Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A dry night extended over a dusty road somewhere in central Mexico, the kind where stars burn like shards of broken glass. In the stillness, John Constantine stood in the middle of a deserted, unpaved road, far from any lights, the kind of forgotten track where only a fool or a desperate man would wait. He flicked ash from his cigarette, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the profound darkness.

"Right then," he muttered to himself, the words puffing out in a lazy cloud of smoke. "Any minute now."

His expression was a masterpiece of weary impatience, the kind a man might wear when his date was running two hours late and he was already on his third pint. Except, there was no pint, and no date. Just the vast, silent expanse of the countryside, the thrum of cicadas, and the palpable weight of ancient, watchful earth.

He checked his watch, a cheap thing he'd picked up in a back-alley pawn shop. Half-past midnight. Punctual as a bloody train derailment, this one. John took another drag, his eyes scanning the horizon, betraying a flicker of the sharp calculation he always carried. He’d heard the whispers, researched the legends, and now he was here, ready to play his hand. This was just another negotiation, another con, another powerful entity to outmaneuver. He'd done it countless times. Heaven, Hell, everything in between. They all had their rules, their weaknesses, their fine print. And John Constantine knew how to read between the lines.

A low, distant thrum began to vibrate through the dry earth, growing steadily. It wasn't an engine. It was deeper, older, a rhythm that spoke of hooves on stone and the sigh of forgotten winds. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else, something subtly metallic and cold, like a freshly drawn blade. The stars, which moments ago had glittered like spilled salt, seemed to dim, swallowed by an encroaching, unnatural darkness.

John stubbed out his cigarette beneath a worn boot. His expression tightened, not with fear, but with a familiar, cynical thrill. 

"Finally," he murmured, a hint of his old, sardonic self returning. "Took you long long enough, mate."

From the deepening shadows, a figure emerged. A horse, black as the deepest void, its massive head adorned with a dark bridle, one glowing red eye piercing the gloom. And astride it, cloaked in an even profounder darkness, sat the rider. He wore the traditional mariachi charro attire, but rendered in stark, unsettling monochrome, with bone-like patterns starkly picked out on his jacket. A wide-brimmed sombrero with subtle, dark red details crowned his head. His face, though obscured by shadow and the brim of his hat, held a timeless, unreadable quality.

"Usted perdone," the man's voice was deep, resonant, like stones grinding together in an ancient riverbed. He tipped his sombrero slightly, a gesture of mock politeness that prickled John's skin. "Me perdí en los caminos de la vida." The words were delivered with a mocking lilt, a casual disregard that John instantly disliked.

"Tch, bloody spirits," John cursed under his breath, though his voice held a surprising lack of its usual bite. He fixed his gaze on the shadowed rider. "I hope you at least did what we agreed," he said, some threat in his tone, trying to reassert control.

"No se preocupe," El Charro´s voice rumbled, and now, from beneath the shadow of his sombrero, his eyes began to glow, two pinpricks of malevolent red light. "Yo sí sé cumplir mi palabra." A beat of chilling silence. "No como ciertas personas."

John's jaw tightened. Oh, he knew he was being insulted. The cosmic equivalent of a sneer. The implication was clear: you break your word, I don't, I always keep my word.

"You want to start something, mate?" John called out, a sickly green light already beginning to coalesce and glow in his outstretched hand, a raw, volatile spell ready to launch. His usual calm facade was cracking, his irritation boiling over.

The black wearing figure simply dismounted. His golden spurs clinked with an unnerving clarity in the vast silence. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his form imposing even on foot, and the red glow from his eyes intensified. His expression, previously veiled, shifted, revealing a flicker of annoyance, ancient and absolute.

"Más bien quiero terminar algo," he stated, his voice now colder, without the previous mocking undertone. "Un trato fue hecho y ahora llego la hora de pagar." The words, delivered with a chilling finality, seemed to echo in the sudden, unnatural stillness of the night.

John rolled his eyes, the green light in his hand pulsing faintly. He’d heard those words thousands of times from beings far more threatening than this guy, grandstanding devils and ancient horrors. At this point, they were just that… words and nothing else. He already had his counter-offer forming in his mind, the little loophole, the clever turn of phrase that would get him exactly what he wanted without paying the full price. He always did.

"Yeah, yeah, my soul to you, yada yada," John mocked, not a hint of fear in his voice, only a weary condescension. "All dramatic. Get on with it, mate."

The eyes of the spirit blazed, the two pinpricks of red fire expanding until they were fully, terrifyingly crimson.

"Oh, es exactamente lo que voy a hacer."

Before John could react, before the green glow in his hand could fully erupt into a spell, a whip materialized in the Charro's hand. Not a physical thing of leather, but a crackling coil of absolute darkness, made of pure shadow and cold malice. In one impossibly swift, fluid motion, it snapped forward, wrapping around John's body with crushing force, binding his arms to his sides and cinching tight around his chest. The green light in his hand flickered, then died, extinguished by the unnatural cold of the whip.

"Aggggh! Okay, I'm quite open-minded, but you could have bought me dinner first," John couldn't help but jab, even as the cold, crushing darkness of the whip tightened around him. Getting violent, eh? No big deal. Not the first time some demon tried this. John wasn't worried. He'd been roughed up by the big leagues, survived worse. This was just part of the show, a bit of intimidation before the real negotiation began. He'd dealt with stronger, older things than this folkloric fella.

"Un trato es un trato," said El Charro, his deep voice devoid of any warmth, and John felt one of his hands, held by the whip, suddenly release from the binding and move up against his will, hovering in the air as if pulled by an invisible string.

"Y conmigo, los tratos se cumplen," the figure added behaved , his red eyes burning with an almost imperceptible triumph. He stopped directly in front of John, close enough for John to feel the chilling aura radiating from him, and extended his own hand. John's own raised hand, still moving against his will, met the Charro's. 

John was already rolling his eyes, again. He'd heard this before, thousands of times. Just drama for him, he thought, suppressing a sigh. Again, I'm gonna feel a small sting as this bloke tries to claim my soul, only for him to find out it’s already claimed by guys higher in the hierarchy. He imagined the inevitable tantrum, the empty threats about getting him eventually, before the Charro would leave with either a 'claim' on a small piece of his soul or nothing at all. He'd just play along, let the amateur have his little show, then get on with finding a way to null the claim or see if he could use this guy for something.

Maybe Zatanna would like a mariachi serenade. The thought almost made him laugh.

But the moment their hands connected, the cynical smile vanished from John’s lips, replaced by a look of sheer, dawning horror. It wasn't a subtle drain, not a gradual fade, not the familiar prickle of a minor claim being staked. It was a sudden, violent wrenching sensation, a complete and terrifying transfer. He felt his very essence, his entire soul, not just leaving him, but undeniably changing hands, like a physical object being yanked from his core. It was a sensation of utter finality, of something irreplaceable being irrevocably claimed. There was no resistance, no counter-claim from Hell's legions, no celestial intervention. 

Just the feeling of a clean, absolute transaction.

The charro still holding John's now-empty hand, didn't just smile; he let out a deep, knowing laugh, a sound that echoed the countless souls he'd claimed over centuries. His eyes, usually just glowing pinpricks, now seemed to hold the gleam of pure, ancient amusement, the terrifying mirth of a being who had effortlessly seen through and utterly dismantled Constantine's futile attempt at trickery.

Then, the Charro's form began to shift. The outline of his mariachi attire rippled, and from within, a searing, malevolent crimson glow erupted. It wasn't just light; it was like the image of a demonic, grinning skull coalescing from pure, incandescent shadow, encased in a roiling, infernal aura of black flames and smoke. The sombrero's brim seemed to sharpen, its shape now defined by the violent, internal blaze. This was the entity unbound, its true, horrifying form unleashed.

The resonant voice that had mocked and warned him deepened further, vibrating through John's very bones.

"Te llegó la hora, John Constantine."

A final, booming, utterly triumphant laugh filled the night, a sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. And then, in a blinding flash of dark fire, the Charro and his horse vanished, leaving behind only the choking scent of brimstone.

Chapter Text

Then, the Charro's form began to shift. The outline of his mariachi attire rippled, and from within, a searing, malevolent crimson glow erupted. It wasn't just light; it was like the image of a demonic, grinning skull coalescing from pure, incandescent shadow, encased in a roiling, infernal aura of black flames and smoke. The sombrero's brim seemed to sharpen, its shape now defined by the violent, internal blaze. This was the entity unbound, its true, horrifying form unleashed.

The resonant voice that had mocked and warned him deepened further, vibrating through John's very bones.

"Te llegó la hora, John Constantine."

A final, booming, utterly triumphant laugh filled the night, a sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. And then, in a blinding flash of dark fire, the Charro and his horse vanished, leaving behind only the choking scent of brimstone.

John Constantine was left standing there, perfectly alone under the indifferent stars. The cigarette, forgotten, dropped from his numb fingers, hitting the dusty road with a soft, unheard thud. The "I'm about to con you" smirk that was a permanent fixture on his face was utterly gone, replaced by a look of unadulterated, hollow horror. His mind, ever the trickster's forge, immediately began constructing a mental shield, a desperate, frantic attempt at denial.

He fumbled for another Silk Cut, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he brought it to his lips, the motion stiff and unfamiliar. His eyes, usually sharp and knowing, darted around the empty road, searching, pleading for some sign, any sign, that this was just another elaborate demonic trick.

It was a dream.

A powerful illusion, a nasty bit of psychic residue.

The Charro? Just another bloody local ghoul, barely worth a footnote in his grimoires. He'd overplayed it, that was all.

He straightened his trench coat, pulling it tighter around him as if warding off a chill that had nothing to do with the tropical night. The mission, whatever brought him to Mexico, would be declared "accomplished." Nothing to see here. Move along. He’d rationalize the unsettling emptiness he now felt, the chilling knowledge that something was fundamentally different, as mere fatigue, the lingering effects of the magic, or even a particularly nasty tequila hangover. Just a rough night. Nothing a few pints and a good con couldn't fix. He always fixed it. Always.

He began making his way towards the distant glimmer of light on the horizon, the vague direction of the town where his current mission had parked the House of Mystery just outside. Each step was shaky, uncertain, a puppet on broken strings. The humid night air still felt like ice against his skin, and the silence of the countryside was too vast, too absolute. With every dragging footfall, he tried to convince himself. Nothing really happened. All is good. Just another deal. He’ll find a way out soon. The words were a desperate, hollow mantra, repeated over and over, battling against the terrifying, undeniable void where his soul had been.

The journey to the House of Mystery was quiet. Too quiet. Unnaturally so.

John kept expecting it. The inevitable skirmish. The indignant shriek of a minor demon whose claim had just been summarily nullified. The cold snarl of a vengeful spirit sensing a default. Someone, anyone, should have come already, drawn by the feeling of someone else having a piece of his soul..a new competitor for his eternal torment. He braced himself with every rustle of dry leaves, every distant chirp, expecting a sudden lunge, a whisper of a forgotten debt.

But nothing came.

Not a single soul-claimant. Not an angry devil's minion. Not even a stray, territorial goblin. The silence was heavier than usual, thicker, as if the very air refused to carry any sound of supernatural strife. It was as if the entire underworld, every aggrieved entity, every meticulous accountant of damnation, had suddenly gone… quiet.

"Bollocks," John scoff, the sound weak and unconvincing even to his own ears. He took another shaky step. "Probably thinking making me sweat a bit will make me cave, eh? Well, they's got another thing coming." He tried to conjure the familiar defiance, but it felt thin, like smoke. This wasn't a game of patience. This wasn't how his game worked. This... was too clean. Too final.

"By now, he'd probably have archdemons and bloody Azazel knocking at his door to beat him and get that soul piece back," he kept muttering, the words forming a broken litany as the familiar, impossible shape of the House of Mystery slowly materialized against the starry sky. "Next time I see him, he'll probably have lesser teeth." The defiance was brittle, paper-thin, even to his own ears. He was talking to himself, and even he isn't buying it.

He finally reached the House of Mystery, its familiar, shifting architecture a comforting anomaly against the unfamiliar landscape. The front door, usually aloof, swung open with a soft, inviting creak.

A figure, elegant and ethereal, waited just inside the dimly lit foyer. It was Black Orchid, the living manifestation of the House itself, her form a graceful silhouette, her eyes luminous, understanding everything.

"John," her voice was a melodic whisper, devoid of judgment, yet laced with an undeniable concern. "You are... changed."

The con-man scoffed, the sound utterly devoid of its usual warmth or mischief.

"No, but I do need a change of clothes and a reminder to never make deals in deserts again," he said, the words coming out flat, with a strained, almost desperate heat in his tone. He pulled his trench coat tighter around him as if warding off a chill that had nothing to do with the night outside.

Black Orchid looked at him, her luminous eyes seeming to search, to find something amiss within him.

"Miss Zatanna has been trying to communicate," she began, her voice soft but persistent. "She wants to know…”

"If those bloody death god fanboys are dealt with?" John interrupted, the words tumbling out too quickly, too loudly, a brittle attempt at his usual bluster. He forced a grimace that might have been a smirk in another life. "You can tell her they are. Again I saved the day. She owes me a date." He tried to wink, but his eyelid felt heavy, and the gesture lacked any conviction.

Black Orchid's eyes narrowed, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in her luminous gaze, as if trying to locate a missing frequency within him.

"The family of bakers also came not long ago, they..."

"I DON'T BLOODY CARE!" John exploded, the raw, uncharacteristic volume echoing unnervingly in the House's vast, quiet foyer. His carefully constructed facade shattered, revealing the frayed nerves and the simmering panic beneath. "I had to deal with a cult trying to bring some Aztec god of death back, fought an army of zombies and skeletons, had to deal with too many bloody Mexicans tonight and I'm tired!" he spat, his voice rising in strained finality. "All I want is a bloody warm bath, a cold beer, and some peace! so why don't you act like a good house and do that?!" His chest heaved, the outburst leaving him trembling, the rage a desperate, futile attempt to fill the void.

The avatar paused, her face maintaining its neutral, sculpted beauty. Her luminous eyes remained fixed on John, unwavering, unblinking.

"Very well," she said, her voice a calm, even tone that seemed to absorb the frantic energy of his outburst. Then, with a graceful, fluid motion, her form seemed to ripple, dissolving into the shadows and intricate patterns of the House itself, vanishing entirely.

"Fucking perfect," groaned John, the anger draining away to reveal only exhaustion and a growing, throbbing headache. "I need some vacations." He added, pushing himself deeper into the House, his steps still shaky, the void within him a constant, chilling companion.

A door swirled open as he walked deeper, not the one he expected for a bath or a beer, but the towering, impossibly vast entrance to the House's labyrinthine Library. The scent of ancient parchment, forgotten spells, and the dust of ages filled the air, thick and heavy.

"Umm, that's not..." John started, his voice trailing off as he stared at the immense collection of forbidden knowledge. But then he thought about it. Maybe some light reading would help him relax? Maybe he could check some old rituals and documents about deals he had… just to refresh his memory (he said to himself, trying to sound casual). After all, he had time to report back to the others, and after the night he had, he could lose a few minutes to himself. Maybe this would save time for later, when he’d throw this impossible deal back in the face of that mariachi bastard.

With that, he stepped into the Library, the immense doors swinging shut behind him with a soft, final thud that echoed in the cavernous space. He didn't notice Black Orchid, her ethereal form silently re-manifesting in the foyer, her luminous eyes still fixed on the space where he'd stood, a deep, unreadable concern etched upon her features. Nor did he notice the small, glowing patch of ancient parchment, neatly tucked into a shadowed corner near the doorframe, that shimmered once with an ominous red light before dissolving into motes of dust, its contents utterly lost to memory.

(Timeskip-several days later)

A harsh sun beat down on the dusty roads and wilting the sparse vegetation. A beat-up, dark blue van rumbled to a halt on the shoulder of a less-traveled highway, stirring up a cloud of ochre dust. Its side door slid open, revealing the worried faces of Zatanna Zatara and Deadman.

The stage magician, shielded her eyes with a hand, scanning the horizon.

"Still nothing from John," she murmured, her voice tight. “He should have contacted us by now." She added with a mix of concern and some anger "The last coordinates of the House of Mystery were from here.”

Floating beside her, incorporeal and translucent, Deadman (Boston Brand) hovered, his own features drawn with an unusual intensity.

"I don't like it, Zee," his spectral voice whispered, a faint echo in the still air. "The spiritual static around this place… it's like a scream that got swallowed. And something feels missing. Something big." He drifted forward, his ghostly form passing through the heat-shimmering air, trying to sense the lingering energies of John's recent presence.

Zatanna sighed, pulling her hand away from her eyes.

"This land, Boston... it's ancient. Even my father, with all his knowledge, admitted there were mysteries here he hadn't fully uncovered. It's a land of magic, powerful, forgotten, ancient magic." Her gaze swept over the seemingly peaceful landscape, but her eyes, accustomed to seeing the unseen, hinted at hidden currents of power. "We need to be careful. More careful than usual." She added, the usual theatrical flair replaced by a grim determination. "John wouldn't just vanish unless he was in serious trouble. Or he's done something incredibly stupid."

"Knowing him, probably the latter," Deadman quipped, a faint, sardonic chuckle in his spectral voice, a habit picked up from his living companion. His ghostly gaze lingered on the distant, shimmering outline of the House of Mystery, a place even he, a disembodied spirit, found unsettling. "At least we are not far."

Zatanna narrowed her eyes at the impossible building.

