if she'd survived capitalism.
She leaned back in her creaking chair—which sounded disturbingly like a soul groaning in agony, because it was—and glared at the glowing red folder now burning a hole in her desk like it thought it paid property taxes here.
"Felix freaking Faust," she said, narrowing her eyes like the folder had personally insulted her bangs. "No, no, go on. Please. Do rise from the dead again. I love having my paperwork undone."
The folder blinked at her. Literally. In red ink.
FAUST, FELIX.
Status: Finalized.
Note: DO NOT REOPEN (seriously, don't).
"Oh, that's rich," she muttered, flipping it open. "Do not reopen, it says. Like that's ever stopped this dude."
She squinted at the spectral signature inside, which pulsed with necromantic sleaze. It was like someone had dipped a soul in bad cologne and wish.com magic circles. Yep, Felix was back, probably with some "totally harmless" ritual involving ancient bones and a sacrificial goat he swore was "fine with it."
"You know what this is?" she said to no one in particular, standing up and pacing. "This is what happens when your eternal filing system gets undermined by a bunch of robe-wearing weirdos who think death is optional."
She waved her hand, and the walls of her office—normally tasteful marble with the occasional wailing face—peeled away into swirling mist, revealing her archival network: endless shelves, shrieking cabinets, and one confused ghost still trying to file a complaint about dying during tax season.
One thread glowed red. She reached out, plucked it like a harp string, and followed it through the multiversal GPS.
"Huh. Africa. Again. Of course. It's always Africa. Either ancient curses, lost tombs, or some idiot thinks they can 'totally control that demon monkey statue.'"
She traced the thread to the wall. A portal shimmered open, labeled in clean block letters:
EARTH-666B. ACTIVE FIELDWORK SITE. CHAMPION DEPLOYED.
Death actually smiled.
"Ohhh, yes. My boy's already there."
Her Champion. The one soul she'd ever invested in. And no, she didn't play favorites. She just preferred competence, okay?
Eidolon. Also known as Harry. Also known as the guy who once drop-kicked a lich into a moving subway train while quoting The Princess Bride.
Most people were afraid of Death. Eidolon treated her like a grumpy supervisor who sometimes brought existential donuts. He didn't flinch. He didn't grovel. And most importantly, he didn't cheat her. That alone made him a unicorn.
She crossed her arms, eyes still fixed on the red thread.
"I swear, if Faust tries that 'oh no, I'm totally reformed this time' speech again, I am turning him into toilet paper. Recycled."
The portal crackled.
She leaned in, hands on her desk, grinning like a goth cat watching a necromancer-shaped canary step into a blender.
"Go get him, kid. Break his bones, bind his soul, and please—I'm begging you—close this stupid file. I've got actual apocalypses to deal with, and I cannot keep bumping this moron up the paperwork queue."
She paused, glancing at the next stack on her desk:
ZOMBIES WHO SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THIS COMPLICATED
Form 138-L: Limbo Custody Disputes (Household Objects)
"Ugh," she muttered again, flopping back into her chair. "I should've gone into pestilence. At least they get field work."
She snapped her fingers. A skeletal assistant popped into existence, holding a cup labeled Soul Steeped Black Coffee: Screams Roasted In.
Death took a sip and sighed, watching the glowing thread tighten.
"Let's see if Felix enjoys round three. Spoiler alert: this one's got Harry in it."
—
The sun had the audacity to rise over Earth-666B, lighting up dusty hills and crooked wind turbines like the world wasn't in the middle of a multiversal identity crisis. And yet, the only one truly suffering was Felix Faust.
Once, he'd rewritten the laws of death with a shrug. Convinced a Babylonian weather god to give him a thunderbolt just to shut him up. Fought a goose deity who believed in vengeance and extremely sharp beaks.
Now? Now he was stuck in Dekan Drache's body—a budget-grade wizard with the magical output of a microwave on defrost—and being judged by a goat.
"Quit lookin' at me like that," Faust muttered.
