Oblivion moved through Gotham like the storm had never touched him. His boots left no imprint on the frost, his steps were quiet as smoke. The League had scattered, the city was recovering, but his work wasn't finished.
Frostbearer hadn't come by chance. Something had pulled it through. That was the problem with things from the deep planes — they rarely chose their own hunting grounds.
He descended into an abandoned subway station, the kind no map carried anymore. Candles still burned there, their wax fresh. Symbols scarred the walls in black ash — sigils older than Gotham itself.
He studied them with a faint tilt of his head. Crude. Not League of Assassins. Not high sorcery either. A splinter cult. They didn't summon Frostbearer… they opened the door just wide enough for it to slip through.
His hand brushed one of the symbols. It burned faintly under his touch. He didn't flinch. Blood used as ink. Young. Amateurs. But someone told them which symbols to carve. Someone who knows the old tongue.
A voice stirred behind him. "You've got a bad habit of showing up where I'm already investigating."
He didn't turn immediately. Only after a moment did his eyes shift to the figure stepping from the shadows. Fishnets, top hat, faint glow of magic on her gloves.
Zatanna.
Her smirk was guarded. "You're as subtle as the rumors say."
Oblivion regarded her without expression. "And you're as loud as the records claim."
She raised an eyebrow. "Records? You've read about me?"
"Not read." He looked back at the sigils. "Watched."
For a moment, silence hung. Zatanna studied him carefully, eyes narrowing. "These aren't strong enough to call Frostbearer. Which means someone wanted you chasing shadows."
Oblivion said nothing. His eyes traced the lines, the faint residue left behind. In his head, he pieced together the patterns. They weren't summoning. They were signaling. Not for Frostbearer… for something else. Something that knows me.
Zatanna folded her arms. "You're not going to tell me what you're thinking, are you?"
His answer was flat. "No."
Before she could press, a low growl echoed from the tunnels. The candles flickered. From the dark crawled shapes like wolves, but their bodies smoked with ash, eyes glowing violet.
Oblivion's blades were already in his hands. His gaze was steady, calm. Ashborn hounds. Carrion scavengers. They follow scent of old blood. They shouldn't be this far north.
Zatanna cursed under her breath, spells already forming on her lips. "Demons again. Great."
The pack lunged. Oblivion moved first. His blade cut through one mid-leap, splitting it into smoke. He pivoted, stabbing another through the chest, twisting until the rune inside shattered. His movements were exact, efficient, silent.
Zatanna's magic flared, burning two more into ash, but when she glanced at Oblivion, she saw something unnerving. He wasn't just fighting them. He was dissecting them. Every strike was placed with surgical knowledge, like he'd fought their kind for centuries.
Within minutes, the pack was gone. Smoke lingered, the scent of burnt ash fading.
Zatanna straightened, brushing soot from her gloves. "You knew what they were. You knew exactly how to kill them."
Oblivion wiped his blade clean, sheathing it with calm precision. His reply was simple. "I've caged worse."
She stared at him, unsettled. "Who are you?"
His eyes—cold, charming, endless—met hers. "A ghost."
And then he was gone, vanishing into the tunnels, leaving her with only the sigils, the smoke, and the weight of questions.