"Yes... but... then why did my attempts to simply appear there failed?” she mused, her brow furrowing. "I'm usually able to teleport to any known magical nexus. Something is actively blocking me, or the House itself is... altered."

"Maybe John finally found a way to get Orchid drunk," Deadman joked, a spectral eyebrow raised, as the two began walking towards the House of Mystery, the dust kicking up around Zatanna's polished boots.

Suddenly, a small figure appeared on the dusty road ahead, also rushing towards the House. It was a little girl, perhaps no older than eight or nine. She wore a simple, short-sleeved orange t-shirt that was too large for her, hanging loosely over dark, ripped jeans at the knees, revealing a small tear on one thigh. Her long, dark brown hair was disheveled, falling in messy waves around her face. She clutched a covered basket tightly in her arms as she stumbled, picked herself up, and kept running, her small form surprisingly swift, driven by an unseen force towards the House.

"Ehh, Zee... am I seeing things... or a little girl is running towards the House of Mystery?" Deadman asked in confusion, his spectral form tilting his head.

"No, I'm seeing it too, Boston," Zatanna replied, her voice laced with surprise and a fresh wave of concern. Her gaze softened slightly as she watched the tiny figure. "What in the blazes...?"

They quickened their pace, walking (and floating) faster, closing the distance to the House. The little girl, ahead of them, reached the porch. She stood there for a moment, her small frame silhouetted against the grand, shifting facade of the building, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a visible sigh of deep disappointment, she simply set the covered basket down on the weathered wooden planks, as if leaving a package for a perpetually absent recipient.

Zatanna moved forwards, her voice clear and calm despite her internal confusion.

"Niña! Hey, little girl!" she called out, trying to catch her attention.

The girl looked up, a bit surprised to see two people approaching her on the seemingly deserted road. Her large, dark eyes, though previously holding an urgent plea, now brightened with a flicker of excitement.

"Oh! Hola, ¿puedo ayudarles?" she asked, her voice small but filled with a new, hopeful energy.

Zatanna paused, a small smile touching her lips at the girl's unexpected cheerfulness. Then, with a practiced flick of her wrist and a quiet utterance, cast a spell:

"Hsinaps dnatsrednu I!" A faint shimmer of blue light enveloped her for a moment, and then her expression relaxed. She could now understand the girl perfectly.

The girl blinked at the fading shimmer around Zatanna. 

"Ohh! Are you magicians like the mister?" she asked, her excitement evident in her tone, her eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of wonder, totally forgetting her earlier disappointment.

"Mr? She means Constantine?" Boston couldn't help but ask, genuinely confused.

He was surprised when the girl turned and looked directly at him, her dark eyes focusing on his translucent form with casual acceptance. 

"Yes, that's the Mr. Wizard that helped us recently," she replied simply, nodding her head as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be conversing with a spectral being.

Deadman stood there, mouth agape, utterly shocked. 

"What?" he blurted out, a spectral gasp. He glanced at Zatanna, whose own eyes widened slightly in surprise.

The girl, noticing his stunned expression, giggled.

 "You look funny, mister," she said, a small, innocent smile on her face. "Are you in the circus?"

Zatanna, however, barely registered Deadman's shock. Her eyes, trained in the esoteric arts, were fixed on the girl, a new understanding dawning. 

"She has the gift," Zatanna murmured, more to herself than to Boston. "A natural medium... or something far more attuned to the veil."

She then turned fully to the girl, her expression warm and reassuring.

"Hello, sweetheart. My name is Zatanna. And this is my friend, Boston. Can you tell us who you are, and how you know... the 'Mr. Wizard'?"

The girl nodded eagerly, her short hair bouncing.

 "I'm Isabella! I live in the city, just over there," she pointed vaguely back towards the city. "My parents, they have a bakery. And Mr. Wizard...” she continued, her voice full of admiration, "he arrived some weeks days ago. There were really bad people, kidnappers, taking people from the city to some ancient pyramid buried in the hills nearby. He helped us!"

Isabella then launched into her vivid, childlike retelling.

"Some of my ghost friends—Mr. Wizard explained they were ghosts!—they helped us! They showed us where the bad people were hiding. It was like a movie, a really scary one! We had to sneak through so many zombies and skeletons, like in a horror movie, to get to the pyramid!" Her eyes widened as she recounted the adventure. "And Mr. Wizard, he fought them all! He was so brave! He made the ground shake like an earthquake when he was fighting the really big one! And then... boom!" She clapped her hands together, a sudden, loud sound. "I hit my head really hard, and everything went black. When I woke up, I was back in my bed at home, and everything was safe!"

Isabella continued, her enthusiasm undimmed by their quiet.

"My parents and I, we're so thankful to him! He saved everyone. We wanted to say thank thank you properly, but he hasn't come out of his house in days. But I know he's still inside!" she insisted, a determined glint in her dark eyes. "Every morning, I bring him a basket of fresh bread and pastries from our bakery. And every morning, when I come back for the empty basket, it's gone! He eats them, I just know it. Animals don't take the empty basket back to the bakery, do they?" She looked earnestly between Zatanna and Deadman, seeking confirmation of her logic.

"Not unless it's Detective Chimp," Boston jabbed, a phantom grin spreading across his face, earning a sharp glare from Zatanna. He quieted instantly, but the thought of their mystery-solving simian friend bread thieving clearly amused his spectral self.

"Anyways," Isabella chirped, seemingly oblivious to their silent exchange, "I need to get moving to help in the bakery. So if you see Mr. Wizard, tell my mommy wants to invite him for dinner, and we hope he is okay!" With a quick wave, she turned and scampered back down the dusty road, leaving the basket of fresh bread on the porch, a tiny, determined figure disappearing into the heat haze.

Both adults watched her go, a shared look of bewilderment passing between them. 

"Did that... just happen?" Deadman asked, still genuinely confused, his spectral form shimmering slightly.

"Seems John made some friends here," Zatanna said with a small, wry smile, a hint of amusement returning despite the underlying worry. She moved forward and picked up the covered basket Isabella had left. She lifted the cloth, revealing a good variety of fresh bread and pastries, still warm. "And it seems she isn't lying about the bread either."

"Well, let's find John and see if we can have some coffee with that," Deadman suggested, his typical bravado returning as he moved to phase through the ornate front door of the House of Mystery.

But instead of passing through, he hit it with a jarring, invisible force that sent him recoiling, a visible shimmer of shock rippling through his translucent form. He bounced back several feet, landing (or rather, floating awkwardly) with a yelp of surprise.

"Whoa! What in the afterlife was that?!" he exclaimed, rubbing his intangible head. The door remained solid, impassive.

Zatanna flared her magic, extending a hand towards the door. A wave of shimmering energy flowed from her fingertips, washing over the House. Her brow furrowed in concentration, then deepened into a frown.

"It's a barrier," she lectured, more to herself than to Boston, her voice growing serious. "A simple, yet incredibly powerful one. Not a ward against specific energies, but a complete rejection of anything ethereal or trans-dimensional." She lowered her hand, her expression troubled. "For John to put something like this up... it means he really didn't want anyone to get inside. But if that's the case," she mused, looking around at the dusty landscape, "why not simply transport the House? Why is it still here?

Something here was definitely fishy. And if John Constantine was involved, Zatanna could already feel another apocalypse brewing. With grim determination, she cupped her hand, a faint magical glow emanating from her palm, covering it with a subtle spell. Then, she raised it and began to rap sharply on the solid, unyielding door, calling out, her voice amplified by her magic:

"John! Open up! We know you're in there, you bloody rascal!"

Silence. No response. The heavy door remained stubbornly shut, absorbing her magical amplified knocks as if they were nothing more than a gentle breeze. Zatanna's frown deepened, her patience wearing thin.

"John Constantine! Don't make me break down your bloody door!" she shouted, her voice sharper, a clear edge of anger in her tone. The magical glow around her hand intensified, pulsing with her rising frustration. "I swear, if you don't open up, I'm going to turn this House into a giant, music box!! You hear me, Constantine?!" His voice echoed across the quiet, sun-baked landscape, but still, no reply came from within the House of Mystery.

"Alright, that's it!" Zatanna declared, her eyes blazing with magical resolve. She stepped back from the door, a more complex incantation beginning to form on her lips. Her hands moved in intricate gestures, weaving threads of pure magical energy from the air around her. The air crackled, a faint scent of ozone filling the space. "Dnoo emos gnitsab by siht rood, doog morf gninnur ebyam…”

Just as the final, powerful syllables were about to burst from her, the ornate door of the House of Mystery suddenly, silently, and without any warning, swung inward with a soft creak. It revealed not the usual chaotic interior, but a darkened, seemingly empty hallway, shrouded in an unsettling stillness.

Zatanna blinked, her spell dying on her lips as she stared at the open door. 

"About time," she muttered, a mixture of exasperation and relief in her voice. She moved forward, her steps cautious now, no longer fueled by anger but by a growing sense of unease. Boston, still rubbing his head, floated in behind her, his usual spectral swagger replaced by a more hesitant drift.

The inside was empty. And quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum and shift of the House of Mystery, its living, breathing presence, was absent. The air was stale, heavy with a faint, metallic scent that felt ancient and wrong. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light filtering through unseen windows.

"Orchid?" Deadman called out, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stillness. He tried to project his presence, to feel for the familiar spiritual signature of Black Orchid, the sentient soul of the House. Nothing. It was as if she wasn't there at all.

"John!" Zatanna called, her voice sharp, no longer amplified by magic, but cutting through the silence with a desperate urgency. "Constantine! Answer me!" Her voice, too, was met only by the oppressive silence of the empty halls. Not a whisper, not a creak, not even the faint sound of footsteps. Just an eerie, profound stillness that felt utterly wrong for a place as chaotic and alive as the House of Mystery.

Then, from deeper within the darkened hallway, a faint, flickering light appeared. It pulsed gently, a soft, ethereal glow, emanating from an open doorway further down the corridor. It's not the harsh, magical light of a battle, but a calm, almost inviting luminescence.

Both Zatanna and Deadman exchanged a look, their worry deepening. This was not normal, even for John. Now a bit more worried than angry, they moved silently towards the light, their footsteps (and spectral drift) hushed on the dusty, uncarpeted floor.

They went through door, and the soft, inviting glow immediately gave way to a scene of absolute, unadulterated chaos. This was the House of Mystery's renowned Library, but it looked as if a tornado had mixed with a full dumpster and then exploded. Books and scrolls, many of them ancient and irreplaceable, were strewn across the floor in precarious, teetering piles, some ripped, others with pages stained by unidentifiable liquids. Stone and wood tables, normally sturdy anchors in the vast space, were overturned or piled with an indiscriminate mess of empty and semi-empty beer mugs and bottles, some still clinking softly as Zatanna stepped carefully around them.

A truly disgusting smell hung heavy in the air, a rancid cocktail of stale alcohol, unwashed fabric, and, most prominently, the sweet, cloying stench of spoiling and rotting food. Plates, some half-eaten, others completely covered in mould, were abandoned on every available surface, including atop priceless grimoires. Half-eaten pastries, crusts of bread and unidentifiable scraps formed a putrid still life amidst the intellectual wreckage. It was a scene of squalor and neglect that far surpassed John's usual brand of disorganization.

"Oh, John, you absolute pig," Zatanna muttered, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she took in the horrific tableau. Her concern for his well-being was now warring with an overwhelming urge to gag. Boston, who, as a ghost, couldn't smell, still reacted with a visible shiver of revulsion. "And this is why I always make you clean up after yourself," he added, a rare moment of genuine horror in his spectral voice.

Suddenly, from beneath a particularly precarious mountain of scattered papers, half-eaten sandwiches, and what looked suspiciously like a very old, mouldy pizza box, they heard it: a low, guttural groan. It was a sound that seemed to be a disturbing mix of a zombie's moan and a spectral moan, a truly unholy blend of the undead and the intangible. The pile of papers shifted slightly.

Zatanna's eyes narrowed, her magical glow returning, faint but ready. She held her hand out, a spell already forming on her lips, her stance defensive. Deadman, despite his earlier surprise at the door, immediately put up his fists, ready to confront whatever undead horror was lurking in John's mess. Both walked cautiously towards the shifting pile, their apprehension growing with each step.

As they got closer, the light from the open doorway behind them illuminated the source of the noise. It wasn't a zombie. It wasn't a ghost. It was John Constantine himself, sprawled amidst the detritus of his recent scholarly-and-slob-like endeavors, snoring loudly. His trench coat was rumpled, his hair a bird's nest, and a half-eaten pastry was dangerously close to his face. The groan had been a particularly resonant snore, accompanied by a small, involuntary twitch.

Zatanna felt an eye twitching in pure, unadulterated anger. Her previous worry for his safety quickly evaporated, replaced by the familiar, incandescent fury only John could ignite within her. She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to conjure a cleansing flame and burn the entire library down.

Then, with all the power her magical voice could muster, she screamed.

"JOHN! BLOODY CONSTANTINE!"

The name echoed through the chaotic library, vibrating through every dusty book and sticky bottle. John Constantine jolted awake with a primal shout, eyes flying open wide, a powerful burst of chaotic magic instinctively firing from his outstretched hand. The raw, emerald-green energy sliced through the air, missing Zatanna and Deadman by a hair's breadth, before slamming into a towering, ancient bookshelf on the far wall.

With a deafening CRACK and a whoosh of searing heat, the entire bookshelf and its irreplaceable contents—scrolls, leather-bound tomes, rare manuscripts of forgotten lore—were instantly reduced to a fine, swirling ash that hung in the air like a ghostly shroud. A faint, acrid smell of burnt paper and singed wood joined the olfactory assault.

Zatanna scowled at him, a withering glare that promised pain, but then she paused. Her expression shifted, her furious frown softening into an expression of profound shock. In John Constantine's eyes, an emotion she had never truly seen there before, not with this intensity, was starkly visible: pure, unadulterated terror. It was a raw, naked fear that chilled her to the bone, eclipsing even her anger at his destructive awakening.

Before she could even ask, before the words could form on her lips, John blinked. The raw terror in his eyes flickered, then vanished, replaced by an abrupt surge of the all-too-familiar Constantinian fury. He scrambled to his feet, dislodging more papers and empty beer bottles, his rumpled trench coat flapping.

"Bloody hell, Zee! What's your problem?!" he yelled, his voice hoarse, pointing a trembling, accusing finger at her. "And look what you made me do!" He gestures wildly at the smoldering ash-pile where a priceless collection of ancient texts had just been. "Do you have any idea how much that bloody shelf was worth?! You owe me, you git!"

But Zatanna's expression didn't waver. She stepped closer, the dusty air around her crackling with unspoken magic.

"Where have you been, John? The House feels... empty. And you? You're a mess," she said, her voice a dangerous whisper. "What happened here?"

"Me? Nothing!" John yelled back, just as loudly, meeting her fury with his own. He stood up to his full height, making Zatanna acutely aware of his deplorable state. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, with bits of what might have been dried food or ancient dust clinging to it. Patches of saliva and dried food stained his face, and his clothes were a riot of questionable marks – some clearly food, others she desperately hoped were just beer, especially the larger, darker splotches on his pants. And then there was the smell, a potent, almost visible aura of stale beer, old food, and unwashed John that intensified as he stood up, hitting Zatanna like a physical blow. "And I don't know what you're talking about! The House is fine, I'm fine! Just a bit of R&R, you know, after saving the whole bleeding continent again!" He tried to wave a dismissive hand, but it only wafted more of the offending aroma in her direction.

"Oh, on that!" Deadman interjected, his spectral voice a touch sarcastic as he floated closer, eyeing John's general mess with a mixture of disgust and concern. "That's why we came here. You didn't tell us how things ended. Last we heard, you were about to go toe-to-toe with some Aztec god cult!"

John scoffed, looking around the devastated library with a mixture of anger at the new ash pile and a strange, almost nervous suspicion in his eyes. He turned his glare back to them, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing for another attack.

"Bloody hell, can't believe you two couldn't wait a couple of days for me to enjoy a small break, could you?!" he snapped, his words laced with a desperate need to end this conversation, to make them leave. He looked around the library again, his eyes darting as if searching for an escape or an unseen threat. "I dealt with it, alright? Done and dusted! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm clearly busy. Go on, sod off, the both of you! There's nothing to see here!" He waved his hand again, this time with more force, clearly wanting them out.

"A couple of days, John?!" Zatanna's voice was a sharp crack, cutting through his bluster. Her anger and worry began to mix and fight for dominance, a turbulent storm within her. "It has been a MONTH since you were supposed to report back! A whole bloody month! We were worry you selfish bastard! The Justice League Dark has been in a frenzy, and I've been half out of my mind with worry! What have you been doing?!" Her final words were a strangled cry, her arms still spread wide in exasperation, but a desperate, genuine tremor entering her voice.

"Actually, you were the only one in a frenzy," Deadman interjected, a small, knowing chuckle escaping his spectral form. He drifted closer to Zatanna, a ghostly arm casually crossing his chest. "Me and the others knew John would probably be drinking his arse off in Acapulco or something like that. We actually started a betting pool." He offered a phantom wink.

Zatanna fulminated him with her eyes, making him back out immediately.

"Honestly, John, you can't just drop out like that!" she scoff, her arms now crossed, but the mixture of anger and worry still warring within her. "What happened? Did you get stuck in some old debt or deal or...?"

The word "deal" hung in the air. John's bloodshot eyes, which had been narrowed in irritable defiance, suddenly widened with a flash of that same pure terror Zatanna had seen moments before. It was fleeting, a raw, primal flicker, but undeniable. Then, in an instant, it was gone, replaced by a volcanic eruption of fury directed solely at her.