The goat blinked. Then resumed chewing on a flip-flop like it was auditioning for Iron Chef: Footwear Edition.
"I've faced seraphim with flaming swords and eyes made of regret. You're a barnyard animal with commitment issues."
The goat farted.
Faust threw his arms in the air. "I'm talking to livestock. Glorious."
Wrapped in a cloak that had once been a curtain (and not a good one), barefoot, and with hair that looked like it had been styled by lightning and betrayal, Faust trudged toward the horizon like a man who'd just realized he was starring in a sitcom instead of a tragedy.
The "village" ahead looked like it had been designed by a committee that couldn't agree if they were going for "post-apocalypse chic" or "solar-powered influencer commune." A few makeshift shacks huddled together around a squat concrete building with a satellite dish, and teenagers milled about, earbuds in, thumbs scrolling like their lives depended on it.
Faust stepped over a cat napping in a flower pot and glared at a girl snapping selfies in front of a crumbling statue.
"This is sacred ground," he growled. "Ancient battlegrounds soaked in blood and forgotten oaths!"
She blew a bubblegum bubble. "It's got decent lighting."
A child in a Spider-Man T-shirt tugged on his ripped sleeve.
"Hey, mister. You cosplaying or just homeless?"
Faust looked down his nose at the boy. "I am neither. I am Felix Faust, Bane of Realms. My wrath is eternal. My knowledge is vast. I once made a djinn cry."
The boy tilted his head. "So...homeless."
"I AM WAR!"
The kid shrugged. "My uncle says that when he's off his meds."
Faust stalked into the general store like an angry god downgraded to local theater villain. The inside was part tech bazaar, part juice bar, part mango-themed fever dream. Solar-powered lights buzzed overhead. A glowing tablet sat on the counter next to a handwritten sign that said:
Airtime / Wi-Fi / Fresh Mangoes / No Weirdos
The woman behind the counter looked like she'd seen it all and decided not to care. Wraparound shades. Yankees cap. Attitude that could tan leather.
"What can I get you?" she asked without looking up.
Faust pointed at the glowing device. "What sorcery is that? Is it an oracle? A cursed relic? A soul prison?"
She blinked. "It's an iPad."
"I-pad? As in...eye of the pad? Is this some sort of magical monocle?"
She sighed and held it out. "It's a tablet. You swipe to use it."
"Swipe what? A blade? My enemy's soul? My dignity?"
"Your finger."
Faust narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust it."
"Okay, Grandpa Magic, here." She grabbed his hand and demonstrated. The moment his fingertip touched the screen—
DING!
"Unlock 50 Gems Now or Wait 5 Hours!"
Faust yelped like the tablet had bit him, flung it into the air, and dove behind a shelf of mango-flavored gum.
"By the burning brows of Belial! It's cursed!"
The shopkeeper caught the iPad with one hand, unfazed. "That's Candy Clash."
"Candy what?"
"It's a game. You match colors."
"A deception. A trap. Clearly a soul siphon disguised as a child's amusement."
She checked the screen. "Also, you cracked it. That's $700."
Faust stood, dusted off his dignity (what little remained), and cleared his throat. "I owe you... a future favor of great magnitude."
She pulled out a taser. "You owe me cash."
"Right! Of course. Classic Earth currency. Love that. Big fan. I'll...just see myself out."
—
An hour later, Faust sat behind the store on a plastic crate, sipping mango juice through a bendy straw like a dethroned emperor trying not to cry.
His magic was barely a flicker. Dekan's body was about as stable as a gluten-free pancake. The world around him was wrong. There were no high towers of obsidian, no sacrificial pits, no weather gods on leashes. Just TikToks and kombucha and children who thought sarcasm was a personality.
He flipped through a discarded tabloid that made less sense than most ancient grimoires.
KARDASHIANS: CURSED AGAIN?
Faust stared.
"What is a Kardashian? A bloodline of sorcerers? Demigoddesses of fame? Why are they...everywhere?"
