The silence atop the Empire State Building was deceptive, a fragile veneer stretched tight over the throbbing pulse of the city below. Aaron straightened his crimson bowtie, the adrenaline of the metaphysical standoff slowly receding into the deep, disciplined reservoir of his chi. The Lords of Order had departed, satisfied with their bureaucratic flex, but Aaron knew the itch of chaos was not so easily scratched.
He tapped the feral iron of his microphone staff against the Art Deco railing. "You can come out now, dear boy. The adults have left the room."
For a moment, only the wind answered, whistling through the spire's antennae like a mournful flute. Then, reality hiccuped. A patch of space near a gargoyle distorted, the colors inverting into a nausea-inducing negative before snapping back. Klarion the Witch Boy sat cross-legged on the thin air, his tuxedo pristine, stroking the metaphysical familiar, Teekl, who purred with the sound of grinding bones.
"You're no fun," Klarion pouted, though his eyes—black pits of ancient malice—danced with amusement. "Nabu is such a bore. 'Order this, Fate that.' I was hoping you'd turn him into a radio jingle."
Aaron's smile widened, a jagged tear in the fabric of his human guise. "And you, my pale friend, are tragically predictable."
Klarion blinked, his grin faltering. He uncrossed his legs and floated closer, bristling. "Excuse me? I am the Lord of Chaos. I am unpredictability incarnate!"
"No," Aaron drawled, his voice dropping into a register of warm, static-laced condescension. "You are a tantrum. You possess power that could rewrite the stars, yet you use it to knock over sandcastles. Where is the artistry? Where is the narrative arc?"
Aaron gestured expansively to the sprawling metropolis beneath them. "Look at what I did today. I didn't level a city block. I didn't turn the Hudson River into blood—so cliché, by the way. Instead, I whispered a truth to a pilot and a lie to a billionaire. I destroyed Hydra's legacy and accelerated the birth of a new element. That, Klarion, is not a splash. It is a ripple that will turn into a tidal wave years from now."
Klarion scratched his chin, Teekl mirroring the motion. "But explosions are funny."
"Explosions are fleeting!" Aaron snapped, his eyes dialing into radio-frequency swirls. "Your chaos lasts for minutes. It gives you a cheap thrill, a sugar rush of panic, and then the heroes clean it up and pat themselves on the back. You make them feel accomplished."
He leaned in, the shadows around him elongating like grasping fingers. "I make them question their own sanity. I plant seeds of doubt that will rot their foundations from the inside out. True chaos isn't breaking the toy; it's changing the rules of the game so that the toy no longer works, and they never understand why."
Klarion floated silently, his youthful face contorted in genuine contemplation. He looked at his hands, watching red energy crackle between his fingertips. "A slow burn..."
"Precisely," Aaron purred. "Change your script. Stop playing the villain of the week and start being the author of their misery. Oh, and one more thing."
Aaron's expression hardened, the playful showman vanishing beneath the cold steel of a warlord. "I know you treat with the Light. Tell Vandal Savage that I am aware of his little chessboard. Tell him I am not a pawn, nor a knight. I am the table upon which he plays, and I am liable to tilt it whenever I please. I'm not playing his game. I'm playing mine."
Klarion stared at him, a new glimmer of respect—or perhaps inspired malice—igniting in his gaze. "You're weird," the Witch Boy declared, a wicked grin splitting his face. "I like it."
With a pop that smelled of ozone and sour milk, Klarion vanished, leaving the air shimmering in his wake.
***
Hours later, night had fallen over Manhattan, draping the city in a heavy cloak of noir velvet. The St. Jude Hotel stood as a monolith of decay in the skyline, its darkened windows like missing teeth in a skull.
Inside the penthouse suite, Aaron sat in a high-backed velvet armchair, a glass of sanguine wine resting on the side table. An old gramophone scratched out a slow, haunting jazz number, the trumpet wailing in harmony with the distant sirens. He was exhausted; the day's performance had drained his reserves, and the hunger—the deep, gnawing emptiness of the Radio Demon—was prowling the edges of his mind. He focused on his *Wuji* breathing, cycling the energy through his meridians to keep the beast at bay.
He wasn't alone.
He didn't hear a footstep. He didn't hear the rustle of a cape. His electromagnetic senses, usually screaming with the noise of the city, registered a void—a blind spot moving through the room. It was not magical concealment, but a physical mastery of stealth so absolute it felt supernatural.
"Turn off the music," a voice commanded. It was deep, gravelly, and carried the weight of a tombstone.
Aaron didn't flinch. He slowly reached out, his clawed fingers lifting the needle from the record. The silence that rushed in was thick and heavy.
"I was wondering when you would tune in," Aaron said, not turning around. He took a sip of his wine. "The signal reaches Gotham quite clearly, I assume?"
"The encryption was sloppy," the voice replied. "You hid the broadcast in the background radiation, but you left a shadow residue on the carrier wave. Magic leaves a fingerprint."
Aaron chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. He spun his chair around.
Standing in the center of the room, swallowed by the darkness yet distinct from it, was the Batman. The white lenses of his cowl narrowed, dissecting Aaron with the cold precision of a surgeon. He stood with a stillness that rivaled Aaron's own Tai Chi stance, his cape pooling around him like liquid night.
"Sloppy?" Aaron tilted his head, his monocle glinting. "Or perhaps an invitation. You are a difficult demographic to reach, Mr. Wayne. Or do you prefer 'Detective'?"
Batman didn't react to the name. He stepped forward, the heavy boots making no sound on the dusty floorboards. "You threatened national security. You manipulated a military strike on American soil. You know things you shouldn't."
"I know the lyrics to the song the universe is humming," Aaron corrected, standing up. He leaned on his staff, towering and slender, a stark contrast to Batman's armored bulk. "I did the world a favor. Zola was a cancer. I merely provided the chemotherapy."
"That wasn't your call to make," Batman growled. "You're dangerous. The League is watching. SHIELD is watching. Fate is watching."
"And now you are watching," Aaron grinned, his teeth sharp and yellow in the gloom. "The ratings are spectacular."
Batman's hand moved imperceptibly to his belt. "What are you? A demon? A metahuman?"
"I am the host," Aaron declared, spreading his arms, shadows flaring behind him like peacock feathers. "And we are just getting to the commercial break. You didn't come here to fight me, Detective. If you wanted to fight, you would have brought the Kryptonian or the Amazon. You came here because you have a puzzle you can't solve."