"Deal?! What bloody deal, you nosy cow?!" John roared, his voice a ragged snarl that scraped at the senses. He took an aggressive step towards her, his unkempt state making him look more feral than usual. "I don't need your bloody babysitting, Zee! I can do whatever the hell I want! I've got everything under control, alright?! You shouldn't be messing around where you aren't called! Stay out of my business!" His words were like a verbal shredding, desperate and sharp, clearly meant to drive her away and end the conversation immediately.

Boston, however, stepped forward, placing a translucent hand on John's shoulder.

 "Whoa, John, calm down, mate! She's just worried about you, that's all. No need to bite her head off. We just want to know what's going on."

John whirled on Deadman, his eyes blazing with a dangerous, unstable fire that seemed to flicker with something deeper than mere irritation. 

"You too, you bloody poltergeist! What are you doing here, eh? You think this is some kind of bloody joke?! 'Betting pool,' eh?! You think this is a bloody game?! Go haunt some bloody opera house! This is my House, my mess, and my business! Piss off, both of you!" His hand twitched, a faint, uncontrolled wisp of magic sparking around his fingertips before he clenched his fist, visibly fighting for control, but failing.

Zatanna looked at him in fresh worry, the anger receding slightly as the sheer, raw intensity of his fury startled her. "John…" she called, her voice softer, a plea rather than an accusation, trying to break through his uncharacteristic rage.

"I SAID PISS OFF!!" he bellowed, and with a blinding flash of light, accompanied by a sound like a clap of thunder, both Zatanna and Deadman found themselves abruptly, violently, outside the House of Mystery.

They landed un gracefully on the dusty road, Zatanna stumbling and Deadman phasing awkwardly through the ground before righting himself. Behind them, the ornate, heavy front door of the House of Mystery slammed shut with an echoing boom, the sound reverberating through the otherwise silent landscape. The magical barrier they had encountered earlier immediately shimmered back into existence, thicker and more resolute than before, a solid wall of arcane energy that even Deadman couldn't pierce.

"The fuck was that?!" Deadman called out, genuinely confused and filled with worry about John's erratic aptitude, his spectral voice a disbelieving whisper. "He just... he just banished us! From his own bloody house!"

"I don't know," Zatanna replied, her voice low and tight, her eyes fixed on the now-impenetrable House. Her face is pale, the earlier anger replaced entirely by a profound, chilling dread. "But we need to tell the others. Something is really, really wrong with him." She turned to Deadman, her gaze unwavering, a new, grim resolve hardening her features. "And that look in his eyes... before the fury... that wasn't John, Boston. That was pure, abject terror. Something has gotten to him, something bad."

A new flash of light, and the two disappeared a moment after, teleporting away from the strange situation.

Meanwhile, inside the House of Mystery, the raging John Constantine was turning the library upside down. He cursed Zatanna under his breath, his words a venomous stream.

"Bloody busybody! 'Old deal,' she says! Like some bloody deal would be a problem for me! For ME!" he muttered, kicking a stack of ancient, fragile scrolls that promptly disintegrated into more dust. He felt deeply insulted that they thought he couldn't take care of things, that he needed their help to get out of this "issue" (even when he had never told them, nor did they know about it, the specific nature of his predicament).

He continued his furious rampage, launching books and scrolls haphazardly around the cavernous room, a chaotic whirlwind of parchment and dust.

"Don't need a bloody babysitter!" he yelled into the echoing space, his voice cracking with a frantic edge. "Got it all sorted! Just need... just need a bloody text!" He swiped a hand across a table, sending a pile of empty beer bottles crashing to the floor, adding to the general cacophony and mess. "Where is it?! Where's the damn thing?!" he roared, his voice hoarse, his eyes darting frantically over the disarray, not finding what he was looking for. He cursed the old house, delivering a frustrated kick to a solid wooden wall that thankfully didn't crumble under his magical-infused boot. He kept looking, his desperation mounting, his breathing ragged, entirely oblivious to a couple of books occasionally shimmering with faint flashes of shadow or dark fire before silently dissolving into nothingness, disappearing from existence without a trace.

Chapter Text

(Days later)

The air in Jason Blood's ancient, gothic study was thick with tension. 

Rain lashed against the leaded-glass windows, mirroring the storm brewing within. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe with the unspoken anxieties of the assembled Justice League Dark members.

Zatanna, her usual vibrant stage attire replaced by a more subdued, practical black, paced restlessly before the fireplace, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. The worry that had been a flicker in Mexico was now a deep, unsettling current in her demeanor.

Deadman, ever the spectral observer, floated near a towering bookshelf, his translucent form shimmering with agitation. He wasn't cracking jokes, his usual sardonic wit replaced by a grim, concerned frown.

Detective Chimp (Bobo), perched precariously atop a stack of arcane tomes, gnawed thoughtfully on a banana, his intelligent eyes narrowed. His small, furry brow was furrowed in an expression of deep contemplation, a rare sight for the usually flippant simian.

And Jason Blood, the ancient demonologist and human host to Etrigan, sat hunched over a heavy, leather-bound grimoire at a large oak table, his face etched with a familiar weariness that only dealing with John Constantine could truly bring. His fingers traced ancient runes, but his gaze kept drifting to the flickering fire, lost in thought.

"I still can't believe he just... banished us," Zatanna finally broke the silence, her voice tight with disbelief, the memory of the emerald flash still vivid. "From his own House! And the barrier... it's stronger than anything I've ever felt from him before. It's like the House itself is actively rejecting us."

Deadman sighed, a sound that was more a ripple in the air than an actual breath.

"Tell me about it, Zee. I tried phasing through, and it felt like hitting a brick wall made of pure spite. My spectral form nearly got... well, more spectral."

"And the smell," Detective Chimp added, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, surprisingly serious. He dropped by the house of Mystery some time ago..with less than stellar results "The stench of decay, the unwashed human... it was beyond even John's usual standards of squalor. And the way he lashed out... unprovoked. Utterly unprovoked."

Jason Blood finally looked up from his book, his eyes heavy.

"Each of us has tried, haven't we?" he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone, laced with a quiet frustration. "I went a day after you two. He threatened to turn me into a toad, then started muttering about 'bloody demons trying to steal his last good pint' before slamming the door in my face. And the House itself... it felt cold. Unresponsive. As if it were holding its breath."

"He told me he'd turn my fur inside out and make me wear it as a hat," Detective Chimp grumbled, picking at a loose thread on his tweed jacket. "And then he conjured a flock of flaming pigeons that chased me halfway to Veracruz! Flaming. Pigeons. The man's lost his bloody mind."

"He called me a 'meddling ghost' and tried to bind me to a broken chamber pot," Deadman added, a shiver running through his translucent form. "Said I was distracting him from 'important research.' Important research, my arse! He was surrounded by empty beer bottles and rotting pizza!"

Zatanna ran a hand through her hair, her expression grim.

"The spells... the raw power. It was John, yes, but it was... wilder. Unhinged. And that terror in his eyes, just for a second, when I mentioned a 'deal'..." She trailed off, her gaze meeting Jason's. "Something happened to him, Jason. Something profound. He's not just off his rocker, he's genuinely afraid. And whatever it is, he's trying to hide it."

Jason closed the grimoire with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

"Indeed. John Constantine is many things, but 'afraid' is rarely one of them. And for him to actively bar the House of Mystery against us... that suggests a level of self-imposed isolation and a problem he cannot, or will not, share." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the worried faces of his teammates. "We need to understand what happened in Mexico. And we need to do it before John's 'problem' becomes everyone else's."

"I'm afraid it could be already too late for that," a new, calm, yet deeply resonant female voice called from the doorway. All heads turned to see Madame Xanadu enter the room. Her long, dark hair flowed around her, and her eyes, usually veiled, held a piercing intensity. She wore a flowing, dark gown, and a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of arcane energy surrounded her.

"John Constantine could be the only one I know that could escape my sight or use it against me in some way," she spoke, her voice laced with a controlled anger, a rare display from the usually serene mystic. "But I'm afraid something is already in motion, as now the future on him is becoming clear, and not in a good way." She strode purposefully to a small, ornate table nearby, her movements fluid and deliberate. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she threw a single card onto its polished surface.

The card, stark against the dark wood, was the Tarot card of Death. Its image, a skeletal figure on horseback, scythe in hand, seemed to radiate an ominous chill that permeated the already tense atmosphere of the study.

A silence filled the room, heavy and foreboding.

"Okay," Detective Chimp finally broke the quiet, his voice a low, dry rumble as he stared at the grim card. He pushed his spectacles up his nose, his intelligent eyes wide with a rare hint of genuine alarm. "One doesn't need to be a detective to know that's not good."

"No kidding," Deadman added, his spectral voice laced with a newfound gravity, his translucent form hovering closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the ominous card. "If our best oracle sees John Constantine's death, you can bet something horrible is on its way."

"But is it only his death, or someone else is involved?" Jason asked, his gaze shifting from the Death card to Madame Xanadu, his voice a low, troubled murmur.

Zatanna sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly.

"Knowing him? Probably the latter."

Madame Xanadu's eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of grim certainty.

"Something dark is moving on Constantine," she stated, her voice a low, chilling pronouncement. "Something is blocking my sight to all but his death. The threads around him are tangled, obscured... but the final knot, the one that spells his end, is clear."

"More reasons to get that drunk bastard to talk to us," Chimp grumbled, crossing his tiny arms over his chest, his gaze still fixed on the Death card.

"But how?" Deadman asked, his spectral form drifting nervously, a faint shiver running through him. "He doesn't want anything to do with us, and to be honest, guys, I'm not feeling lucky enough to see what happens if I get close to him again."

None of them felt like risking a direct confrontation. Sure, Jason Blood, with Etrigan lurking beneath his skin, and Zatanna, a powerful sorceress in her own right, possessed the magical might to defend themselves if Constantine truly turned violent. But neither of them wanted to risk a full-blown magical brawl with their volatile teammate, especially not when he was unstable and potentially under some unknown influence. The collateral damage, both physical and magical, would be immense, and the thought of harming John, even in self-defense, was anathema.

"What we need…” Xanadu called, her voice cutting through the heavy silence, pulling three more cards from her deck with swift, practiced movements. She laid them out on the table beside the Death card, their vibrant imagery a stark contrast to the grim forecast. 

The Devil, the Knight of Swords, and Justice cards rested side-by-side.

“…Is someone who can cut through John's bullshit like a scalpel through butter," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her worried teammates. "Someone who doesn't care about his attitude, who won't be swayed by his cons, and who has a reputation for solving the unsolvable. Someone who can face the darkness within him, confront him directly, and bring balance back to his chaotic existence."

A pause filled the room, the implications of Xanadu's words sinking in.

"Oh, bloody hell," Chimp groaned, rubbing his temples with a paw, feeling a headache growing. "As the kids say, the medicine is horrible but fixes the problem." His tone clearly indicated he would prefer any other option.

"He is the only person who won't take 'no' for an answer from John, and who doesn't care for his posturing," Zatanna finally said, her voice tight, a grim acceptance in her eyes. "And he's already tangled in the fringes of our world."

A moment of shared, grim understanding of their only option.

"Call Batman."

(Mexico-later)

The neon glow of a cantina sign, a flickering image of a dancing tequila bottle, cast sickly green and red hues onto the dusty street. John Constantine stumbled out, a half-empty bottle of cheap mezcal clutched in his hand. His trench coat, once a symbol of roguish charm, now hung on him like a shroud, stained and rumpled, smelling faintly of stale beer and desperation. His usually sharp eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, his face a roadmap of exhaustion and self-inflicted misery.

He took a long swig, the fiery liquid burning his throat, but offering no warmth to the chilling void within him. He swayed, his steps uneven, a puppet on increasingly frayed strings. The bottle, now empty, clinked against his teeth. He muttered a slurred incantation, a faint, almost imperceptible green shimmer briefly surrounding the bottle, and with a soft glug-glug-glug, it was miraculously refilled. He raised it again, taking another deep, defiant gulp.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled to himself, his voice thick with alcohol and something else—a profound, aching emptiness. "Just a bit of a headache, that's all. Need to... need to find that bloody book. Just a bit more research."

He stumbled down the unpaved road, the distant lights of a cheap motel sign, "Motel El Descanso," blinking erratically in the humid night. He reached the front desk, a grimy counter manned by a bored-looking teenager who barely glanced up from his phone. John fumbled in his coat pocket, pulling out a handful of ancient, gleaming gold coins. He tossed them onto the counter with a clatter.

"For the... for the room," John slurred, pushing a few more forward. "And... keep the change. For your... for your troubles."

The teenager's eyes widened at the sight of the gold, momentarily distracted from his screen. He quickly scooped them up, his expression shifting from boredom to a greedy grin.

"Gracias, señor," he mumbled, stuffing the coins into a drawer.

John just grunted, taking another swig from his ever-refilling bottle. He turned and stumbled towards the stairs, his destination the room he'd been occupying for the past few nights.

"Tch, bloody House," he muttered, his words slurring and thick with resentment as he swayed at the bottom of the creaky wooden steps. "Think it can do this to me? First, it lost my books, and now think it can tell me I can't drink more? What she think she is, my mum?" He took another defiant swig, the mezcal burning a temporary path through the fog in his mind. "Bloody Orchid, always interfering. Always thinking she knows best. Well, I'll show her. I'll find that bloody book myself. And then we'll see who's boss."

He began to ascend the stairs, each step a precarious negotiation between his inebriated state and the worn wood. The magical refills were a poor substitute, the liquor tasting increasingly hollow, but it was all he had left. He just needed to find that bloody book. That would fix everything.

He finally reached the door to his room, fumbling with the key card, his movements clumsy. The cheap plastic slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. With a frustrated grunt, he resorted to a quick, muttered spell, and the lock clicked open with an unceremonious thunk. He pushed the door open, the room a dim, stale box, smelling of cheap air freshener and his own accumulated neglect.

"Or maybe she is just worried about you like everyone else," a dark, deep voice called from the shadows, the words cutting through the haze of John's intoxication like a razor.

John froze, his hand still on the doorknob, the bottle halfway to his lips. The anger, simmering beneath the surface of his drunken stupor, bubbled up instantly, hot and volatile. He didn't need to turn around. The voice, the tone, the sheer audacity of the intrusion – it could only be one bloody person.

"Fuck my life," Constantine said, his voice rough, stripped of its usual smooth charm, laced with genuine hostility. He didn't turn. He just leaned his head back against the doorframe, eyes closed for a moment, as if gathering the last shreds of his rapidly dwindling patience. "What the bloody hell do you want, Bats? Lost your way from the bloody pantomime?"

Batman, a silent, imposing silhouette against the faint light from the hallway, stepped further into the room. His cape rustled almost silently, a barely audible whisper in the stale air. His eyes, two white slits in his cowl, were fixed on John, unblinking, unphased by the sorcerer's drunken belligerence.

"The Justice League Dark is concerned," Batman's voice was a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight of authority. It was the voice of a man who dealt in facts and consequences, not magical bluster. "Your behavior is erratic. Your actions against the others have raised alarms."

He didn't appreciate being dragged to Mexico for a "John Constantine problem." But with what the members of the JLD had told him, and now seeing John himself – the cracks in Constantine's defiance, the genuine fear behind the rage, and the terrifying emptiness that even his rational mind couldn't dismiss – he also agreed that something was terribly wrong. He could see the desperation in John's eyes, the way his hand trembled around the bottle, the forced bravado that barely masked a profound vulnerability. This wasn't John being a rogue; this was John being broken.

John finally turned, slowly, a sneer twisting his lips, though it lacked its usual venom. His gaze, though still unfocused, held a spark of recognition, and with it, a fresh wave of resentment. He took another long, defiant swig from the refilled bottle, the mezcal slopping over the rim and down his chin.

"Oh, great," Constantine slurred, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was laced with sarcasm and a deep, weary anger. "So they decided to call papa Bat to come get answers out of me, did they? What, the magic lot not good enough? Need the big, bad, non-believer to sort out the spooky stuff, eh?" He gestured wildly with the bottle, nearly losing his balance. "Come to lecture me about my 'behavior,' have we? My 'actions'? You wouldn't know a proper action if it bit you on the arse, mate. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm busy. Go on, run along. Gotham needs its bloody brooding gargoyle."

As John finished his drunken tirade, a faint, sickly green light began to coalesce around his free hand, the nascent spark of a spell. It flickered weakly, struggling to hold form, like a dying ember in a cold wind. Then, with a barely audible pop, it broke apart, dissolving into nothingness, a wisp of smoke that vanished before it could even fully manifest. John, too lost in his alcoholic haze and his own self-pitying rage, didn't notice the failure. His eyes were still fixed on Batman, his expression a mask of belligerent defiance.

The dark knight, however, missed nothing. His white eyes, sharp and analytical, registered the failed spell, the sudden, almost imperceptible tremor in John's hand, and the complete lack of awareness on Constantine's part. It was a small detail, easily missed, but to Batman, it spoke volumes.

"You're compromised, Constantine. Your actions pose a risk." Batman's voice remained a low, steady current, cutting through John's drunken bluster. He remembered all that Zatanna and the others had told him: John's increasingly volatile behavior, his isolation, the inexplicable energy readings. And then, the one last thing the female magician had told him, something she hadn't told anyone else but Batman, a detail she only caught on her second, more desperate attempt to get Constantine to talk.