The goat had followed him and now lounged nearby, chewing on the same flip-flop. Faust eyed it warily.
"They used to whisper my name in temples, you know," he said. "Now I can't even get Wi-Fi."
The goat belched.
He stood, cloak swirling dramatically in a wind that definitely waited until he struck a pose.
"This world has forgotten power. It no longer bows to ancient rites or sacred tomes. It worships streaming services and likes. But I am no relic. I am Faust. Felix Faust. And I will reclaim my throne."
The goat sneezed, unimpressed.
Faust jabbed a finger at the sky.
"They may have their 'heroes.' Their Champions. Their Wi-Fi gods and memetic overlords. But I have seven thousand years of arcane mastery, an unquenchable thirst for domination, and a moderately functioning liver. I have punched the abyss in the face."
He paused. Blinked.
"…Also, I need to figure out what a Google is."
The goat bleated. Possibly in agreement.
Faust nodded solemnly.
"Yes. But first... more mango juice."
—
Hadrian Peverell—"please, call me Harry, unless you're a demon, in which case: run"—was having a rare, gloriously lazy day.
No villains. No explosions. No eldritch rituals threatening to summon Space Cthulhu via corrupted IKEA furniture. Just him, two goddesses, and a hot tub with a view of Gotham that screamed, You made it, kid. Try not to die today.
He lounged back, arms sprawled along the edge like he owned the world (he didn't, but try telling that to his ego). The penthouse's rooftop garden wrapped around the hot tub like something from a billionaire's fever dream: obsidian tile, shimmering enchanted lights, and Dobson the butler subtly judging the skyline with Bond-level gravitas.
"You know what's weird?" Harry said, swirling a champagne flute filled with something that looked illegal, smelled divine, and probably tasted like rebellion. "This might be the first Tuesday in months I haven't punched someone in the soul."
Mera, lounging next to him in a crimson bikini that managed to weaponize sass, didn't even glance up from her floating mocktail. "It's 11 a.m. Give it time."
On his other side, Diana—yes, that Diana, Wonder Woman, goddess-tier beauty with the soul of a war hymn and the thighs of legend—flipped a page of The Art of War with casual grace. "Last time you said that, Batman crash-landed a Batplane on our balcony."
Harry held up a finger. "Correction. That was Alfred. Bruce was unconscious. Again."
"And you say that like it's rare," Mera muttered, giving him a look over her sunglasses that could liquefy lesser men.
Dobson materialized beside them with an impeccable towel draped over his arm. "Master Hadrian, would you like your sword oiled while you bask in this illusion of peace?"
Harry snorted. "Not unless it involves you making it look even cooler. I'm going for 'mysterious death god with just a hint of rockstar'."
Dobson blinked slowly. "You're already dressed like a Hot Topic fever dream."
"Flattery will get you upgraded Wi-Fi," Harry replied, grinning.
And then it happened.
The temperature plummeted. Not like "a cold breeze rolled in" but like "Winterfell just rage quit into their hot tub."
Mera's smoothie hissed. Diana's eyes narrowed. The shadows grew claws.
Mera straightened, coral-and-sass now ocean fury. Her trident shimmered into being with a splash of saltwater magic. "That's not natural."
Diana stood, sword in hand as if it had always been there. "Neither is the fact your drink's glowing like a radioactive sea cucumber."
Harry groaned and sat up. "Oh great. Her."
Mera arched an eyebrow. "Her?"
Diana crossed her arms. "You mean your mysterious boss? The one who sends you to fight haunted furniture and cursed ducks?"
He opened his mouth to deny it—and then the shadows twisted. A single black envelope appeared on the obsidian coffee table, sealed with crimson wax shaped like a skull sipping a latte.
Diana tilted her head. "Charming."
Harry sighed. "Death called."
"The Death?" Mera asked, somehow lounging and poised to strike at the same time.
He nodded. "Capital D. Think Victorian goth librarian meets cosmic force of nature. Smells like espresso and unresolved trauma."
Diana hummed thoughtfully. "I want to meet her."
