Metropolis.
When Zatanna stepped out of her apartment, she noticed an old black Ford parked out front. Leaning against it was a man in a trench coat, his polished black leather shoes gleaming in the light. He puffed on a cigarette, watching the street with an expression of detached amusement.
"I heard you learned a new top hat spell, Little Z." the man greeted her with a crooked grin.
Zatanna's eyes narrowed. "You're such a piece of shit, Constantine. I told you to stay far away from me, yet you keep sticking around like an infestation."
John Constantine flicked ash from his cigarette with lazy confidence. Constantine, a demonologist and master of dark magic, was no typical mage or hero. He defied every rule in the book with his own brand of chaotic pragmatism. He relied on self‑interest, survival, and an attitude most would call reckless. He never cared about justice or morality, only the next move and how to survive it.
"I've never denied any of that," Constantine said, exhaling a ring of smoke. "If you're angry at me because your father disappeared, I'll take all your curses with a smile."
Zatanna frowned. "Then tell me this, Constantine, where is my father?"
"If I knew, I would tell you," he replied with a shrug, hands in his coat pockets. "Most of us are just spun in the vortex of fate, dizzy with our own destinies. How could we possibly have time to reveal the fate of others?"
He paused, flicking his cigarette aside.
"Back to the real question. Did you find anything at the theater?"
"No," Zatanna replied coldly.
Constantine smirked. "Your magic is fractured, just like everyone else's these days. So it's no surprise you came up empty. You can't rely on backwards spells anymore, or the backlash could be catastrophic."
He looked her over with a calculating glint. "Your only weapons now are your mind and your will, Little Z. Decide what side you're on."
"Decide my will?" Zatanna scoffed. "And how exactly should I do that? Constantine, can you help me?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, and it's not just about one path. There's more than one way to choose who you fight beside."
"Does that include you?"
Zatanna asked. Constantine grinned, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Not likely," he said, flicking the finished cigarette to the pavement. "In your eyes I'm still just a con artist. But when things shift, I adapt. Most so‑called mages break before they bend. They fold at the first sign of trouble."
Constantine stepped into the shadows, hands in his pockets and voice fading behind him as he walked away.
"Adrian Kent … you've heard that name, right?" he called back without looking. "The Great Slumber, it has ties to his strange book. Maybe he's the one who can turn this whole mess around."
Then he was gone.
Zatanna eyed the old Ford, baffled. It wasn't his car, so why was he acting like the owner? And if he knew about Adrian Kent … should she warn him?
Nah, she thought, shaking her head. Constantine wasn't a good person, and Adrian Kent wasn't exactly a saint either. Why should she care?
Meanwhile, Adrian found himself in a bleak, lifeless place after being teleported by Lana and her companions. The air was thick with the scent of death and rot. Above him, pitch‑black fissures crisscrossed the sky like veins of shadow, giving the barren land the air of something torn straight from nightmare.
Yellowish mist, tainted with the scent of sulfur, drifted through the still air, making the atmosphere oppressive. Every step Adrian took scraped across dry, wood‑like material on the ground, crunching sharply beneath his boots.
He leaned down and picked up a dry fragment from the surface. Black dust fell away from it instantly, revealing a white bone underneath. A human thigh bone.
"Hell?" Adrian murmured to himself.
In the DC universe, realms like Hell and other infernal dimensions exist, filled with beings like Lucifer and Hades, ancient entities few mortals ever encounter. Even a man with power like Adrian could hardly be sure what awaited him here.
Adrian took out his Cosmic Scepter and switched it on, using its light to illuminate the oppressive gray surroundings. Even his super vision was blunted by the murk that shrouded this place, an eerie confirmation that he was far from Earth as he knew it.
The power that normally pulsed through his veins felt muted, as if something here was suppressing it. He shook his head and continued forward, vigilant.
Eventually he came upon a river flowing swiftly through the haze, dark and still. Floating upon it were shapeless, humanoid forms, their mouths open in silent screams. Souls of the damned, perhaps.
Adrian idly tossed a shredded piece of paper into the water. It was Lionel Luthor's business card, a relic that had somehow remained in his pocket after the teleportation.
The moment the paper touched the river's surface, it sank.
A river where even paper sinks. It had to be the River Styx, the fabled River of Souls in myth, called the Feather‑Sinking River in legend. Such a landmark confirmed this place was no ordinary plane of existence.
Adrian stared at the dark waters before him, considering his next move.
Flying across? He'd never heard of anyone managing that.
He shook his head and took another step.
From the bank, he watched mist swirl as the shadow of a small boat glided toward him. A figure draped in a black robe rowed steadily, expression hidden beneath a hood.
When the boat reached shore, the robed figure gazed at him and spoke in a cold, distant voice.
"Do you intend to ride, traveler from afar?"
"You're Charon," Adrian stated, not asked, recognizing the myths at play.
The figure drew back the hood, revealing an old man with a white goatee. His eyes were sharp and unreadable.
"If you are talking about the most famous ferryman of all time," Adrian said, "then yes, that would be you."
Charon nodded once.
"Living or dead, all souls must cross," the boatman said, voice measured, eyes fixed on him.
"But you need a coin to cross," he added. "No coin, no passage."
Adrian pulled a silver coin from his pocket, its surface worn but etched with a flying eagle. He had taken it from Wonder Woman during a brief confrontation, a trophy more than anything else.
He handed the coin to Charon.
The ferryman eyed the coin, then glanced at the Cosmic Scepter in Adrian's hand. Satisfied, he gestured for him to board.
Once aboard, Charon began rowing. The small vessel pushed forward into the River Styx, its water a black mirror reflecting a world of shadows and lost souls as Adrian sat in quiet observation.
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