Batman stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet each word was delivered with the precision of a surgical strike.

"Zatanna reports a significant magical void where your soul should be. You made a deal, didn't you, Constantine? And this time, you lost."

That single sentence, so blunt, so utterly factual… shattered John's denial.

John recoiled as if physically struck by Batman's words. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wild and desperate. The bloodshot gaze would flicker between fear and a resurgence of that stubborn, self-destructive refusal to acknowledge defeat.

"Lost?! I don't bloody lose! There's always a way out! A bloody trick! A loophole!" John began to pace with a frantic, caged-animal energy, his heavy shoes thudding on the worn carpet. He pulled at his already disheveled hair, his eyes darting wildly around the cramped motel room, searching for an escape that wasn't there, a solution that eluded him.

"There's always a clause! Always a way to twist the words! Maybe I just haven't seen it yet! The phrasing! The intention of the deal! It couldn't have been that simple! Nothing's that simple!" He was arguing with himself, his voice rising in a desperate, hoarse plea, trying to convince his own battered mind that the Charro, like all other entities, must have left a crack, a fissure, a weakness in his otherwise perfect trap.

He then began to propose ludicrous scenarios aloud, even to Batman's stoic silence.

"What if I died before he could collect? What if I found someone else to take my place, someone even more... deserving? What if I could somehow steal it back? Bind him? Force him to annul the damn thing?" He was throwing every half-baked, morally dubious scheme he's ever considered into the air, hoping one of them would stick, would reveal the solution, would prove to Batman, and more importantly, to himself, that he wasn't truly lost.

The air in the dilapidated motel room, already thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and desperation, grew heavier under the weight of Batman's methodical deduction. He didn't need John to spell it out. The pieces, once scattered and seemingly disparate, snapped into place in his mind with terrifying precision.

His cowl-shrouded gaze, unblinking, fixed on Constantine, who was still pacing and muttering, trapped in his furious loop of "bargaining" ideas. Batman's low, gravelly voice cut through John's frantic energy, each word a cold, hard fact:

"You made another deal."

John flinched, a visible shudder running through him, but Batman continued, relentless.

"You've used the infighting of Hell's bureaucracy, the competing claims, the precise wording of countless pacts, to keep your soul in perpetual limbo. A 'human rights' issue for demons, as you once put it."

A flicker of something akin to awe, or perhaps just grudging respect, crossed John's face, quickly replaced by renewed desperation.

"Aye, well, it's effective, isn't it? Kept me from the bloody pit for decades!"

"Not anymore," Batman stated, the finality in his tone chilling. "Whatever you encountered here... it operates outside those parameters. It doesn't care for demonic politics. It doesn't acknowledge prior claims or competing interests." he took a step closer, his presence a dark, imposing force. "It bypasses the system entirely. It has no interest in sharing. It views a soul as a simple transaction: given, taken. And your soul, Constantine... is now fully claimed."

John recoiled as if physically struck by Batman's words. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wild and desperate. The bloodshot gaze would flicker between fear and a resurgence of that stubborn, self-destructive refusal to acknowledge defeat.

"No! No, you don't understand, Bat!" he snarled, stepping forward, his hands clenching into useless fists. "No one's 'outside the system'! Not bloody Mephistopheles, not the bloody Archangels, not even him!" He'd jab a finger vaguely upwards, implicitly referring to Lucifer, a being whose existence he'd tangled with and, by his own twisted metrics, won against. "I've played games with the bloody Morningstar, mate! Tricked him, outmaneuvered him, made him dance to my tune more times than I can count! His bloody 'rules' are just as malleable as any other! There's always a fine print, always a loophole, always a weakness! They're all just... people with power, trapped by their own bloody pride and bureaucracy!" His voice would rise, bordering on a raw, desperate scream. "And you're telling me some... some bloody mariachi bloke in a fancy suit," he'd spit out the words with contempt and a terrifying undercurrent of fear, "some local legend, can just... bypass all that? Take what the bloody Lords of Hell can't even get their hands on, properly? Without a bloody fight, without a bloody clause, without anything?" He'd laugh then, a harsh, humorless sound that was more a gasp. "It's a lie! It's a trick! It has to be! There's no way he could have done it. No bloody way. Everyone, everyone, plays by the rules eventually. I just haven't found them yet, Bat!"

Batman stood still, a rock in the hurricane of John Constantine's desperate denial. He listened to the frantic accusations, the insults, the theories, the increasingly outlandish "solutions" John throws out. He processed it all, not with emotion, but with the cold, analytical precision of a supercomputer.

His mind, a vast archive of data, facts, and observations, began to sift through every mystical case he's ever been peripherally involved in, every obscure text Zatanna or Doctor Fate might have referenced, every whispered legend heard in the shadowed corners of the globe. His knowledge wasnt limited to Gotham's urban legends; he's a global force, and his curiosity extends to every threat, mundane or magical.

He processes:

John's unique history: The numerous demonic contracts, the precarious balance of claims on his soul.

The nature of this new "void": Not just an an absence, but a specific kind of emptiness, sensed even by his own less-magically attuned senses as a "coldness."

The location: Mexico. A place rich with ancient, pre-colonial, and syncretic folklore, far removed from the Westernized, bureaucratic Hells John usually traffics in.

John's description: "Some mariachi bloke in a fancy suit." This detail, tossed out in anger and dismissal, was a key piece of data. It aligns with a very specific cultural archetype.

The "simple transaction" aspect: The complete lack of negotiation, the immediate fulfillment, the immediate collection. This deviates wildly from the complex, often drawn-out power plays of demons.

As John ranted about Lucifer and the "rules" of the system, Batman's internal database cycled through countless myths and legends: Faustian bargains from Europe, Djinn from the Middle East, Japanese Yōkai, African deities. But none quite fit the unique parameters.

Then, a flicker. A specific category of supernatural entities that operate on principles distinct from the established cosmic hierarchies John is so familiar with. Beings whose power stems not from a kingdom of Hell or a pantheon of gods, but from the raw belief of a localized culture, entities that embody fundamental concepts rather than complex allegiances.

His photographic memory, linked to every obscure text and casual conversation, brings forth fragments: mentions from Zatanna about localized spirits, the true "ancient ones" of specific regions. The cultural context of Mexico, the charro figure...

And then it clicks. The pieces converge. The black suit, the horse, the road, the offer of wishes for souls, the absolute finality, the lack of bureaucratic loopholes, the nature of the transaction itself. It's a primal, direct exchange, rooted in older, simpler, and far more terrifying concepts of cosmic debt.

His eyes narrowed. His voice, when it comes out, was devoid of judgment, only the cold certainty of a detective who has just solved the most dreadful of puzzles.

"It wasn't a demon, Constantine," Batman stated, cutting through John's desperate babble like a sonic blade. He ignored John's sputtering protests. "Not in the way you understand them."

He paused, allowing the full weight of his next words to land. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, as he pronounces the name, a name that embodies the unyielding, ancient truth John has refused to acknowledge.

"You made a deal with El Charro Negro."

The name hangs in the air, a death knell in the oppressive humidity of the motel room.

Before John can even formulate a denial, a fresh wave of raw magical energy rippled through the room, chilling the already stale air. The door, previously a solid barrier, shimmered and dissolved into shimmering motes of light, revealing Zatanna Zatara standing on the threshold. She wasn't just staying behind and waiting; she had followed Batman but kept herself out of view, listening to what they were saying.

And she wasn't happy.

"You absolute, unmitigated idiot, John Constantine!" she snarled, her voice usually modulated and precise, now raw with anger. She strided into the room, her elegant stage attire seeming utterly out of place amidst the squalor, yet her presence radiates power.

She pointed an accusing finger at John, who instinctively flinches, not from her magic, but from the sheer, unbridled fury of her disappointment.

"Of all the bloody, bone-headed, suicidal stunts... To make a deal with him?!" Her eyes blazed as she pointed an accusing finger at John, who instinctively recoiled. "My father, John! My father, who'd bargain with the literal Devil over a game of cards... even he wouldn't dare approach the Charro Negro!"

Batman, his cowl-shrouded gaze fixed on John, registered Zatanna's anger. His earlier, purely logical deduction that John had dealt with "El Charro Negro" was based on the popular legend and John's vague description. But Zatanna's outburst, filled with a deeper, more primal terror, revealed a crucial detail.

He turned to Zatanna, his voice a low, steady rumble amidst her emotional torrent.

"The Charro Negro is a specific entity, Zatanna. His methods are distinct from demonic contracts."

Zatanna, still vibrating with rage, snapped her head towards him.

"Yes, Bruce, the legend of the Charro Negro is distinct! But this isn't just some local boogeyman in a nice suit! This is something far older, something that predates the very concept of 'demons' or 'angels' as you or even John understand them!" She gestured wildly towards Constantine, who was looking increasingly discomfited by being caught between two of the most formidable forces he knew. "The Charro Negro is just the most recent incarnation, the current mask this... this thing wears!" Her voice dropped, imbued with a chilling reverence for the horror she described. "It's an entity that has always existed where humanity's deepest desires meet its darkest desperation. In ancient Mesoamerica, it was likely some other terrifying figure demanding tribute for answered prayers. In colonial times, it adapted, putting on a caballero's finery, whispering promises of gold and power to desperate conquistadores or downtrodden peasants."

She took a step closer to John, her voice a low, furious hiss.

"It doesn't care for demonic politics or celestial alignments. It doesn't have a name that fits your infernal ledgers, John! It is the pure embodiment of the soul-for-wish transaction itself. It is the deal, the absolute, unyielding law of cosmic debt. And when it makes a bargain, there are no loopholes, no hidden clauses, no other entities to play off each other. It is a final, irrevocable transfer."

The full weight of her words settled over the room. Batman, absorbing the terrifying revelation, understood that this wasn't just a powerful entity; it was a fundamental force of consequence, wearing a charming, deadly disguise. John hadn't just lost a gamble; he had violated a cosmic principle, a primal law that predated all his clever tricks and all the bureaucratic squabbles of Hell. And for the first time in his life, John Constantine was truly, irrevocably, and terrifyingly, out of options.

Zatanna's words, delivered with such visceral fury and cold authority, struck John Constantine like a physical blow.

It is the pure embodiment of the soul-for-wish transaction itself. It is the deal, the absolute, unyielding law of cosmic debt.

For a split second, John's usual defiant sneer crumpled, revealing the naked terror beneath. He opened his mouth, ready with a biting retort, a dismissive wave, a clever linguistic twist to deflect the truth.

"That's bollocks!" he spat, his voice cracking, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak, less a genuine rebuttal and more a desperate, flailing protest. "An 'embodiment'? What in the bloody Hell does that even mean? Every bit of magic, every bloody demon, every angel, every bloody cosmic force has its rules! Its weaknesses! Its... its name! There's no such thing as 'absolute' in this game, Zee, you know that! You've seen it yourself! Nothing's unbreakable!" He gestured wildly, his hand trembling. "It's just another... another thing! A powerful one, yeah, but still a thing! And every bloody thing can be outsmarted, can be bent, can be broken!" He tried to meet Zatanna's furious gaze, but his eyes kept darting away, unable to hold the damning certainty he saw there. He was still trying to deny it, trying to shoehorn this ancient, elemental horror into the familiar, exploitable framework of his personal universe. But even as the words tumbled out, a chilling, insidious dread was seeping into the core of his being.

He remembered the feeling when the Charro's hand had clasped his – not a struggle, not a negotiation, but a sudden, absolute transfer. The way his soul hadn't felt fought over, but simply... gone. The Charro's laugh, devoid of triumph, merely ancient amusement at his predictable folly. He replayed Zatanna's words:

My father... wouldn't dare approach.

Giovanni Zatara, a man whose occult knowledge dwarfed even John's, a man who treated cosmic entities like cantankerous old friends, feared this. Not just respected it, feared it. A cold sweat pricked John's forehead, not from the Tapachula heat, but from the dawning, horrifying realization. His mind, for all its desperate resistance, was starting to piece together the implications. He had always relied on the complexities, the bureaucratic infighting of Hell, the legalistic loopholes in ancient pacts. He had always found the crack, the weakness, the flaw in the opponent's pride or ambition.

But what if this entity had no pride? No ambition? No bureaucracy? What if it truly was just the rule itself, a living, breathing, impeccably dressed manifestation of the ultimate, unyielding transaction? His shoulders slumped, almost imperceptibly. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of the same hollow horror that Batman had first detected. The fight was still there, the urge to lash out, to deny, to argue. But beneath it, a chilling, undeniable understanding was beginning to take root. He was staring into an abyss that defied all his accumulated knowledge, all his hard-won cynicism, and all his desperate cons. And for John Constantine, that was the most terrifying realization of all. He was truly, irrevocably, utterly out of his depth.

Batman studied him, his gaze unflinching.

"John, we need to figure this out. Whoever, whatever, this Charro Negro is, we can't just let it stand." There was a rare note of urgency in his voice, a hint that even he understood the gravity of what they faced.

The anger returned to John´s eyes as he turned to Batman.

"Figure this out? oh please" he scoffed, a brittle laugh escaping his lips, "I have all figure out! AlI need is the right ritual and will seal this bastard inside a jar! have done it before and will do it again!" But even as John spoke, the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear. "All I need is to find that bloody book" he added in murmur but the other two heard him.

Zatanna's expression grew grim, her eyes flicking over to Batman's unreadable mask before returning to John's desperate gaze. She knew John's bravado was just a mask, a feeble attempt to hide his terror. But she also knew that beneath that fear was something else: a spark of hope, a belief that he could always find a way out. And that belief, that stubborn refusal to accept defeat, was what had kept him alive amidst the darkest of magical underworlds. But this... this was different. This was not a mere demon to be bargained with, not a spirit to be outsmarted. This was the very embodiment of fate's cruelest jest, and she wasn't sure if even John had the trickery to escape it.

Yet something he said called her attention

"Book? which one? you have many"

"The Grimoire of stars" said Constantine "won it years ago from an an Ars Goetia, but cant find it" he scoffed "I havent been able to find many of my best books for a while now"

"Thats weird" Zatanna said, her rage abating into a frown of concern, "Not that you lost a demonic book but the fact you cant find it inside the house with Orchid knowing everything that happens there"

John nodded, the horror of his predicament briefly forgotten in the face of the practical problem.

"I know, I know. But that's not the point, Zee. The point is, I need that book. It's got a section on ancient Mesoamerican spirits, and if anyone's got a workaround for this... thing, it's in there." His eyes, though still haunted, had regained a bit of their usual sharpness. "If there's a way to cheat the Charro Negro, it's in there."

But Batman was already thinking onto something. Ever the meticulous detective; his mind, processing John's history of precarious deals and the unique nature of the Charro Negro's absolute claim, began reaching a grim conclusion.

"Constantine," Batman's voice would cut through the air, cold and precise, "your occult knowledge, your rituals, your books, the very tools you use... how much of it was truly yours? How much was 'given' to you, often in exchange for a piece of that soul you kept dangling?"

John, still reeling from the Charro Negro's true nature, would try to dismiss it.

"What are you on about, Bat? My wits are my own! My knowledge..."

But Zatanna understood the question. Her eyes opened wide and a gasp escaped her lips as the full, horrifying implication dawned on her.

"He's right, John! All those little favors, those whispered secrets, the powerful incantations, the 'gifts' of sight or power... you got them from entities, from demons, from spirits who were betting on owning a piece of your soul eventually! Or who were making specific 'investments' in your damnation!" She'd turn to Batman, her voice laced with dread. "His soul was a disputed territory, Bruce! A cosmic no-man's-land! No one entity could fully claim it, so they all chipped in, hoping to get the upper hand, waiting for the eventual payout! They'd give him bits and pieces of power, knowledge, tools... all as advanced payment or leverage for when the grand prize was finally settled!"

Then, the final, crushing blow, delivered with a grim certainty that echoed the Charro Negro's own. Batman's voice, devoid of any sympathy, would be the cold hammer striking the nail.

"But now... the Charro Negro has claimed full ownership. Your soul is no longer disputed territory. It's his. Which means every other entity with a 'claim' or a 'gift' tied to that soul... can now repossess what they gave you."

John Constantine, despite the overwhelming evidence, still tried to cling to his tattered denial.

"Repossess? That's bloody ridiculous! My magic is my own! My knowledge is earned!" He tried to conjure a simple spark of green energy, a basic cantrip, but his hand only trembled, and the air remained stubbornly inert. The failure was stark, undeniable.

Batman's cowl-shrouded gaze sharpened, focusing on John's futile attempt.

"I saw your magic frizzing and failing, Constantine. And just now, you couldn't even manage a simple spell. Your connection is severed, or at the very least, severely compromised." He pauses, his voice dropping slightly, a new line of inquiry forming. "and the missing books you mentioned? By any chance, were those books 'won' by making deals with your soul?"

John's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched tight.

"Maybe," he admitted, his voice a gruff whisper. "But what the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Batman's response was swift and decisive.

"Everything. If the Charro Negro has claimed your soul, then every power you've borrowed, every piece of knowledge you've been granted in exchange for it, is now forfeit." His voice was a low, ominous rumble. "You're not just in debt to him; you're spiritually bankrupt. And that means every other player in the game will come looking for their investment."

John's face paled, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in.

"I..I..." he couldn't respond. His gaze dropped to his hand, which still felt strangely numb, alien. The angry defiance had shattered, replaced by an expression of abject, naked terror. It wasn't just the prospect of eternal damnation that was collapsing around him; it was his very identity.