Harry blinked. "You what?"
"She picked you," Diana said. "That makes her fascinating."
"She once gave a banshee an existential crisis by asking 'how's work?'"
Mera leaned forward with a grin that promised both violence and mischief. "I'm intrigued."
The envelope twitched.
It burst into black fire, smoke curling into words written in eldritch neon:
FAUST. AGAIN. FIELD CLEANUP REQUIRED.
Mera hissed. "Felix Faust? The necromancer with the ego of a drunk kraken?"
Harry drained his drink like a shot and exhaled. "That'd be the one. The Peverell family grimoire calls him 'a cautionary tale wrapped in bad decisions and eldritch goo.'"
Diana frowned. "Wasn't he destroyed?"
"Yes he was," Harry said, pointing at her. "About 7,000 years ago. Nommo the Sorcerer King did that particular smiting."
"So how is he back?" Mera asked, already standing, water dripping off her like a coral goddess in a perfume commercial.
Harry stood, and with a snap of his fingers, Eidolon arrived.
His armor was black leather threaded with blood-red veins, each pulse in time with some dark, forgotten heartbeat. His crimson emblem glowed like a warning shot. The long cloak behind him rippled dramatically in a wind he definitely conjured just for effect. A black hood shadowed his face, and his helmet, gleaming and severe, left only two blazing crimson eyes to see.
Mera let out a low whistle. "You just had to be the hot kind of terrifying."
Diana stepped close, tilting her head. "It's the wind thing. That cloak is cheating."
"I like the cloak," Harry said. "Also, I'm Death's Champion. Looking ominous is in the job description."
Dobson reappeared holding a sword that may or may not have been forged in a dying star. "Your travel attire, sir. Shall I also prepare the snark?"
"Locked and loaded," Harry said, taking the blade.
Diana conjured her armor with a shimmer. "I'm coming."
"Me too," Mera said, her Armor forming with a hiss of pressure.
Harry stared at them. "You're both seriously tagging along to fight a resurrected necromancer who made a pact with an ancient void spirit that wants to eat souls like Pringles?"
Mera grinned. "Remember the singing spiders? You owe me."
Diana winked. "And I want to see his face when he realizes he came back just to die again."
Harry smirked. "Fine. Pack your sass and your murder accessories."
A swirling portal of darkness and mango-scented doom opened before them, its edges humming with Wi-Fi-enabled despair.
Eidolon turned to his goddesses, red eyes glowing like twin suns. "Ladies, we ride."
Mera kissed his cheek. "You're driving."
Diana kissed the other. "And we're definitely breaking a few laws."
With a dramatic flick of his cloak, Eidolon stepped into the shadows, his girlfriends at his side, weapons ready, hair perfect, and intent on professionally un-aliving Felix Faust.
Again.
—
Chapter: Mango Juice, Wi-Fi Gods, and a Devious Plan
Felix Faust—yes, that Felix Faust, master of arcane arts, terror of the Justice League, and former wizard-in-residence for basically every apocalypse you've never heard of—was currently sitting cross-legged behind a sun-bleached mango juice stand, sipping juice through a bendy straw like he was auditioning for "Wizards Who Gave Up." He squinted at the sun, which seemed to mock him from above with its blistering heat and absolute lack of dignity.
"Once, I summoned a hurricane that obliterated a kingdom," Faust muttered, flicking mango pulp off his robe. "Now I can't even summon decent Wi-Fi."
The goat beside him, who had somehow adopted him as its emotional support human, bleated noncommittally and returned to gnawing on a chewed-up flip-flop.
Faust sighed. "You are, without a doubt, the most disappointing familiar I've ever had."
The goat paused its chewing and gave him a flat look.
"Yes, yes, I know. You're a goat. No need to keep reminding me."
Faust reached for the crumpled tabloid on his crate. The headline screamed "KARDASHIANS CURSED—Family of Glamour Hexed by Unknown Entity!"
