blowing down from the icy river was like a thin blade, easily finding its way to the nape of Johan's neck or through the sleeves of his jacket, which he now considered tragically inadequate.
He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and buried his hands deep in his pockets, hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to create a barrier against the weather. It was at that moment that regret hit him with full force: the vivid, tempting image of his thick, navy blue woolen scarf, abandoned on the chair in his room.
His mother had insisted – "Johan, Schatz, Gotham isn't Munich, the cold here is different" – but teenage pride and haste had convinced him to ignore the warning.
With a sigh that formed a white, ephemeral cloud in front of his face, he decided to leave the regret behind, just as he had left the scarf. Every step his shoes took on the pavement echoed solitarily on the almost deserted sidewalk of that supposedly "safe" neighborhood. His destination was Gotham High, a building that, even from a distance, seemed to carry the same oppressive, gothic air as the rest of the city. Yes, Gotham.
To be completely honest, Johan's heart still dwelled in the lush valleys and orderly cities of Germany. The forced move to the City of Crime was an earthquake in his tranquil life. All because his parents, two brilliant engineers, had received a lightning-fast promotion to lead two of the most important branches of Wayne Enterprises. He was supposed to be proud, and he was, but that pride was overshadowed by a constant anxiety. Trading the predictable peace of his former life for a place where madness was the norm was a deal he would never accept willingly.
Of course, Johan had grown up knowing the legends. Batman wasn't just a name in the newspapers; he was a mythological figure, a specter looming over global popular culture. He admired the work of the Batman, of Superman, of the Flash – he admired the courage, the dedication. But there was a vast difference between admiring heroes in comic books and movies and being forced to live on the very stage where their epic and destructive battles unfolded. Admiring from a distance was safe. Living in Gotham was like being an extra in an action movie where the bullets were real and destruction was a daily possibility.
"Peace doesn't last a second in this city," he muttered to himself as he opened his classroom door.
The universe, with its particularly cruel sense of humor, seemed to prove his point the very moment he settled into his chair. The seconds of relative silence, broken only by the muffled chatter of his classmates, were abruptly murdered by the teacher's entrance. She burst into the room not with a "good morning," but with a torrent of information about the lesson, her metallic voice cutting through the air like the screech of chalk on a blackboard.
Johan, for his part, chose to ignore her. He diverted his gaze to the window, where the sky remained the color of rusted steel. He opened his black-covered notebook in a corner of the desk, far from the official textbook.
The pen glided over the paper with a hypnotic fluidity, a silent ritual that isolated Johan from the teacher's monologue. His hand, moved by a subconscious impulse, traced firm, precise lines, first forming a simple cube. He outlined it several times, with an almost fervent pressure, until the geometric figure stood out on the paper, solid and definitive.
Then, with methodical movements, he began to fill it in, layer after layer of dark blue ink, until the square transformed into a block of profound darkness, a stain of absolute blackness in the middle of the white page. It was a cube, but it was no longer just a cube; it was a black box.
From there, his stroke changed, becoming more aggressive, more pointed. From the surface of this encapsulated darkness, he made protrusions sprout. They were like sharp crystals, black spears, or steel thorns that seemed not just to adhere to the box, but to pierce it from the inside out, as if something contained within was struggling to escape, rupturing its own prison. This was one of the drawings that most frequently appeared in his notebook, an image he more than liked—he needed to draw it.
It was the Black Box.
The concept inhabited a deep place in his mind, a symbol for things he couldn't decipher, secrets kept under lock and key, or perhaps his own frustration trying to break through the surface of his apparent calm.
"Schwarzer Kasten...," he hummed quietly, the German words an almost inaudible whisper, a personal incantation to avoid drawing attention. He spun the pen deftly between his fingers, a quick, practiced movement that was a ritualistic pause, before diving back into the paper.
The minutes dragged on and dissolved as the landscape in his notebook transformed. The Black Box was set aside, a completed artifact in its corner. His imagination, however, was not satisfied. The contained energy of the box seemed to have spread across the page. With strokes that were now more organic and fluid, he began to give life to a new vision.
From the depths of the paper, as if emerging from the bowels of the earth, five powerful forms began to rise. They were dragons. Their bodies were made of lines that simulated pure energy, a tangle of electrical arcs and fire.
Just as the teacher began to announce the final homework assignments in that monotonous voice that seemed to drain the life force from the room, Johan was already in motion. He wasn't one to be disrespectful, but the anticipation of freedom was greater. With silent, practiced movements, he slid the black-covered notebook into his backpack, followed by the pen that had been his tool of escape. The sound of the zipper closing was like a cell gate opening for him.
To his immense joy, his next class was Physical Education. It was one of the few subjects where he could be truly productive, where he could expend his pent-up energy instead of being stuck in a chair, listening to the teacher drone on about topics that seemed hopelessly distant from the chaotic reality of Gotham.