His innate magical senses, finely tuned despite his current torment, began to register the shift. A subtle flicker in the sigils tattooed on his skin. A fading echo in the memory of a potent ritual. A cold, alien feeling where a specific fragment of esoteric knowledge used to reside. The pocket where his Zippo should be would feel strangely empty, as if the very concept of lighting up was suddenly alien. The very ground beneath his feet, the air he breathed, the sight through his bloodshot eyes – they'd all feel subtly, terrifyingly wrong.

He hadn't just lost his soul; he was being systematically stripped bare. Every trick, every shortcut, every bit of borrowed power, every piece of infernal wisdom that made him John Constantine, the master con-man of the occult, was being methodically recalled by its original owners. The demons wouldn't fight for him now; they'd simply reclaim their collateral. He was about to become nothing more than a cynical, ordinary bloke from Liverpool, adrift and powerless, his greatest strength having become his ultimate undoing.

"But..but..no..it can't be..." John declared, his voice a ragged whisper, the denial a desperate, dying ember. "The deal was..what? Months? Why is this happening now?!" he asked with a sudden surge of desperation, his eyes wide with a horrifying realization. "My soul was wanted by everyone! Any shift, any indication it had been taken, would have been felt by... well... everyone! Days ago at minimum!"

Zatanna, her face etched with a grim understanding, stepped forward, her voice low and somber.

"Because, John, the Charro Negro isn't like your usual demonic creditors. Their claims are a tangled web of contracts and loopholes, constantly contested. A shift in ownership would indeed send ripples through their infernal bureaucracy. But the Charro Negro... his claim isn't a claim. It's an absolute. It doesn't register on their ledgers because it operates on a different, more fundamental plane."

Batman, ever the pragmatist, added.

"It's like the difference between a contested property deed and a universal law of physics. The other entities wouldn't have sensed a 'dispute' or a 'transfer' because, to them, your soul simply ceased to be available. The Charro Negro's ownership isn't something they can challenge or even perceive within their own systems. It's an overriding constant. And the delay you're experiencing now... that's the time it took for that absolute ownership to fully settle into your being, for the cosmic debt to recalibrate, and for the collateral of your 'gifts' to become ripe for repossession."

"And since it's you, John, anyone would be on edge and wouldn't fully believe someone had taken your soul in full," Zatanna added, her voice now tinged with a weary sadness. "Your missing books were probably a way for them to test the waters, to see if they could take back what they gave in exchange for your soul."

"And now that they know this is real..." Batman finished, his voice a low, chilling pronouncement.

"...they will take everything back," Zatanna concluded, her gaze fixed on John, who stood utterly defeated.

The magician paused suddenly, a thought coming to mind. One really bad and worrying thought that made her pale.

"And your life, John... all those times you cheated death, the mortal wounds you walked away from, the infernal assassins you survived... many of those were also 'investments.' Demons, entities, they didn't save you out of kindness. They kept you alive, prolonged your existence, so their 'claim' on your soul would mature, so you could cause more chaos, or simply for the sheer amusement of watching you squirm."

Batman, ever the logical analyst, connected it to the Charro Negro's absolute claim.

"With your soul no longer in dispute, those prior agreements are nullified. Their 'investment' has failed."

Then, the truly horrifying implication settled over them, heavier and colder than the night outside.

"They have no further use for you, Constantine," the dark knight stated, his voice grim. "Their 'assets' have been seized by another."

John's eyes widened with a dawning, frantic comprehension, darted between Batman and Zatanna. The full weight of his words, the crushing finality of his situation, slammed into him. The demons, the infernal creditors who had kept him alive, now had the right and the means to collect what they gave him: his continued existence. They wouldn't fight for his soul anymore – that was gone. Their only fight now would be for the privilege of delivering the final blow, of ensuring their investment was properly and brutally written off.

As if summoned by the grim pronouncements, the air in the motel room grew thick with an oppressive, multi-layered presence. Zatanna and John felt it first – the distant, familiar itch of infernal presence, but this time it was different. Not a pursuit, not a playful torment, but a cold, predatory reclamation. Even Batman, despite his lack of magical senses, could tell something profound and terrible was happening. The very light in the room seemed to dim, the stale air growing heavy and charged.

Outside the motel, the oppressive silence of the night was abruptly, violently torn apart. The air began to hum with an unnatural frequency. It wouldn't be a single, grand portal opening; it would be a myriad of smaller, tearing wounds in reality. The subtle pop-hiss of imps manifesting, the low, guttural thrum of minor demons emerging, the chilling whisper of vengeful, reclaimed spirits coalescing from the shadows. Horrible sounds of beasts mixed with the agonizing cries of damned souls poured forth. A couple first, then dozens, then hundreds, as the infernal creditors arrived en masse, not to claim a soul, but to repossess a life.

Not just the one demon, or the familiar few, but a veritable legion of minor devils, aggrieved spirits, and infernal functionaries, each one with a canceled contract and a burning desire for a violent, definitive write-off. They wouldn't care who dealt the final strike, only that the debt was settled.

And John Constantine, stripped of his powers, his knowledge, and his protections, would find himself facing an unholy horde of former creditors, all converging on one place, all vying for the bitter satisfaction of ending the life they once meticulously preserved.

The master of the con was now nothing more than an open account, ripe for final collection. And this time, there was no loophole, no bargain, no escape.

Chapter Text

Zatanna's eyes, wide with horror, dart between the flickering walls of the room and the trembling floor.

"I can feel them... so many! All at once! They're not fighting each other, they're... they're converging!" Her voice rose in pitch, desperation seizing her. "They're here to collect! Every minor demon, every cursed spirit he ever made a pact with, every single one of them is coming for their due! And their due is you, John!"

From outside, the sounds started: the scuttling of unseen limbs on the pavement, the chittering laughter of impish forms, the low, resonant growls of more substantial creatures. The distant, incessant buzz of insects was replaced by a deeper, more malevolent hum. The faint scent of sulfur and ozone began to permeate the stale air of the room, mingling with the ever-present stench of cheap cigarettes. John Constantine, pale and trembling, felt it too. The residual magical senses that hadn't yet been fully repossessed registered the sheer volume of hostile intent gathering outside. A cold, hard knot formed in his gut. He had cheated death countless times, but this... this wasn't one or two angry demons. This was a cosmic collection agency, legion, and united in their purpose.

Batman, ever the pragmatist, needed no further explanation. He heard the new sounds, saw Zatanna's genuine terror, and witnessed the flicker of pure, unadulterated fear in John's eyes that finally eclipsed his defiant anger.

"Zatanna, secure the perimeter!" Batman's voice came with a sharp, urgent command, cutting through the rising magical static. His hand was already moving towards his utility belt, hoping he had something that might buy them seconds against this supernatural onslaught.

He turned to John, the grim reality of their situation laid bare. There was no time for questions, no time for debates, no time for recriminations.

"They're not here to fight us over your soul, Constantine," Batman stated, the words a stark, terrifying summary of their predicament. "They're here to tear you apart. We need to run. Now." The dull, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of something large beginning to impact the flimsy motel building from outside was the only answer. The walls trembled. The lights flickered. The time for denial, for bargaining, for anger... was over. It was time for sheer, desperate survival.

Zatanna, her face a mask of grim determination, spun towards the motel room's single window, her hands already weaving intricate patterns in the air.

"Etaerc reirrab ot peek su efas!!" she chanted, her voice a powerful, resonant whisper that vibrated with raw magical energy. A shimmering, sapphire-blue barrier of pure force erupted from her fingertips, expanding rapidly to encompass the entire exterior of the flimsy motel building. It pulsed with a soft, protective glow, momentarily pushing back the encroaching shadows and the cacophony of infernal sounds. The first few imps, scrabbling at the window, recoiled with hisses as they hit the invisible wall.

Inside the room, the air crackled with the sudden surge of Zatanna's magic, but the respite was fleeting. The rhythmic thumping intensified, shaking the very foundations of the motel.

John took a step back, his eyes never leaving the window.

"That'll hold them for what, a minute?!" His voice was thick with sarcasm, but the tremor in his words betrayed his fear.

"Long enough to get you moving, hopefully," Zatanna shot back, already casting another spell, this one to reinforce the barrier. The motel walls groaned and creaked under the increasing pressure from outside.

"It will be enough!" Batman's voice cut through sharp and urgent, as he pulled John by the arm. "we need to reach the roof. Batwing's on approach. ETA two minutes!"

They burst out of the motel room and into the dimly lit, grimy hallway. The air here was already thick with the stench of sulfur and ozone, mingling with the motel's usual stale cigarette smoke. From below, the first cracks of splintering wood and shattering glass echoed up the stairwell. 

Zatanna´s spell wasnt quick enough and some demons had been able to breach through the main entrance and ground-floor windows.

The boy that was behind the main desk hide behind as a fat, long tongue demon squeezed through the broken window of the reception, its beady eyes reflecting the neon lights of the motel sign.

The boy took a deep breath..only to scream as the desk was raised by the creature with one hand.

"John...Constantine!" the creature hissed, a grinning maw of pointed teeth and slithering tongue. as bug like creatures moved next to it clicking their mandibles in hunger.

"Room 37! up the stairs!!" the boy cried out, his voice trembling as he pointed to the staircase at the end of the corridor.

"Go! Up!" Batman commanded, shoving John towards the creaking wooden stairs as the first clicks and buzz of the insect beasts reach them.

The first demon, a squat, horned creature with leathery wings and glowing red eyes, lunged forward, its claws extended. Batman, without breaking stride, pulled a batarang from his utility belt. With a swift, practiced motion, he threw it. The razor-sharp projectile spun through the air, impaling the demon squarely in its chest. The creature shrieked, a high-pitched, agonizing cry, as it stumbled backward, a sickly green ichor oozing from the wound.

John Constantine stared, wide-eyed, at the impaled demon. Its pained shriek, a sound that would normally be music to his ears, now only amplified his terror. He watched the green ichor, a familiar sight, but the batarang sticking out of its chest was anything but.

"What the hell?!" John gasped, his voice a raw whisper, pulling against Batman's grip, not to escape, but to get a better look at the impossible weapon.

"Nth metal," Batman stated, his voice flat, devoid of pride, as he continued to drag John up the stairs. "When I was told you were involved, I prepared."

The demon, still impaled, twitched violently, its form flickering as the Nth metal interfered with its very essence. It let out another, weaker shriek before dissolving into a cloud of black smoke and a lingering scent of burnt sulfur.

"Keep moving!" Batman urged, his grip firm on John's arm as the sounds of more demons spilling into the motel grew louder.

They hadn't taken three steps up the creaking stairs when more of the same squat, horned demons, along with smaller, chittering imp-like creatures, swarmed into the hallway from the ground floor. Their glowing eyes fixed on John, a collective, hungry growl rising from their ranks.

"More of them!" John cried, his voice laced with genuine panic. He stumbled, his legs still weak from the alcohol and shock.

"Run!" Batman barked, shoving John harder up the stairs. He released Constantine's arm and, with a fluid, practiced motion, pulled two more Nth metal batarangs from his belt. These weren't thrown; instead, he gripped them firmly, one in each hand, the sharp, angular edges glinting in the dim light. He turned, his cape swirling around him, a dark, imposing silhouette against the encroaching infernal horde.

The first demon lunged, claws outstretched. Batman met it head-on, the Nth metal batarang slicing through its ethereal form with a sickening sizzle. The creature screamed, dissolving into smoke. Another followed, and another. Batman moved with brutal efficiency, a whirlwind of precise strikes and calculated deflections. The Nth metal, designed to disrupt magical and ethereal beings, made short work of the lower-tier demons, each strike causing them to dissipate with a shriek and a puff of acrid smoke.

"Go, Zatanna! Get him up there!" Batman yelled over the din, his voice a low growl, as he parried a clawed attack with one batarang and plunged the other into the chest of a charging imp. "I'll buy you time!"

Zatanna, her face grim, nodded, her eyes flashing with renewed determination. She grabbed John's arm, pulling him with surprising strength up the rickety stairs, leaving Batman to face the growing tide of infernal creditors alone.

They managed to reach the next floor, the air slightly less thick with sulfur, but the sounds of the battle below still reverberated through the flimsy structure. John, still reeling, stumbled to a halt, leaning heavily against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

"Bloody hell, Bat's got some new toys, doesn't he?" John muttered, more to himself than to Zatanna, a flicker of his old, cynical humor returning, if only for a second. "Nth metal, eh? Always prepared, that one."

Before Zatanna could reply, the dim light of the hallway shifted. From the shadows at the far end, various forms materialized, coalescing into two distinct groups.

One group consisted of dark, hooded creatures, their forms vaguely humanoid but ethereal, floating inches above the ground. Their bony, claw-like fingers extended from beneath their robes, and their faces were obscured by deep shadows; Shades, servants of Hades. A low, mournful wail emanated from them, a sound that seemed to drain the warmth from the air.

The other group was also clad in dark, flowing garments, but their appearance was more distinctly human, albeit with unnaturally pale skin and deeply sunken eyes. They wore traditional Korean black flowing hanbok and large-brimmed black hats known as Gats. These were the Jeoseung Saja, the grim reapers of Korean folklore, their presence radiating an icy, implacable authority. They moved with a chilling, silent grace, their sunken eyes fixed on John.

John's eyes widened further, the last remnants of his drunken stupor evaporating, replaced by a fresh wave of pure, unadulterated dread. He knew these entities. He'd tangled with their kind before, usually in far less compromised circumstances.

"Oh, for f—" John began, his voice choked with a desperate, gallows humor. "You've got to be kidding me. The Korean death squad? And bloody Shades?!"

"John Constantine!" one of the Shades called out, its voice a raspy, echoing tone that seemed to scrape against the very air. "Your soul is out of reach, but we will take great pleasure making sure your next breath is the last one!"

"No more cheats, no more delays," the Jeoseung Saja spoke, their voices a chilling, synchronized chorus, devoid of individual inflection, as if one entity spoke through many. "Only one ticket to oblivion remains unpaid, and we've come to collect."

"Sorry, not interested in K-pop," Constantine quipped, the words a thin, desperate attempt at his usual flippancy, but his voice was strained, a raw edge of panic beneath the forced bravado. He slapped his hands against his pockets, first one, then the other, a frantic search. His brow furrowed in a desperate frown. Nothing. His fingers brushed against empty fabric, where his lighter, his charmed cigarettes, his various trinkets and minor wards should have been. The grim reality of his stripped powers hit him anew like a cold wave.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, the gallows humor dying on his lips. "Empty. All of it. They really did take everything." His eyes darted between the floating Shades, whose wails seemed to grow louder, and the silent, implacable Jeoseung Saja, whose sunken eyes promised an inescapable end. He was a magician without magic, a con-man without his tricks, facing the very forces he had always outmaneuvered.

Zatanna, seeing the true, raw fear on John's face, felt a fresh surge of protective fury. This wasn't the time for his usual self-destructive antics. These were not mere demons; these were death itself, come to claim a life that had been unnaturally prolonged. She stepped in front of John, her stance defensive, her hands already moving in intricate, reversed gestures.

“Og kcab ot kcalb!" she chanted, her voice resonating with power, aiming a burst of pure magical energy at the nearest Shade. The ethereal creature shrieked as the spell hit, its shadowy form flickering violently, momentarily destabilized.

"John, move! Now!" she commanded, her eyes fixed on the approaching entities, knowing her spells could only buy them precious seconds. 

The Jeoseung Saja, however, were unfazed by her magic, their silent advance unwavering, their collective gaze still fixed on Constantine. Their pale hands, previously hidden within the flowing sleeves of their hanbok, emerged, each grasping a long, slender, wickedly curved sickle. The blades, made of what appeared to be solidified shadow, shimmered with an unnatural cold. The Shades, too, brandished similar, though more crude, claw-like sickles, their raspy wails growing into a chorus of hungry anticipation.

"Don't interfere, Zatanna Zatara!" the lead Jeoseung Saja called out, its voice still a chilling, synchronized monotone, but now laced with a steely warning.

"We are here for Constantine, and that is all!" yelled the Shades, their voices a cacophony of guttural snarls and hungry whispers.

"Sorry but he owns me too and I need him alive," said Zatanna with a wink, a desperate attempt at levity as another spell was prepared. "Thgil dnilb meht!" A blinding white light exploded around her, the motel room's walls and ceiling fading away to reveal a stark, featureless plane of existence. The demons and reapers recoiled, their forms distorted by the sheer power of her incantation.

Just as the light reached its peak, a dark, aerodynamic shape sliced through the air. Batman, having just reached the top of the stairs, launched a flurry of Nth metal batarangs. They spun with lethal precision, cutting through the blinding light. Several struck the Shades, which shrieked as the metal tore through their shadowy forms, causing them to unravel into wisps of smoke. Others embedded themselves in the pale, flowing hanbok of the Jeoseung Saja. While the Nth metal didn't dispel them outright, it caused their forms to ripple and distort, and their synchronized voices broke into individual, pained grunts.

"Arrrgh! The metal... it burns!" one Jeoseung Saja hissed, clutching at its shoulder where a batarang had lodged.

"Attack! Attack the mortal!" another Shade rasped, its voice now filled with a furious, pain-fueled rage. The remaining Shades and Jeoseung Saja, though momentarily disrupted, now advanced with renewed, vengeful ferocity, their sickles raised, their focus shifting from the blinding light to the source of the painful projectiles.