"Am I supposed to know what a Kardashian is?" he mumbled. "Why do they matter? Why is this news? Where's the section on summoning dark forces or cursing one's enemies with eternal hiccups?"
The goat offered no guidance, which, honestly, was on-brand.
A sudden memory of the mango juice shopkeeper's face—equal parts horror and secondhand embarrassment—flashed in Faust's mind.
He growled. "Humiliated. By a girl in neon sunglasses and an iPad. This cannot stand."
Cue dramatic cloak flourish.
He stood, knocking over the crate with a flourish that would've impressed any local theater group. Somewhere between the cracked sidewalk and a half-eaten samosa, an idea formed. Not just an idea. A plan. A wicked, juicy, soul-selling, power-restoring plan.
Neron. Faust whispered the name like a secret. The demon prince of soul bargains, the guy who made deals that turned minor villains into major headaches. The last time Faust dealt with him, he'd walked away with a glowing tattoo and the ability to speak ancient Mayan with a Jersey accent. But this time? This time would be different.
Faust's eyes narrowed. "He wants souls. I've got bait. All I need is the right—"
"—Wi-Fi password, because seriously, if I go one more minute without posting this storytime, I'm gonna die."
Faust blinked.
The girl. Her.
She stood at the edge of the broken statue plaza, lips glossed to a reflective sheen, her phone held up like it was the Holy Grail. Her crop top read: I Paused My Show for This. Her expression was a perfect storm of boredom, filtered rage, and influencer entitlement.
"And then," she continued, live-streaming to an audience of at least twelve, "this literal crypt keeper came in and started yelling about dark arts or something? Like, bro, read the room. This is a juice bar, not Hogwarts."
Faust felt a blood vessel twitch.
"Tana," she said into the phone, "T-A-N-A, like banana but hotter. Yes, that's my real name. Anyway, this crusty dude owes me, like, seven hundred bucks for breaking my iPad. Which I will be invoicing. And probably suing for. Stay tuned."
He stalked forward, robe swishing like a judgmental curtain.
"Excuse me," Faust said with the kind of forced politeness that usually preceded a curse.
Tana looked up, squinting at him over her sunglasses. "Oh. It's you. Grandpa Magic. Here to Venmo me yet?"
"I—what? No. I don't know what that means. But you—"
"Figures. Look, unless you're here to explain how you're gonna pay for my iPad or like, teleport me to a free facial, I'm not interested."
Faust's eye twitched. He inhaled deeply through his nose. "You are... unique."
"Thanks. I get that a lot." She posed instinctively. "Did you want a selfie or—?"
"No. Absolutely not. I want your soul."
Tana blinked. Then laughed. Then blinked again. "Okay, well that's the creepiest thing anyone's said to me today. And I once had a guy on a scooter propose to me using Taco Bell sauce packets, so the bar was low."
"You don't understand," Faust said, lowering his voice. "You are special. Powerful. Your soul—it shines. Neron will want it. And in exchange, I shall have—"
"Okay, timeout, Satanic Santa. Are you trying to kidnap me right now? Because this better be, like, a prank for TikTok."
Faust raised his hands, summoning shadows. "I am Felix Faust, Scourge of Realms! Do you think I jest?"
"Is 'Scourge of Realms' your rapper name or…?"
He snapped his fingers. Shadows curled like ink, wrapping around them. Tana screamed. Not a horror-movie scream, more of a this'll ruin my mascara scream.
"Are you—what even is this?" she yelled. "Is this a vibe? Because this is not a vibe!"
Faust hesitated.
Deep inside, something... tugged. Was it guilt? Regret? A leftover mango burp?
He looked at her. Really looked.
Yes, she was loud and vapid and possibly made of Instagram filters—but there was something else. A flicker. Innocence. Maybe even goodness.
He almost sighed.
The goat bleated.
Faust closed his eyes. "No. No second thoughts. I've already committed to the bit."
He dragged her into the swirling shadows.
Tana's last words before they vanished into the void?
"If this ruins my brand deal, I'm suing you twice."
---
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