As he rose from his chair with a quick impulse, an almost palpable relief washed over him. Yet, in that moment of transition, something strange and entirely involuntary happened. Without him noticing, a tiny, fleeting energy escaped from his fingers. It was a faint spark, a small lightning bolt that lasted less than a blink, with colors mixing a vibrant purple and a deep black.
The spark hissed silently in the air and touched the metal leg of the chair he had just left. There was no loud bang, just a muffled tzak and a subtle smell of ozone, like the air after a thunderstorm. The ink stain on the chair, where the spark had touched, seemed to glow for a fraction of a second before returning to normal.
Johan, oblivious to what had happened, was already heading for the door, his mind entirely focused on the gym.
...
The Gotham High gymnasium was vast and echoed with the familiar sounds of sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor, bouncing balls, and animated voices. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and cleaning products. Johan took a deep breath, feeling in his element. Dressed in his gym uniform, his muscles, once tense from classroom inactivity, were now warm and ready.
The flow of the game moved around him, and when a teammate, pressured by the defense, passed him the ball with a hard throw, Johan caught it with steady hands.
The game instantly came to life for him. He tamed the ball with a low, controlled dribble, thump, thump, thump, the rhythmic sound marking his tempo. A defender approached, crouched low, eyes locked on the ball.
With a calm that bordered on arrogance, Johan executed a quick, lethal sequence: first, he bounced the ball hard through his spread legs, fooling the opponent who expected a sideways move. Before the defender could recover, Johan, in a fluid, magician-like motion, passed the ball behind his back, the leather disappearing from one side of his body and magically reappearing in his left hand.
"Block!" shouted another player, moving in to cut off the path to the basket.
The shout didn't faze him; it was like the starting signal for the show. Johan began dribbling the ball with controlled aggression.
Then, he forced the dribble to the right, bent his knee slightly, and in a sudden motion, sent the ball under his flexed leg, changing its trajectory to the left in the blink of an eye. The defender, completely fooled, stumbled in the wrong direction.
Without breaking rhythm, Johan finished the play with a quick, sharp crossover, switching the ball back to his right hand so fast it was just a brown blur, leaving the second marker flat-footed and completely lost.
With only a few decisive steps left to the basket, the world around Johan seemed to slow down. He ran in a short zigzag, the sound of the bouncing ball echoing like a war drum against the wooden floor. Two defenders planted themselves firmly in front of him, sealing the direct path to the hoop like a human wall. They crouched, arms spread, anticipating a conventional shot or a layup attempt.
It was then that Johan's eyes, focused and serious, narrowed. A daring and completely illogical plan formed in his mind. He took a quick step forward, a feint that made the two defenders flinch in place, ready to jump and block.
But Johan didn't jump towards the basket. Instead, in a move of pure theatrics and dexterity, he passed the ball vigorously behind his back again. The leather disappeared from his left hand and, in an act of athletic prestidigitation, reappeared perfectly in his right hand, which was already closing firmly around it.
Gripping the ball tightly, Johan finally jumped. But it wasn't a jump toward the basket. It was a lateral jump, to the right, toward the baseline, with his back to the backboard. A move so counter-intuitive it provoked an instant, collective reaction.
"What the...?"
"Huh?!"
Whispers of confusion and disbelief arose from the other players and the small audience in the bleachers. Was he jumping out of bounds? Was it a foolish mistake, a desperate pass?
While his feet were still off the ground, at the suspended peak of his seemingly pointless jump, Johan's face broke into a wide, confident smile. His eyes shone with a spark of pure, mad genius. Before gravity could fully claim him, he twisted his torso with a feline impulse backward, launching the ball up and back, over his shoulder, with a touch of absurd precision.
The ball described a high, elegant arc, rising like a rocket in slow motion. It passed cleanly and silently over the top corner of the backboard, an object that now served only as a poetic obstacle in its trajectory.
For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, the ball hung in the air, at the highest point of its flight, before beginning its descent. The trajectory was perfect, an implicit calculation that defied physics and logic. It fell in a beautiful arc, without touching anything, and, with a soft, satisfying swish that was music to Johan's ears, passed cleanly through the net.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sound of the ball bouncing alone on the floor. The players, both his teammates and opponents, stood frozen, mouths agape, looking at the basket and then at Johan, unable to process what they had just witnessed. The audience, which had been murmuring before, was now silent, until a single whistle of admiration cut through the air.
And Johan? His feet were already planted firmly on the ground, out of bounds. He didn't need to look to know the ball had gone in. The sound of the swish was his confirmation. A smile of self-satisfaction and pure pride was etched on his face, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
...
The locker room was thick with the familiar smell of sweat, disinfectant, and the pleasant feeling of a job well done. The atmosphere, which before the game had been one of concentrated tension, now buzzed with a relaxed energy. Those on Johan's team celebrated the victory with backslaps and loud laughter, while the opponents, though defeated, didn't carry the typical bitterness of a common loss. Since the winning play had been something so extraordinary, frustration had given way to admiration. They crowded around Johan, still panting, but with eyes shining with excitement.