Batman didn't hesitate. With a fluid, almost imperceptible movement, he reached into his utility belt. His hands emerged, now encased in a pair of sleek, dark grey brass knuckles, their surfaces gleaming faintly with the tell-tale shimmer of Nth metal. He moved with the brutal efficiency of a predator, his cape swirling around him as he met the charge head-on. A Shade lunged, its shadowy sickle whistling through the air. Batman ducked under the blow, his Nth metal-clad fist connecting with the creature's ethereal jaw with a sickening CRACK. The Shade shrieked, its form exploding into a cloud of black motes, instantly dispelled.

Beside him, Zatanna, her face still etched with grim determination, extended her hand. From thin air, her elegant magician's cane materialized, its polished black wood and silver tip appearing solid and real. With a whispered incantation, "Thgil htiw enac ym esuf!", a brilliant, focused beam of pure, incandescent white light erupted from the cane's tip, bathing the hallway in an ethereal glow. She swung it like a staff, the concentrated light acting as a physical force. A Jeoseung Saja, its features contorted in a snarl, lunged. Zatanna parried its sickle with her light-infused cane. The impact sent a jarring shockwave through the air, and the Saja recoiled, its pale skin sizzling where the light touched it, a faint wisp of smoke rising from its form. The Nth metal and Zatanna's raw magical light were a potent combination against the forces of death.

But while Batman and Zatanna were locked in a desperate struggle, a nearby door – another bedroom of the motel – burst open with a splintering CRASH. From the sudden opening, a swarm of small, chittering imps poured forth. These weren't the larger, horned demons Batman had faced downstairs, but smaller, more agile, and far more numerous creatures, their eyes gleaming with malicious glee. They bypassed the ongoing struggle, their tiny, clawed feet scrambling across the dusty floor, their collective focus immediately locking onto the most vulnerable target: John Constantine.

"Constantine! Get him!" one imp shrieked, its voice a high-pitched, guttural sound, as it leaped, followed by dozens more.

Like ants the creatures swarmed Constantine, their sharp claws tearing at his clothes and skin, their teeth snapping in the air around him.

"Aggg bloddy pests!" John roared, his drunkenness forgotten as he swiped and kicked wildly at the swarming imps. Each blow sent several of the creatures flying, but they were as tenacious as they were diminutive, regrouping and attacking with renewed ferocity.

Usually he would use. quick spell or the seals/enchantments of his clothes would have kick in already, but now John felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead as he realized that he was as powerless as a mortal. The imps, sensing his fear, grew more daring, their bites and claws leaving trails of cold, burning agony across his flesh.

Constantine stumbled backwards until his back hit the stair railing.

CRACK!!

That broke causing him to fall.

With a startled yelp, John plummeted backwards down the stairs, his arms flailing in a futile attempt to grab hold of anything that could break his fall. The imps followed, their shrieks of excitement turning to cackles of malicious glee. Three floors he fell until he hit the floor right on the ground floor. Fortunately not all spells in his clothes were of "demonic origin"; some he did put himself in, like the cushion one on his coat that helped soften the hit. No bones broken, although he still felt the impact.

“Bloody hell” John complained as the imps rained around him between laughs.

A guttural roar echoed through the broken reception area. John looked up, wincing, to see the fat, long-tongued demon from earlier, its beady eyes fixed on him with renewed hunger. 

"Oh, great," John muttered, his voice a pained groan, as he began to push himself to his feet, every muscle protesting.

From the gaping hole that was once the motel's main entrance, two more formidable figures emerged, joining the first. A grotesque, bulbous demon with too many eyes and a maw full of needle-sharp teeth squeezed through, its voice like grinding stone, a sound that grated on John's nerves.

"Constantine! Our agreement is null! You are mine now!" it bellowed, its multiple eyes swiveling to fixate on him.

Another, leaner, more agile demon, shimmering with an unholy cold, manifested directly in their path, its clawed hand already reaching for John.

"The life I gave you, deceiver! It is time for its end! I will take it back now!" it hissed, voice a chilling whisper that promised a swift, agonizing demise.

John felt a cold sweat trickle down his back. He had faced down the worst of the worst, but never without his usual bag of tricks, his silver tongue, his cunning mind. Now, all he had was his fists, his instincts, and a stubborn refusal to go quietly into the night. He balled his fists, his knuckles cracking in a show of defiance. The imps had retreated, sensing the power of the larger demons, but their beady eyes watched him from the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike again.

The three demons moved in, their monstrous forms casting grotesque shadows across the shattered reception area. The fat, long-tongued demon lumbered forward, its massive head swaying, its eyes gleaming with anticipation. The multi-eyed, needle-toothed creature hissed, a low, guttural sound, as it began to push through the entrance, its bulk threatening to shatter the already crumbling doorway. The lean, cold demon shimmered, its clawed hand extending, ready to rip John apart.

Just as they closed in, the air above them rippled. A flurry of dark objects rained down, impacting the floor with soft thuds and then erupting in thick, blinding clouds of smoke. Batman and Zatanna, having descended from the upper floors with astonishing speed, landed silently amidst the swirling haze.

"Now!" Batman's voice, a low, guttural command, cut through the sudden disorientation. He moved like a phantom, his Nth metal brass knuckles glinting in the dim, smoke-filled light. Zatanna, her magician's cane already glowing with a fierce white light, spun into action beside him.

The fat, long-tongued demon, momentarily disoriented by the smoke, roared in frustration. Batman, a shadowy blur, was already upon it. His Nth metal-clad fist, powered by years of brutal training, slammed into the demon's bulbous side. The impact wasn't just physical; the Nth metal sizzled against the demon's ethereal form, causing a sickening ripple across its flesh. The creature shrieked, a sound like tearing canvas, as it stumbled backward, its long tongue lashing wildly.

"You're not collecting anything today," Batman growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He followed up with a rapid series of blows, each one disrupting the demon's form, causing it to glow with sickly green energy before dissipating into foul-smelling smoke.

Meanwhile, Zatanna faced the multi-eyed, needle-toothed demon. Its numerous eyes blinked rapidly, trying to pierce the smoke, but the magician woman was faster. 

"Nwod!" she chanted, her voice a sharp, reversed command. A wave of concussive force, imbued with pure magical light from her cane, slammed into the demon. It shrieked, its grotesque form momentarily flattened against the broken wall, scattering a few of its needle-sharp teeth.

The lean, cold demon, however, was more agile. It shimmered through the smoke, attempting to flank Zatanna, but John, despite his pain, saw it. 

"Zee! Left!" he rasped, pointing a shaky finger.

Zatanna, reacting instantly, spun, her cane sweeping in an arc. 

"Dnilb dna nrob!" she cried, and a burst of blinding white light, mixed with searing heat, erupted from her cane. The cold demon shrieked as the light enveloped it, its shimmering form convulsing violently. The unholy cold it radiated intensified for a moment, then rapidly diminished as its essence began to unravel.

"Bloody hell, that was close," John muttered, still struggling to his feet, watching the chaotic scene unfold. He felt a surge of useless frustration. He was a spectator in his own damn collection.

Batman, having dispatched the fat demon, turned his attention to the multi-eyed creature, which was now trying to regain its footing. He launched a volley of batarangs, not just to wound, but to disrupt. The Nth metal blades embedded themselves in its flesh, causing it to scream as its form began to ripple and distort uncontrollably.

"Constantine, get ready!" Batman barked, his voice echoing in the reception area. "We're moving out!"

The lean, cold demon, now severely weakened by Zatanna's spell, let out a final, chilling wail as it dissolved into a cloud of icy mist. The multi-eyed demon, its form flickering violently, finally exploded in a shower of grotesque, fleshy fragments and needle-like teeth.

The last of the three main demons were gone, but the chittering of the imps intensified from the shadows, their tiny forms beginning to swarm forward once more, sensing an opening.

"Hate imps," Zatanna muttered, her voice a low growl, as she and Batman looked around at the approaching mini-devils. Her cane still glowed, ready.

"Focus on Constantine," Batman ordered, his voice sharp and concise. He pulled a handful of small, spherical objects from his utility belt, and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed them into the advancing swarm of imps.

The spheres hit the ground and immediately detonated, not with an explosion of force, but with a sudden, intense burst of high-frequency sonic energy. The imps shrieked, their tiny forms convulsing violently as the sound waves assaulted their sensitive ears and disrupted their ethereal forms. Many of them burst into puffs of black smoke, while others reeled back, disoriented and momentarily stunned.

Zatanna, seeing Batman's tactic, adapted instantly. 

"SpmI, yawa og!” she chanted, her voice a rapid-fire incantation. A wave of shimmering, golden magical energy swept across the floor, washing over the remaining imps. The energy didn't harm them physically, but it created an unbearable pressure, an invisible force that pushed them back, sending them scuttling and shrieking into the deeper shadows of the broken motel. The hallway was momentarily clear.

"Constantine, can you move?" Batman asked, turning to John, who was still on the floor, trying to push himself up.

"Bloody hell, what was that?" John grumbled, rubbing his ears, still dazed by the sonic attack and the fall. He managed to get to his knees, his face pale and streaked with dust. "Yeah, yeah, I'm moving. Just... give a bloke a minute, will ya?" He finally got to his feet, swaying slightly, but his eyes were now clearer, the shock and pain having momentarily sobered him.

But before anyone could move, before Batman could reach John or Zatanna could cast another ward, the very air in the reception area grew impossibly cold. Not the chill of the lean demon, but a deeper, more ancient cold that seemed to seep into their bones. Above their heads on the ceiling of the hotel, a swirling vortex of pure shadow erupted. It wasn't a portal; it was a manifestation, a tearing in the fabric of reality itself.

From within the swirling darkness, a multitude of tendrils, blacker than night and seemingly made of solidified malice, shot forth with terrifying speed. They were like grasping, prehensile shadows, dozens of them, each one tipped with a razor-sharp, obsidian claw. They bypassed Batman's Nth metal, Zatanna's magical wards, and the remaining scattered imps, their singular focus unerringly on John Constantine.

"Constantine!" Batman roared, lunging forward, but it was too late.

The shadow tendrils wrapped around John's arms, legs, and torso with brutal force, their grip crushing. He let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of terror as he was yanked off his feet.

"Agggh! What the bloody—" John's words were cut short as he was violently pulled upwards, through the gaping hole in the ceiling where the stairs had broken all the way up to the tear.

From the interior emerged a “head” and a mouth filled with sharp teeth opened.

“Your time has come cheater” an icy voice called as the mouth opened making a sound of someone breathing really deep and slow.

Constantine felt his life force being absorbed, slowly at first, then with an accelerating, horrifying pull. It wasn't a sudden, violent extraction like his soul had been, but a draining, a siphoning, as if his very essence was being drawn out through countless tiny, unseen pores. His vision swam, colors fading, and the sounds of the battle below became distant, muffled echoes. His strength ebbed, his limbs growing heavy and unresponsive.

The demon's icy voice, resonating directly in his mind, was a cold, cruel whisper. 

"Your borrowed time, your stolen breaths, your prolonged existence... all are forfeit. I am the collector of what was given, and now, I take it back."

John's mind, usually a whirlwind of cynical plans and desperate gambits, was strangely blank. He tried to remember who this demon was, this "collector." He had cheated so many, made so many desperate deals. Was it the one from the London docks? The one from the Istanbul bazaar? The one he'd tricked into giving him an extra decade of life in exchange for... what was it again? The faces, the names, the specific details of a hundred infernal bargains blurred into an indistinguishable mass. This demon, with its shadowy tendrils and gaping maw, was just another faceless creature, one of the many he had outsmarted, outlived, and now, apparently, forgotten. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, even as his senses dulled. His own repossessed memories were failing him, leaving him adrift in a terrifying, unfamiliar void.

Instinct took over. His arm shot out, fingers twitching, desperately trying to conjure even a spark, a flicker of the hellfire he commanded, the quick burst of cold iron that often bought him a second. His lips moved, forming the familiar syllables of an incantation that had saved him countless times,

 "Hoc est ferro! Ignis Inferna!"

But nothing happened.

No flash of light. No searing heat. Not even the tell-tale hum of arcane energy. The words felt hollow, like dry dust in his mouth. The power was simply... gone. The emptiness where his soul once resided echoed, a mocking silence where potent magic should have roared to life. He was a conductor without an orchestra, a magician without a wand, his every attempted spell falling flat, utterly useless.

Just as the shadow tendrils began to pull John through the gaping hole in the ceiling, a dark, sleek shape shot upwards from the ground outside. Batman's grappling hook, launched with pinpoint precision, embedded itself with a sharp THWIP into the crumbling edge of the roof, directly above the shadow vortex.

With incredible speed, Batman ascended, a dark blur against the night sky. He reached the opening just as John was about to be fully consumed. His Nth metal-clad hands, still clutching the brass knuckles, were now augmented with razor-sharp, retractable blades that sprung from the knuckles themselves.

"Constantine!" Batman's voice, a guttural roar of warning, cut through John's fading senses.

With a series of swift, brutal slashes, Batman brought the blades down on the shadowy tendrils that held John. The Nth metal, designed to disrupt magical constructs, sizzled and sparked against the pure malice of the shadow. The tendrils shrieked, a sound like tearing silk, and several of them snapped, dissolving into wisps of black smoke.

John, momentarily released, plummeted downwards, but Batman, with a lightning-fast reaction, grabbed his trench coat, halting his fall just inches above the reception floor. He swung John clear of the collapsing shadow vortex, landing him roughly beside Zatanna.

"Zee! Now!" Batman barked, his voice urgent, his eyes fixed on the retreating shadow mass. The entity, wounded and momentarily disoriented by Batman's unexpected attack, was still attempting to pull its remaining tendrils back into the void.

Zatanna, her face streaked with tears and dirt, but her eyes burning with fierce resolve, didn't hesitate. She saw her opening. Her magician's cane glowed with an incandescent white light, brighter than before.

"Ognitsab by tnemom siht, og kcalb ot kcab!" she chanted, her voice a powerful, resonant roar that shook the very foundations of the motel. A colossal wave of pure, concentrated magical energy, a blinding torrent of white light, erupted from her cane. It slammed into the retreating shadow vortex with the force of a cosmic hammer.

The shadow entity shrieked, a sound of pure agony and rage that seemed to tear at the fabric of the night. The tendrils convulsed, thrashing wildly, but Zatanna's spell was overwhelming. The white light consumed the darkness, not merely dispelling it, but utterly erasing it. The vortex collapsed inward with a sound like a vacuum, sucking in the last remnants of the shadowy tendrils and the demon's form. Then, with a final, echoing POP, it was gone, leaving behind only the acrid scent of ozone and a lingering, unnatural chill.

John stumbled forward, collapsing onto the floor, panting, utterly disoriented and still reeling from the shock of his powerlessness and almost death experience. Batman landed beside him, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"You okay?" Batman's voice was a low, gruff rumble, a rare hint of concern in his tone.

Zatanna landed close by, her magician's cane still faintly glowing. She immediately cast a quick, silent scanning spell, her eyes glowing with a soft blue light as she examined John. Her expression, initially worried, shifted to a grim relief.

"He's fine, physically," she confirmed, her voice tight with the lingering adrenaline. "But that was too close. We need to get out of here, now." She glanced nervously at the shattered entrance and the still-trembling walls. "My shield spell is starting to fade. We don't have much time before they regroup."

John, still on his hands and knees, pushed himself up, his limbs shaky but his eyes now fully alert, stripped of the drunken haze. He looked at the gaping hole in the ceiling, then at the shattered entrance, and finally at the two figures who had just saved his life. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – a mix of shock, lingering fear, and perhaps, a grudging respect.

"Bloody hell," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "That was... that was a bit much, even for me." He tried to force a cynical grin, but it felt thin and unconvincing. "Right. Roof. Before the whole bloody building comes down."

The motel groaned again, a deep, structural creak that echoed through the shattered reception area. Outside, the chittering of the imps grew louder, a hungry, impatient chorus, and the dull thumping of larger creatures against Zatanna's fading barrier intensified.

"The roof access is that way!" Batman commanded, pointing towards a heavy, fire-rated door at the far end of the reception area, miraculously still intact amidst the chaos. He moved with swift, purposeful strides, already pulling a small, explosive charge from his utility belt.

Zatanna, her face grim, nodded. She kept her cane raised, a faint, protective aura shimmering around John as they moved. 

"Go, John! Keep up!"

John, surprisingly, didn't argue. The sheer, unadulterated terror of his powerlessness, and the very real threat of being torn limb from limb by his former creditors, had finally broken through his usual bravado. He stumbled after Batman, his eyes darting nervously at every shadow, every creak of the motel.

They reached the heavy door. Batman slapped the explosive charge onto the lock mechanism. "Stand back!" he grunted, pressing a remote detonator.

A muffled THUMP and a shower of sparks erupted as the lock disintegrated. Batman kicked the door open with a powerful swing, revealing a narrow, dusty stairwell leading upwards. The air here was cooler, less tainted by sulfur, and a faint breeze hinted at the open air above.

"Up! Now!" Batman ordered, pushing John through the doorway.

They scrambled up the final flight of stairs, the sounds of the demonic horde growing closer behind them. The motel was groaning like a dying beast, its flimsy structure unable to withstand the sustained assault. As they burst onto the flat, gravel-strewn roof, the cool night air hit them, a welcome relief after the suffocating heat and stench below.

The Batwing, a sleek, dark silhouette against the star-dusted sky, was already hovering silently above them, its twin thrusters glowing with a soft, blue light. The ramp was extending downwards, a beacon of escape.

