Location: Mount Justice, Common Room. Night.
The Cave feels wrong without the others.
The team's voices — Artemis's dry wit, Kaldur's calm authority, even Wally's usual motor-mouth — should fill this space, but tonight, the air hangs heavy and still. The only sounds are mechanical: the hum of the TV screen, the faint buzz of the overhead lights, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone.
Superboy sits slouched on the couch, jaw tight, fists resting on his knees. He stares at the muted television, though it's clear he's not watching it; it's just something to aim his eyes at while his mind simmers elsewhere.
Miss Martian hovers by the kitchen counter, stirring a mug of cocoa she hasn't touched in ten minutes. Every few seconds, she glances toward the others, then back at the cup, like she's trying to read the room and failing.
Robin leans against the far wall, hood drawn low. His gaze shifts between his teammates, but always drifts back to the figure in the corner — the quiet one. The one sharpening a knife with deliberate, unhurried strokes.
Phantom.
Each scrape of metal against stone is measured. Not rushed. Not careless. It's ritualistic. He doesn't even look at the blade as he works, like he's done it so many times his hands don't need his eyes. The sound carries across the room, as rhythmic and unyielding as a ticking clock.
Robin can't help but remember Batman's words from days ago.
"He's too dangerous for prison. Too conditioned to be reformed. This Team… may be the only way to save him. Or at least keep him from becoming something worse."And if it fails?" Robin had asked."Then at least I'll know exactly where he is."
The knife stops.
The silence swells.
And then Wally.
"Soooo…" His voice slices through the tension like a bad joke at a funeral. He's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, grin a little too wide. "No one's gonna talk about the murder machine in the corner?"
No one answers.
He shrugs, striding in like this is any other night, like there isn't a predator sharpening its claws five feet away. "I mean, come on. Look at him. All broody, all mysterious. It's like the Bat brought home a rescue dog. We should name him. I'm thinking… Spot." He smirks. "Or maybe"
"Wally," Robin warns, low and sharp.
But Wally barrels through. He always does. "What? Can't just ignore the elephant in the room. Or should I say"
His smirk grows sharper."Cadmus's pet"
---
The shadows move first.
It starts small — a subtle shift in the corner of the room, a ripple where light should be steady. Then they pour outward like liquid night, tendrils snaking across the floor. They slither over the couch, up the walls, until the Cave feels smaller, darker.
And then they take shape.
Arms, too long and too thin, claw their way out of the black. Fingers like jagged knives curl around Wally's ankles. A dozen hands bloom from the walls, dragging toward him, pulling. Faces flicker in the dark — half-formed, screaming silently, their mouths stretching wider than should be possible.
Wally freezes as a cold grip coils around his wrists. His heart jackhammers in his chest.
The shadows don't just surround him. They claim him.
And then Phantom is there.
One blink and the corner is empty. Next, Wally's back slams against the wall, the impact stealing his breath. A blade kisses the hollow of his throat, the edge so sharp it feels like it's already sliced him open.
Phantom's face is inches from his — pale, unreadable, calm. Too calm.
"Say it again."
His voice is soft. Measured. Almost gentle. Which makes it infinitely worse.
Wally can't move. Can't breathe. The knife is one threat — but the shadows are worse. They writhe like living things, twisting with eagerness, their grasping hands inching higher, their eyeless faces pressing close as if hungry for his fear.
Superboy is on his feet before he knows he's moved, fists balled so tight they tremble. "Don't call him that." The words are spat through gritted teeth, low and guttural.
But his glare isn't at Phantom. It's locked on Wally.
Miss Martian flinches. A surge of emotion slams into her telepathy: anger, humiliation, pain. For a moment, she can't tell if it's Phantom or Superboy radiating it. But then she realizes: it's him. Connor.
And that's what cuts the deepest.
---
"Phantom."
Aqualad's voice cuts through the air like a blade. Firm. Commanding.
By the time anyone registers the movement, he's already there. His water-bearers surge to life, twin blades drawn and glowing faintly, their tips hovering less than an inch from Phantom's neck. His other hand clamps down on Phantom's wrist, just above the knife.
Robin flanks him, batarang drawn and cocked, ready to throw at the first wrong twitch.
"Stand down," Aqualad orders, tone low but steady — the voice of someone used to commanding soldiers.
Wally's breath hitches, but instinct drives him to talk. To joke. He forces a laugh, though it comes out strangled."Hey—hey, easy there, buddy. Just kidding, man. Just a prank. You know me—classic Wally, haha—"
Phantom's head tilts fractionally. That's it. No blink. No sigh. No loosening of his grip.
And somehow, that's worse than shouting.
The shadows writhe again, briefly, as though they can feel his annoyance, their inky fingers clawing at the floor before reluctantly receding.
Superboy takes a step forward, fists still balled. He doesn't say a word — but his presence is a living threat.
Miss Martian hasn't moved. Her hands are still clamped over her mouth, eyes darting between the glowing blades at Phantom's neck and the knife at Wally's throat. She can feel the storm of emotions around her: Wally's terror, Aqualad's focus, Phantom's quiet rage — and beneath it all, that same broken, unspoken pain radiating from Superboy.
Phantom doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe.
Then — slowly — he releases.
The knife withdraws first, vanishing into his sleeve with mechanical precision. Only then does Aqualad ease his grip, though his blades stay exactly where they are.
Phantom steps back, shadows melting away into the walls like they were never there. His face is unreadable.
"Try that again," he says, voice calm as death. "And I'll finish it next time."
No threat in his tone. No edge. Just a statement of fact.
And then he's gone, walking past them like the moment never happened.
---
Phantom doesn't walk away. He dissolves.
One step, two — and then his body bleeds into the shadows, clinging to the hallway like water down a drain. One blink and he's gone. No footsteps. No sound. Just absence.
But the darkness doesn't leave with him.
Wally stays pressed against the wall, chest heaving. His eyes dart to the corners, to the cracks beneath the doorways, to the ceiling beams. The shadows seem… wrong. They sway when the air doesn't move, stretch when the light doesn't change. They're watching him. Waiting.
He rubs his throat, half-expecting to feel blood.
Robin kneels, crouched low to meet his eye level. "You good?"
Wally forces a shaky laugh, though it comes out too high-pitched to be convincing. "Yeah. Totally. Just… adrenaline. You know me."
But his hands won't stop trembling.
Aqualad sheathes his blades with a sharp flick, his face carved from stone. He turns to Wally, voice low and cutting."That was beyond reckless."
Wally blinks at him, still trying for humor. "Hey, it was just a—"
"No." Kaldur's tone sharpens, silencing him. "You taunt a weapon that has its life being treated as one. You know better than to provoke someone whose pain you do not understand."
Wally swallows, throat dry. No comeback this time.
Superboy hasn't moved. He stands rigid, fists still tight, staring at the hallway Phantom vanished into. The word "pet" echoes in his head like poison.
Miss Martian steps toward him, hesitating before speaking softly. "Connor… those words weren't meant for you."
He doesn't look at her. "Didn't sound that way."
"It's a misunderstanding," she says gently, reaching out but stopping short of touching his arm. "You're not what they made you. Neither is he."
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then: "Feels like it."
The room sinks back into silence.
For the first time, Wally knows with absolute certainty — Phantom wasn't bluffing.
And worse, he realizes that he might have been holding back.