"Seriously, man, you have to join the basketball team!" exclaimed one of the players from the opposing team, a tall redhead named Josh, with an open, sincere smile as he wiped his face with a towel. "That was some NBA-level stuff! I've never seen anyone do anything like that in real life!"
Johan let out a light laugh, a genuine sound of satisfaction, as he pulled his shirt over his head. The sweat-soaked fabric clung to his back for a second before he adjusted it.
"While I appreciate the enthusiasm, really," Johan replied, his voice slightly muffled by the clothing. "I'm not interested, man. But I'll keep your suggestion in mind, believe me." His hands then sought out the thin-rimmed glasses carefully stored in his hoodie's pocket. Next, he put on the hoodie, the hood falling over his shoulders.
It was then that Tyler, the team captain, a young man with an imposing stature and a calm demeanor, approached. His smile was more restrained, but his eyes conveyed a deep conviction. "The door will stay open, Johan. We'll be waiting for your decision," he said, his voice more of a promise than a simple comment.
Johan looked him directly in the eyes and returned the smile, perfectly understanding what was being left unsaid. He knew Tyler was silently hoping, almost pleading, for him to accept the invitation.
The national tournament was just a month away, and although the main team was confident, everyone knew that having an extra "ace," a player with Johan's creativity and coolness under pressure, could be the difference between a good run and bringing the trophy home to Gotham High.
With a final parting nod to the group, Johan grabbed his backpack and left the locker room, the echo of laughter and conversation gradually fading behind him. In the hallway, however, the atmosphere changed drastically. The normal buzz of students between classes was cut through by raised voices coming from the direction of the teachers' lounge.
"'What do you mean, vanished? You expect me to believe your backpack disappeared along with your chair? That's the height of irresponsibility, Peter!'"
The reply that followed was sharper, punctuated by a mix of desperation and disbelief. "I'm telling the truth! I swear! My stuff vanished, and the chair too! There was nothing there when I came back!"
Johan arched an eyebrow, slowing his pace for a moment. His mind, still buzzing with post-game endorphins, now turned to this fragment of absurd drama. A vanishing chair? It sounded like just another one of Gotham's peculiar oddities.
With a slight shrug, he decided not to get involved and continued on his way, directing his steps towards chemistry class.
...
The air in one of London's countless pubs was thick with the smell of bitter beer, aged tobacco, and the city's peculiar melancholy. Leaning in the darkest corner of the bar, John Constantine was drowning his sorrows in a glass of cheap whiskey.
The amber liquid was his only consolation prize after yet another "success" – one of those dirty jobs from the magical underworld that left a taste of ashes and remorse in the mouth, but at least filled his pockets enough to keep the demons at bay and his alcohol supply stocked for a few more weeks.
Glug!
The harsh sound of his last deep gulp echoed in the nearly empty glass. And then it happened. The ambient noise of the bar – the murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, the sad music from the radio – didn't fade, but instead became suddenly muffled, as if he had been enveloped in a thick glass bubble.
The atmosphere grew heavy, charged with a solemnity that didn't belong in that place. His entire body, fine-tuned by years of surviving supernatural situations, went on high alert. His senses, dulled by alcohol, suddenly sharpened. He didn't need to turn around; he felt the presence.
His gaze, once lost in the bottom of the glass, narrowed into wary slits. He turned slowly on the barstool, his trench coat rubbing against the worn leather. And there, seated at the table before him, where seconds ago there had been no one, was a figure John recognized.
An imposing man, clad in a suit that blended blue and gold, with a golden cape that fell in majestic folds even over the simple wooden chair. But what dominated the view most was the golden, expressionist helm that completely concealed his face, an artifact of unimaginable power that emitted a soft, threatening glow.
"Nabu," John spat the name, his voice a mix of resignation and disgust. "Or should I call you Doctor Fate? What brings Your Majesty to my humble and dubious sanctuary? I came here specifically to avoid conversations with your ilk."
The figure—whether Nabu using Kent Nelson's body or the Lords of Order themselves—remained motionless. Its voice, when it came, didn't issue from a mouth but seemed to resonate directly within John's mind, grave, metallic, and charged with an urgency rare in beings of such power.
"Something powerful," the voice echoed, "beyond any conventional measurement... and fundamentally incomprehensible to the laws governing reality, has emerged on the earthly plane. The Lords of Order, who maintain the structure of the cosmos, were... disturbed. They shuddered. I have tried to trace its origin, but it is like trying to grasp smoke with one's hands."
John let out a deep sigh, a sound of profound weariness. He picked up his remaining glass of whiskey, looked at it with disdain, and pushed it to the center of the table.
"Before we continue with this end-of-times story, let's change the scenery. You've already ruined the drink anyway," John grumbled, rising with an ungainly motion. He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and started walking towards the exit, his trench coat swinging behind him.