"Get in!" Batman yelled, his voice amplified by his cowl's internal comms, as he scanned the perimeter of the roof. The barrier Zatanna had cast was now visibly shimmering, flickering like a dying flame, unable to hold back the sheer numbers of the converging entities much longer.

From the edge of the roof, the first of the imps began to scramble over, their chittering growing into a frenzied shriek as they saw their prey. Behind them, the larger, horned demons, their forms still distorted from Batman's Nth metal attacks, began to claw their way up the crumbling walls, their red eyes fixed on John.

"Bloody hell, they're persistent, aren't they?" John muttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stumbled towards the ramp. He felt a desperate urge to light a cigarette, but his pockets were still empty, and the thought only amplified his helplessness.

Zatanna, her face pale but determined, unleashed a final, desperate spell. 

"Dloh dna ezeerf meht!" she cried, her voice strained. A wave of shimmering ice and concussive force erupted from her cane, sweeping across the roof. The imps froze mid-leap, encased in shimmering ice, and the larger demons paused, their forms momentarily locked in place by the sudden magical assault.

"That won't last!" she gasped, her magic almost spent. "Go!"

John scrambled up the ramp, his movements clumsy but urgent. Batman, covering their retreat, launched a few more sonic emitters at the frozen demons, causing them to shatter into dust, buying them precious seconds. He then vaulted onto the ramp, his cape billowing behind him, just as the first of the remaining demons began to break through Zatanna's ice.

The ramp retracted with a soft hiss, and the Batwing's thrusters flared, lifting them swiftly into the night sky. Below, the motel, now a shattered ruin, was swarming with a furious, frustrated horde of infernal collectors, their roars of rage echoing uselessly into the vast night.

Chapter Text

The instant the Batwing's bay doors hissed shut, sealing Constantine and Batman inside, the demonic horde erupted into a unified roar of thwarted fury. It was no longer the disorganized chittering of imps or the localized snarls of individual creditors; it was a single, deafening bellow of collective rage.

Zatanna, having just clambered into the Batwing's bay, her face pale with exertion but alight with relief, quickly sealed the interior hatch. The roar was still audible, even through the heavy plating of the Batwing.

Outside, the motel, now a shattered husk, became a launchpad for the truly monstrous. From amidst the swirling chaos, several gigantic, lumbering demons, far larger than anything seen inside, emerged. Their forms were grotesque mountains of muscle and malice, their skin like hardened earth, their eyes glowing like embers. These weren't the agile, airborne scouts or the insidious debt collectors; these were the heavy artillery, the brute force of the infernal realm.

With guttural roars that shook the very air, their massive, clawed hands reached down, tearing massive chunks of the motel's concrete and rebar structure from the ground. They ripped up sections of pavement, snapped off lamp posts, and even heaved entire parked cars. With terrifying strength, they began to hurl these improvised projectiles into the sky, aiming directly for the ascending Batwing. The air filled with the whistling sound of flying debris – concrete slabs, twisted metal, and even the occasional mangled vehicle, all hurtling upwards with deadly intent.

CRUMP!

A massive chunk of rebar-laced concrete, propelled by infernal might, slammed into the Batwing's armored underside with a sickening thud that reverberated through the entire craft. The Batwing bucked violently, throwing John, Batman, and Zatanna against the interior walls. Warning lights flickered across the cockpit console.

"Bloody hell! They're throwing the bloody building at us!" John gasped, scrambling to get his bearings, his face etched with a fresh wave of terror. He pushed himself off the wall, his hands instinctively reaching for a cigarette that wasn't there, a phantom comfort.

Batman, despite the violent jolt, was already upright, his movements fluid and precise. He moved to the cockpit, his gloved hands flying across the controls. The Batwing's engines whined, increasing thrust, trying to gain altitude more rapidly.

"Brace yourselves!" Batman's voice, calm and unyielding, cut through the alarms blaring in the cockpit. He expertly maneuvered the Batwing, banking sharply to avoid a twisted lamppost that whistled past the canopy.

Zatanna, still reeling, pushed herself up, her magician's cane clattering against the floor. She looked out the reinforced viewport, her eyes widening at the sight of the colossal demons below, their forms like living siege engines.

Another impact, less direct this time, scraped along the Batwing's side, sending a shower of sparks across the viewport. The craft shuddered, losing a few feet of altitude before Batman wrestled it back under control.

"We need more speed, Bruce!" Zatanna urged, moving to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on the rapidly shrinking motel below. The ground was now a swirling vortex of dust, debris, and enraged demonic forms.

"Working on it!" Batman grunted, his knuckles white on the controls. The Batwing's thrusters flared again, pushing them faster but not higher enough.

To make things worst, as the Batwing climbed, the air around them began to fill with a new, more agile threat. From the swirling mass below, and from newly opened, smaller rifts in the air itself, emerged a terrifying aerial armada. 

Screaming, bat-like Harbingers of Damnation, their leathery wings beating furiously, clawed their way upwards, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent. Alongside them soared grotesque Gargoyles, their stone-like forms animated by dark magic, their sharp talons extended. And weaving through them all were swarms of larger, more aggressive winged Imps, their chittering now a high-pitched, piercing shriek, their tiny, razor-sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. They moved with a terrifying speed, their collective focus unerringly on the Batwing, a dark, living cloud swarming towards their escaping prey.

The Batwing, already battered, was now a solitary target in a sky swarming with infernal predators. Batman's hands danced across the controls, the sleek craft performing impossible aerial acrobatics. It corkscrewed, barrel-rolled, and dove, narrowly avoiding streams of hellfire that erupted from the mouths of the larger Harbingers, painting fiery streaks across the night. The Gargoyles, surprisingly nimble despite their stony bulk, tried to ram the Batwing, their talons scraping against the reinforced hull with grating screeches that vibrated through the cabin.

"They're coming from all sides!" Zatanna yelled, her voice barely audible over the din of impacts and the whine of straining engines. She pressed her face against the viewport, her eyes scanning for openings, for any weakness in the relentless assault. She could see the smaller Imps, like a cloud of malevolent insects, trying to find weak points, their tiny claws scratching at the canopy.

A particularly large Gargoyle, its eyes glowing like molten gold, slammed into the Batwing's starboard wing. The impact sent a sickening jolt through the craft, and a fresh wave of alarms blared in the cockpit.

"Damage to starboard stabilizer!" Batman's voice was tight, but still controlled. He compensated with a burst of port thrusters, sending the Gargoyle tumbling away, its stony form spinning wildly before it regained control.

"Can't you shoot them down, Bruce?!" John yelled, pressing himself against the interior wall, his face a mask of helpless frustration. The sheer scale of the attack, and his inability to do anything, was a torment.

"Non-lethal deterrents only," Batman replied, his gaze fixed on the tactical display, which showed dozens of red blips converging on their position. "And these creatures are magically augmented. Standard weaponry would be ineffective, and lethal force would only escalate the situation."

"Escalate?!" John shrieked, a hysterical edge to his voice. "We're being attacked by a bloody airborne army of pissed-off demons! How much more escalated can it get?!"

A stream of green hellfire, wider and more intense than the previous ones, narrowly missed the cockpit, scorching the hull above them. The smell of burnt metal permeated the cabin.

"They're trying to disable us!" Zatanna warned, her hands instinctively moving, but she knew any major spell would drain her completely, leaving them even more vulnerable. Her earlier efforts had already taken their toll.

Batman gritted his teeth.

"Hold on!" he commanded. He pushed the Batwing into a dizzying series of maneuvers, weaving through the demonic swarm like a needle through thread. He activated a defensive countermeasure: a burst of high-intensity sonic pulses erupted from the Batwing's underside, momentarily disorienting the closest Harbingers and Imps, sending them spiraling away with pained shrieks. But the Gargoyles, more resilient, merely shuddered before renewing their assault.

One particularly persistent Harbinger, its leathery wings beating with incredible speed, managed to latch onto the Batwing's tailfin with its razor-sharp talons, trying to tear a chunk out of the control surface. The craft lurched violently.

"They're on the tail!" Zatanna screamed.

Batman swore under his breath. He couldn't shake it without risking a catastrophic loss of control. He had to find a way to break free, and fast. The sheer number of flying demons was overwhelming their defenses.

Below them, on the ravaged ground, the colossal, earth-bound demons continued their furious rampage. Their roars, though distant, still vibrated through the Batwing's hull. They were no longer just throwing debris; they were tearing up the very landscape in their frustrated pursuit. Buildings crumbled, roads buckled, and the ground itself seemed to fracture under the force of their monstrous rage. Smaller, faster ground-demons, like hellish hounds, sprinted across the devastated terrain, their glowing eyes fixed on the distant Batwing, their guttural barks adding to the cacophony of infernal fury. The entire area around the ruined motel was a swirling vortex of dust, fire, and raw demonic power, a terrifying testament to their unyielding desire for Constantine's demise.

And in a close by hill, looking at the chaos, was El Charro Negro. His black charro suit remained impeccable, not a speck of dust or grime on its elegant fabric. His wide-brimmed sombrero cast his face into shadow, but the faint, ancient amusement in his unseen eyes was palpable, a chilling echo of his parting laugh.

He wasn't shouting, wasn't roaring, wasn't joining in the collective frenzy of the debt collectors. He made no move to throw a stone, to unleash a blast of dark energy, or to command the horde. He merely watched. He had already collected his due. The chaos below was merely a consequence, a ripple in the cosmic pond, and a rather entertaining one at that. He tipped his sombrero slightly, a gesture of silent, knowing satisfaction, before his form, and that of his horse, shimmered and dissolved into the humid night air, leaving only the lingering scent of cold earth and the distant screams of a world in torment.

The Batwing groaned, every rivet and panel protesting the relentless, multi-pronged assault. Alarms shrieked, red lights pulsed, and the sounds of tearing metal mingled with the high-pitched screams of the pursuing demons. John Constantine, a passenger in his own torment, could only cling to the nearest handhold, his mind numb with terror, useless and stripped bare. Zatanna, her face grim, fought a losing battle with the failing systems. Batman, a statue of grim determination, wrestled with the battered craft to its absolute breaking point.

"We're losing power!" Zatanna shouted over the din, her voice hoarse, her fingers flying across the sparking console. "The starboard engine is failing! We can't maintain altitude!"

A massive Harbinger, larger than the others, its eyes burning with pure malice, slammed into the already damaged starboard wing. The impact was deafening, a sickening crunch of metal that ripped through the Batwing's frame. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then died, a plume of black smoke trailing behind them. The Batwing listed sharply, plummeting downwards.

"Mayday! Mayday! We're going down!" Batman's voice, usually so calm, held a raw edge of desperation. He fought the controls, trying to stabilize the rapidly falling craft, but the damage was too severe. The ground rushed up to meet them, a blur of trees and the distant, still-raging infernal landscape.

John Constantine, flung against the bulkhead, felt a cold, familiar dread. This wasn't a trick. This wasn't a con. This was it. The end. And he was utterly, completely helpless. His life, prolonged by countless deals, was finally being collected. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, the screams of the pursuing demons a triumphant chorus in his ears.

Just as the structural integrity warnings reached critical mass, a familiar green light surged forward, blasting a gargoyle away in a shower of stone dust and a shriek of displaced magic. Simultaneously, a streak of blue and red streaked through the sky, a blur of speed as Superman unleashed twin beams of heat vision, melting a pursuing Harbinger into slag. Another flying demon, a particularly aggressive imp, was suddenly snatched from the air by a shimmering golden lasso and, with a powerful, almost casual swing, was smacked against a larger, stony Gargoyle, sending both plummeting downwards in a tangle of limbs and shattered rock. And then, a brilliant golden ankh, radiating pure, protective energy, materialized, expanding rapidly to shield the damaged Batwing from new attacks, deflecting streams of hellfire and deflecting the physical assaults of the remaining aerial demons.

"Looks like the cavalry's here!" Zatanna called in relief, her voice cracking with the sheer exhaustion and terror of the past few moments.

"We received your alert, Batman," a deep, resonant voice boomed, cutting through the chaos. Doctor Fate, his golden Helmet of Nabu gleaming, floated effortlessly beside the Batwing, his hands already weaving intricate patterns of arcane energy. "And the stink of this demonic horde was felt from even my tower." He unleashed a torrent of golden light that tore through a cluster of Harbingers, sending them screaming into the void.

"Repel the horde! Protect the craft!" Wonder Woman's voice resonated with raw command, amplified through the Justice League and arriving Justice League Dark comms. She soared through the air, her Bracelets of Submission deflecting a volley of hellfire that would have incinerated the Batwing's remaining wing. With a powerful kick, she sent a charging Gargoyle careening back into the demonic mass, its stony form shattering on impact with another demon. Her golden lasso, a beacon of truth and power, snapped out, coiling around multiple Harbingers at once, pulling them into a tangled, screaming heap before she flung them away with a mighty heave.

Superman, a blur of red and blue, moved with impossible speed, a one-man wrecking crew against the airborne infernal army. He intercepted a massive chunk of concrete hurled from below, shattering it into harmless dust with a single, precise punch. His heat vision lanced out, a continuous, searing beam that vaporized Imps and melted the stone forms of Gargoyles, clearing a path for the struggling Batwing. He moved between the craft and the largest threats, a living shield, absorbing impacts and deflecting attacks with casual ease.

Doctor Fate, his golden ankh still shimmering around the Batwing, extended his hands. A swirling vortex of pure magical energy erupted from his palms, a golden maelstrom that swept through the demonic ranks. Harbingers shrieked as they were caught in the vortex, their forms twisting and dissolving. Imps were sucked into its depths, vanishing with faint pops. The sheer, unadulterated power of Nabu's magic was a force the lesser demons couldn't comprehend, let alone withstand.

Green Lantern’s constructs, a massive, spiked wrecking balls, swung through the swarm, pulverizing anything they touched into bursts of foul-smelling mist. His ring pulsed with furious efficiency, its emerald glow casting eerie shadows across the battlefield. Meanwhile, Zatanna seized the momentary reprieve, pressing her palms against the Batwing’s shuddering hull and whispering a desperate incantation. The words twisted the air, stitching fractured metal back together with threads of silver light—a temporary fix, but enough to keep them airborne.

On the ground, a crimson streak flashed through the chaos. The Flash, a whirlwind of impossible speed, moved not just to attack, but to rescue. He zipped through the swarming, earth-bound demons, a blur of motion that left afterimages in the night. With each pass, he delivered precisely calibrated blows, striking at the demons' weak points, sending them reeling or dissolving into dust. More importantly, he was a whirlwind of rescue, snatching terrified civilians who had been caught in the crossfire – the motel clerk, a few bewildered truckers, a family from a nearby home – and depositing them safely far from the infernal battleground, his movements so fast they barely registered the transfer.

Suddenly, a guttural, roaring voice, laced with ancient malice and infernal power, ripped through the cacophony.

"Enough of this rabble! Make way for the true master of damnation and fire!" A wall of hellfire, a searing, incandescent curtain of green and orange flame, erupted from the ground, cutting off the advance of a fresh wave of ground-bound demons. From within the infernal blaze, a monstrous, horned figure, his skin like hardened magma and his eyes burning with malevolent glee, stepped forth. It was Etrigan the Demon, unleashed and ready for battle, his presence radiating pure, unbridled demonic power.

Some of the lesser demons on the horde stopped and backed away, a flicker of fear in their eyes at the sight of the mighty demon. But one giant, red-skinned Oni demon, with horns that curled like molten metal, stepped forward, towering even over Etrigan himself. Its massive, horned head, adorned with a grim, battle-scarred expression, fixed its glowing yellow eyes on the Lord of Lies.

"Our fight is not with you, Etrigan," the Oni demon bellowed, its voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate from the very bowels of hell itself. "Why do you protect the life of the cheater? You should be with us! It's no secret even you, Slayer, have bones to pick with him!"

Etrigan, unfazed, his fiery eyes narrowing, stepped forward to face the giant Oni.

"To defend Constantine, a duty to Blood, not glee," he snarled, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "But how can I refuse a fight, you see? I'm bound to protect those who stand by the League's decree, Though they play the devil's fiddle, wild and free! As for bones to pick, with this Brit, you're right, my grievances are my own, and I'll settle the score, with all my might! Not when some brute, red-skinned and grand, demands I lift a hand!"

With a guttural roar, Etrigan lunged, his hellfire sword a blur of incandescent fury. The Oni demon met his charge with a massive, spiked club, the air crackling as the two infernal powers collided.

The tide was turning. The relentless, singular focus of the demonic horde broke as they were met with overwhelming, unified force. Their roars of anger turned into shrieks of pain and confusion. Below, even the giant, rock-throwing demons paused, their massive heads turning, sensing the overwhelming power that had just descended upon them.

The Batwing, no longer under direct, critical assault, steadied. The alarms, though still active, began to subside. John Constantine slumped in his seat, utterly exhausted, a new kind of terror now mingling with relief: the terror of being seen in his utterly helpless state by everyone who believed him to be invincible.

Inside the Batwing, Zatanna, still breathing heavily, managed a weak smile.

"Well, that was a close shave. Good thing you called them, Bruce."

"We are not out of the woods yet!" called Batman, his voice a low, urgent growl, cutting through the relative calm.

Indeed, despite the Justice League's overwhelming presence, a significant portion of the airborne demonic horde, particularly the faster Harbingers and the relentless Imps, continued their relentless pursuit of the Batwing. Their numbers were thinning, but their focus remained absolute, their glowing eyes fixed on the retreating craft. They twisted and turned, weaving through Superman's heat vision and Wonder Woman's lasso, their shrieks of pain quickly replaced by renewed, desperate cries of "Constantine!" as they closed in.

"They're bypassing the League!" Zatanna exclaimed, her eyes wide with renewed alarm as she watched the tactical display. "They're ignoring Superman, Fate, even Wonder Woman! Their only target is John!"

"Of course," John muttered, his voice hollow, his eyes fixed on the viewport as a particularly large Harbinger, its wings scorched but still beating furiously, veered sharply, narrowly missing a blast from Doctor Fate to resume its pursuit of the Batwing. "Bloody hell. They're like dogs with a bone, aren't they?"

Batman gritted his teeth, pushing the Batwing to its maximum speed, the damaged starboard engine whining precariously.

"They're prioritizing the one whose life they were promised. It's a fundamental drive for them now. Their investment." He banked sharply, the Batwing narrowly avoiding a swarm of Imps that darted in front of them like a cloud of malevolent insects.

Below, Etrigan, locked in a brutal exchange with the Oni demon, saw the relentless aerial pursuit.

"The hell-spawn, they ignore the fray,
To chase the Brit, and make him pay!
Their contract's signed, their hunger keen,
To claim the life that they have seen!"
With a mighty swing, Etrigan's hellfire sword cleaved through the Oni's club, sending splinters of dark metal showering across the ground.
"But fear not, John, though you're in plight,
The League will hold them, with all its might!
For now, escape, and let us fight,
To keep your soul from endless night!"

He roared, unleashing a wave of hellfire that consumed a cluster of smaller demons attempting to bypass his battle and join the aerial chase.

Superman, seeing the Batwing still struggling with the persistent aerial threats, accelerated, becoming a blur of red and blue that intercepted several Harbingers directly in the Batwing's path, sending them spiraling away. Wonder Woman, too, adjusted her strategy, using her lasso to snag and fling the more agile demons away from the Batwing's trajectory, trying to clear channel for their escape. Doctor Fate intensified the golden ankh's protective field around the Batwing, making it shimmer brighter, deflecting any stray blasts of hellfire that still managed to get too close, while Lantern constructed a railgun shooting emerald pellets of compressed willpower, peppering the demons' wings with pinpoint accuracy, forcing them to drop altitude like wounded birds.

"They're still gaining!" Zatanna cried.

Despite the League's efforts, the horde was still death set into its mission and for each demon they managed to sent back to the abysm, 10 more replace it. 

The Harbingers—now singed, missing limbs, some with wings reduced to tattered leather—still clawed forward with single-minded ferocity, their desperation lending them a grotesque speed. One lunged, its talons gouging deep furrows along the canopy, the reinforced glass screeching under the assault before Wonder Woman's lasso yanked it backward into Superman's fist. On the ground only the biggest and strongest of the demons focused on keeping Etrigan busy while the rest of the horde surged toward the falling Batwing like dogs going after a shot duck. 

Fate was about to increase his power when a presence among the horde called his attention. It wasn't an attack, nor a challenge, but a distinct, almost familiar presence that brushed against his own vast magical senses, not to fight, but to communicate.

From the swirling chaos of the attacking demons, a larger, more imposing demonic figure detached itself from the fray, its form coalescing from shadows and infernal fire. This wasn't one of the chittering imps or the brute-force giants. This was a General of Gehenna, a Hell-Knight, perhaps even a minor Archdemon, one with enough rank to command a host and enough intellect to address a cosmic peer. Its body was a mass of obsidian scales and jagged horns, its eyes burning with ancient malevolence, yet within them flickered a cold, calculating intelligence.

It ascended swiftly, not towards the Batwing or the struggling lower demons, but directly towards Doctor Fate. Fate, Nabu's will and power flowing through Kent Nelson, stood like a golden, unmoving sentinel, radiating an aura of absolute order that held back the chaos around him.

The Hell-Knight halted a respectful distance from Fate, its multi-jointed legs hovering in the air. Its voice, deep and resonant, was laced with barely suppressed fury, but it held a veneer of infernal diplomacy. It spoke in a language that transcended earthly tongues, resonating directly within Fate's mind, a subtle hum that only he and perhaps the most attuned mystics could perceive.

"Lord Fate," the demon's voice boomed, though it was a mental projection rather than an audible sound, "This does not concern the Lords of Order. This is not a matter of cosmic balance, nor a breach of your precious rules." it gestured with a clawed hand, encompassing the retreating horde and the distant, climbing Batwing. "This is merely a collection. A settlement of outstanding debts. The wretch, Constantine, made pacts. He accepted gifts. His life, his knowledge, his very borrowed power... all were investments against the eventual claim to his soul." The demon's eyes fixed on Fate's golden helmet. "Now, his soul has been irrevocably claimed by another. By an entity whose methods, while distasteful to us, are absolute. Our agreements are nullified. Our investments lost. We merely seek to repossess what was given and in the process, exact the just recompense for our losses." A growl rippled through the demon's form. "We seek no conflict with the Justice League. We are not interested in a war with your Pantheon. We came here only for John Constantine, to take back what he can no longer pay. This is our business, Lord Fate. Stay your hand. Let us collect."

The air crackled with the demon's unspoken threat: interfere, and you invite the wrath of every single infernal creditor in the cosmic ledgers. It was a calculated risk, an appeal to the very nature of order Fate represented, cloaked in a chilling declaration of infernal rights.

Doctor Fate stood unmoving, a golden sentinel against the swirling chaos. The Hell-Knight's mental voice, cold and precise, resonated within his consciousness: a declaration of infernal rights, a chilling appeal to cosmic law.

Fate knew there was an undeniable, terrifying truth in the demon's words. John Constantine, in his endless, cynical gambit, had indeed accumulated a mountain of debts, each one an "investment" by these very entities against the eventual capture of his soul. Now that the soul was claimed by an entity beyond their reach, their claims were void, and their collateral, John's very life, was ripe for repossession. By their twisted, infernal logic, they were merely settling accounts.

However, Fate also perceived the broader picture. While the demons might have a "right" to collect, their current method of collection was a blatant disregard for earthly order. This was not a discreet extraction. This was an unholy horde descending upon a populated area, tearing apart buildings, threatening innocent lives, and causing catastrophic environmental damage with their sheer presence and destructive fury. Such a massive influx of infernal forces onto the mortal plane, regardless of their "just cause," was a clear and present violation of cosmic balance. It threatened to tear the fabric of reality itself.

Moreover, in a personal, profoundly human sense, Fate—or rather, Kent Nelson within the helm—could not simply abandon John Constantine. Despite John's reckless nature, his moral ambiguity, and his infuriating refusal to be saved, he was still a part of the Justice League Dark. He was a force against true, encroaching evil, however messy his methods. To let him be torn apart by a mob of vengeful demons, even "justified" ones, felt profoundly wrong. It was a chaotic, uncontrolled release of infernal power that Fate, as a Lord of Order, could not condone.

Doctor Fate's golden helm remained impassive, but the power emanating from him intensified, pushing back against the aggressive aura of the Hell-Knight. His voice, resonant and ancient, boomed through the astral plane, cutting through the demon's mental projection and echoing across the battle-scarred sky.

"Your claims, Demon, hold a twisted semblance of infernal law. John Constantine's debts are indeed vast, and his recklessness knows no bounds."

The Hell-Knight snarled, a flicker of triumph in its eyes, thinking its argument had swayed the Lord of Order.

"However," Fate's voice hardened, the golden light around him flaring, "your 'collection' is a desecration. This is not a discreet retrieval, but a violent incursion. Your horde tears at the very fabric of this plane, causing wanton destruction and threatening mortal lives." He raised a hand, its power absolute. "Such a breach of the mortal realm's sanctity, regardless of your justification, cannot be permitted. The Lords of Order will not tolerate this chaos on Earth. Your claim on Constantine's life, while recognized in your own infernal ledgers, does not grant you the right to unleash this devastation."

The Hell-Knight recoiled, its obsidian scales rippling with a fresh surge of fury. Its eyes, previously cold and calculating, now burned with a raw, unbridled hatred. The air around it crackled, not just with its own power, but with the collective, frustrated rage of the entire demonic horde.

"You choose to protect the wretch over the tenets of cosmic justice?!" the demon roared, its mental voice now a piercing shriek within Fate's mind, laced with an almost disbelieving outrage. "You would defy the rightful reclamation of what is ours? You would stand against the very principle of consequence?!"

"I choose to protect this realm from your uncontrolled avarice," Fate countered, his voice like cold steel, unwavering amidst the demon's furious outburst. The golden light around him intensified, forming a protective barrier that shimmered with absolute power. "The balance must be maintained. Your 'justice' ends where it threatens the innocent and tears the fabric of reality. You will withdraw your forces. Now. Failure to comply will be met with the full, unyielding might of Order."

The air crackled with the unspoken challenge. Fate was acknowledging their "right" to collect, but denying their "right" to wreak havoc. It was a dangerous tightrope, but one he, as a Lord of Order, was compelled to walk. The Hell-Knight's eyes burned with hatred, but it understood the implications of defying Doctor Fate in his full power.

For a long, agonizing moment, the Hell-Knight hovered, its massive form vibrating with suppressed fury. Its gaze swept over the Justice League members, each a beacon of power and defiance. Superman, a red and blue blur, continued to intercept aerial threats. Wonder Woman, a warrior goddess, deflected hellfire with her bracelets. Etrigan, a living inferno, clashed with the Oni, a spectacle of raw demonic power. The Flash, a crimson streak, continued his rapid rescues. And Fate, a golden sentinel, stood unyielding, his power growing with every passing second.

The Hell-Knight's intelligence, cold and pragmatic, assessed the situation. They had the right, yes, but the cost of enforcing that right against such unified opposition would be astronomical. A full-scale war with the Lords of Order would be a protracted, devastating conflict, one that would likely result in far greater losses for the infernal realms than the value of John Constantine's life.

With a final, guttural snarl that vibrated with impotent rage, the Hell-Knight lowered its clawed hand. The gesture, though subtle, was a command.

"This is not over, Lord Fate," the demon hissed, its mental voice laced with a chilling promise of future retribution. "The debt remains. And the consequences of your interference will be noted."

Then, with a reluctant, almost resentful shift, the Hell-Knight began to descend, its form dissolving back into the swirling shadows from which it came. Its departure was a signal. The vast, airborne horde, their collective cries of "Constantine!" slowly dying down, began to peel away from the Batwing's trajectory. Harbingers, Gargoyles, and Imps, though still seething with frustration, turned and retreated, melting back into the rifts and shadows from which they had emerged.

Below, on the ravaged ground, the colossal, earth-bound demons, sensing the shift in command, also began to withdraw. Their roars of rage subsided into grumbling, echoing complaints as they lumbered back into newly opened fissures in the earth, or simply dissolved into clouds of brimstone and dust. Etrigan, having just disarmed the Oni demon with a final, fiery blow, watched them go, a triumphant, cruel grin spreading across his face. The Oni, defeated, snarled and vanished into a rift.

The cacophony of infernal battle slowly faded, replaced by the sounds of the damaged Batwing's struggling engines and the distant, mournful cries of displaced mortals. The air, still thick with the acrid scent of sulfur, gradually began to clear. The immediate threat was over.

Doctor Fate, his golden ankh still shimmering, watched the last of the demons vanish. He lowered his hands, the intense golden light around him subsiding slightly, though his aura of immense power remained.

"The immediate threat is averted," Fate announced, his voice still resonant, but with a hint of weariness. "They have withdrawn, for now." He turned his gaze towards the Batwing, still climbing steadily towards the heavens. "But the Hell-Knight's words ring true. The debt, though temporarily uncollected by them, still exists. And the repercussions for John Constantine... will be profound."

Inside the Batwing, the immediate threat gone, the alarms began to silence. John Constantine, slumped against the bulkhead, watched the last of the infernal horde disappear into the night. The raw terror in his eyes slowly shifted, replaced by a dawning, terrible understanding. He was utterly, completely helpless.

"Batman to Justice League, all clear for regroup," Batman's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the comms. "Rendezvous at designated safe zone. Full debrief required."

A chorus of acknowledgements came through the comms.

"Glad to hear it, Batman," Superman's voice was a steady presence.

"What in the blazes was that all about?" Wonder Woman's voice, usually so composed, held a note of genuine bewilderment. "And why were they so focused on Constantine?"

John, hearing the questions, pushed himself upright, a grimace on his face.

"Right, well, the House of Mystery should be close by," he rasped, his voice still hoarse. "We can regroup there. It's usually safe."

Zatanna, who had been checking the Batwing's systems, looked up, her face pale.

"No, John," she said, her voice tight with a fresh wave of concern. "That won't be possible."

Batman, his eyes on the forward viewport, noticed the anomaly. The Batwing, now gaining altitude, was passing over the familiar, shifting silhouette of the House of Mystery. But it wasn't moving. It was rooted to the spot.

"Look," Zatanna urged, pointing a trembling finger.

All three of them, and then the other Justice League members who were now approaching the Batwing, looked out the windows of the cabin. Below them, the House of Mystery stood, but it was no longer the ethereal, ever-shifting entity they knew. Massive, rusted iron chains, impossibly thick, snaked around its very foundations, digging deep into the earth. Each link glowed with a faint, malevolent red light, and at every point where the chains bit into the House's impossible architecture, intricate, pulsating demonic sigils were etched into the stone and wood. These weren't the subtle, fleeting wards John usually employed; these were crude, powerful anchors, designed to bind something immense and unwilling. The House of Mystery, the living, sentient nexus of arcane power, was shackled, its ethereal form held captive, unable to travel or shift. It looked like a magnificent, tortured beast, chained to the very land it once effortlessly floated above.

"What in hell?!!!" John called out in shock and anger "The bloody house is mine, free and clear! I won it fair and square!"

Batman, his voice cold and unyielding over the comms, didn’t bother to look away from the monitors showing the bound House of Mystery.

"Fair and square, Constantine?" he questioned, his tone holding the weight of accusation. "How many times have you wagered it, hmm? How many back-alley deals have you made, thinking you could charm or trick your way out of losing it?"

John's eyes narrowed, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

"I've never bet it," he spat, the lie a poor attempt to cover his tracks.

"John..both me and Jason had play cards with you before" said Zatanna with a knowing look and tired tone "I think we both know how those games usually end."

With him betting the house, either won all, or lose all but then use some cheat trick to keep it...or offer his soul in exchange for something.

John couldn't deny it anymore. The fight drained out of him, leaving him hollow. He let himself fall back onto the seat, no longer with the energy to fight. The House of Mystery, a rare constant in John's tumultuous life, a place where he could retreat from the chaos of the world, a bastion of his own making, filled with artifacts and relics of his past conquests and defeats. To see it now, chained to the very earth it had once danced above, was a stark reminder of how precarious his grip on reality truly was.

His soul was gone, claimed by El Charro Negro. And his life, the very breath in his lungs, was now the final, outstanding payment. Every demon in Hell, every vengeful spirit he had ever crossed, now had one singular, united purpose: to ensure that debt was paid in full. There would be no rest, no hiding, no negotiation.

This wasn't an escape. It was a reprieve. A temporary stay of execution. And the true, horrifying chase for John Constantine's life had just begun. He had survived the immediate onslaught, but he was now the ultimate marked man, hunted by an entire pantheon of hellish creditors, with no magic, no deals, and no escape.

Batman, however, knew the situation was far from over. The Watchtower. That was the only truly secure location. A fortress in orbit, beyond the reach of most terrestrial and even many extra-dimensional threats.

"Justice League, this is Batman," he stated, his voice cutting through the comms, now imbued with an undeniable urgency that brooked no argument. "All units, disengage and proceed to Watchtower. Full defensive protocols, immediately. This is not a containment operation; it's a strategic retreat. We need to secure Constantine."

A brief silence on the comms, then a flurry of acknowledgements. Even Superman's voice, usually so calm, held a note of grim understanding.

"On our way, Batman," Superman responded, already accelerating, a red and blue blur heading skyward.

"Understood," Wonder Woman's voice was resolute. "Casualties minimal, civilians secured. Disengaging now."

"Etrigan, Flash, Fate, disengage!" Batman ordered, his gaze fixed on the distant, shimmering point of light that was the Watchtower. "No time for Javelins. Green Lantern, we need a direct power conduit to the Batwing. Now. We're damaged and running on fumes."

"Lantern on approach," came the crisp, professional voice of Hal Jordan, already a streak of emerald light arcing through the night sky. "Forming direct energy tether. ETA thirty seconds."

The Batwing shuddered as Hal's green energy construct surronded the damaged ship before it was hull upwards towards space where the Justice league HQ awaited.

"Watchtower, this is Batman," he continued, his voice now directed at the orbital station. "Initiate full defensive lockdown. All external ports sealed, shields to maximum, deep-space cloaking engaged. Prepare for immediate debrief and magical containment protocols. We have a unique, highly volatile asset incoming."

On the Watchtower, the command center immediately sprang to life. Klaxons blared, red lights flashed, and the massive station began its intricate dance of defense. Armored shutters slid into place over observation windows, energy conduits hummed with surging power, and the vast, shimmering shield generators flared to life, encasing the entire orbital fortress in an impenetrable cocoon of pure energy. Deep within its core, the cloaking systems whirred, preparing to render the Watchtower utterly invisible to all but the most sophisticated sensors.

"Full defensive lockdown confirmed" came the calm, synthesized voice of the Watchtower's AI. "All protocols initiated. Welcome home."