The Cave is silent.
The Team is asleep, scattered in their quarters. The halls are dark. The only light in Phantom's room comes from a single dim bulb overhead, swaying faintly with the ventilation.
He sits on the floor, cross-legged, mask on. A blade rests in his hands. He drags it across a whetstone with slow, deliberate strokes.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
It's a ritual. Something to keep the memories quiet. Something to keep himself quiet.
Then—
A soft blink of red light interrupts the rhythm.
His comm. Not Team frequency. An encrypted channel, one he buried months ago.
For a long moment, he just stares at it.
He doesn't want to answer.
But his hand moves anyway.
The line opens.
Slade: "You're still mine, boy."
Phantom freezes.
Slade: "You can wear their colors, haunt their halls, play at being one of them. But we both know what you are."
Phantom's grip on the blade tightens until his knuckles turn white.
Slade: "Do you remember Cairo? Do you remember what you did in that room? The girl with the red scarf?"
The whetstone slips in his hand.
Slade: "Or Moscow. Three nights in the snow, waiting for the senator to come home. You watched his family eat dinner first, didn't you? I taught you patience there."
Phantom's breathing grows heavier, shallower, and quicker.
Slade: "You were good in London. Efficient. No hesitation. The press called it a tragedy. But I knew it was art."
His shadows stir. They slither across the walls, agitated, twitching with every word.
Slade: "You think Batman can erase that? He can't. That boy died in Cadmus. What's left is mine. And when I call, you'll come."
Phantom doesn't respond. He can't.
His hands tremble. Sweat gathers at his hairline under the mask.
Slade doesn't need an answer. He's already won.
Slade: "Enjoy your game, boy. But don't forget who holds your leash."
The line goes dead.
For a long time, Phantom just sits there.
Then, with a sharp crack, he crushes the comm in his hand, shards digging into his palm. His shadows coil tightly around him, suffocating the room.
But no matter how tightly he wraps himself in darkness, he can't block the echo of Slade's words.
Mine. Leashed weapon. You'll obey.
And deep in the cracks of his mind, the Ghost stirs.
--
Mount Justice. Mission Room. Morning.
The holo-table hums quietly, casting blue light over the gathered Team. Mission schematics hover above the surface: a satellite map of Bialya, glowing red grids marking their insertion points.
Batman stands at the head of the table, cowl shadowing his face, posture like a drawn blade.
Aqualad stands straight, attentive. Robin leans on the table, pretending to be relaxed, but his eyes are already scanning for exit strategies. Wally fidgets, arms crossed, his mouth half-open like he's holding back a joke that doesn't belong here. Artemis leans against the wall, arms folded, masking nerves with practiced defiance.
Miss Martian floats slightly above the floor, brow furrowed — she feels the tension in the room even before anyone speaks.
And then there's Phantom.
He stands off to the side, silent. Mask on. Still as stone. But his stillness feels unnatural. Like a predator coiled before a strike.
Miss Martian glances at him briefly, sensing the storm under his surface — raw, tangled emotion simmering in a way she can't name. She almost reaches out telepathically. Almost.
Instead, J'onn's voice brushes softly against her mind. "Do not intrude, M'gann."
She glances across the room. J'onn is here, half in shadow, observing. Silent sentinel. Watching Phantom more than anyone else.
He feels it too.
Batman speaks. His voice cuts clean through the tension.
Batman: "Intelligence confirms a massive energy surge in the Bialyan desert. Spectral analysis shows non-terrestrial elements. This is a recovery mission. You will land in Qurac, cross the border covertly, and investigate."
Robin straightens. "What are we expecting to find?"
Batman: "Unclear. The site is heavily fortified. Queen Bee has mobilized Republican Army forces around it. Maintain radio silence. In and out, undetected."
Wally raises a hand like he's in class. "And if we're detected?"
Batman doesn't even look at him.
Batman: "Don't be."
The room quiets.
Aqualad: "Understood. We will be ready within the hour."
Batman's gaze sweeps over the Team — and pauses on Phantom.
He notices the stiffness in his posture. A subtle tension in his shoulders. The way Phantom's hands twitch once before curling into fists.
Batman's voice lowers slightly.
Batman: "Phantom. Any objections to the mission parameters?"
A beat of silence.
Phantom tilts his head just enough to acknowledge the question — but says nothing.
Wally mutters under his breath, "Creepy as ever."
Batman's eyes flick to him. One look is enough to shut him up.
Batman: "Move out."
The Team disperses, gathering gear and prepping for deployment.
Phantom lingers behind for a second. Not moving. Not speaking. His shadows cling closer to him than usual, drawn tight around his frame like armor.
J'onn's gaze doesn't leave him. He can feel the dissonance inside him. A battle Phantom isn't winning.
But J'onn doesn't press.
Not yet.
Mission first.
---
Bialya. Mid-mission.
The desert night is quiet except for the soft crunch of boots on sand and the low hum of the Team's comms.
Robin kneels over a relay dish, fingers working with quick precision as he hacks the Bialyan frequency grid. "Almost got it—"
Wally paces behind him, watching the horizon. "Feels too easy, man. Where are all the—"
The world shifts.
It's not sound, not light — it's inside. A white-hot spike of psychic force slams through their minds.
Miss Martian gasps, clutching her head mid-flight. She drops hard into the sand, screaming.
Robin collapses, convulsing, fingers clawing at his helmet like he can tear the pain out. Wally stumbles, grabs his head, and yells, "What the—?! What's happening?!"
Phantom doesn't scream.
He doesn't even flinch.
His body jerks once as the psychic surge hits — and then stills. Completely.
His head tilts downward, mask hiding his face. His breathing slows, steadies.
Something deep in his mind clicks.
The static of thought clears. The questions fade. Humanity recedes.
Mission.
That's all that's left.
Miss Martian lifts her head, tears in her eyes, fighting the invasive voice. "No… no—stop—"
Then she hears it.
A different voice.
Psimon (in her head): "Poor little girl. You've brought me such interesting toys."
Her eyes widen. She feels him — inside her link.
Psimon: "But this one…"
He's not talking about her.
She turns — and sees Phantom.
He's standing perfectly still. Arms at his sides. Shadows slowly rising around him like black smoke, thick and coiling.
Psimon: "This one's… different."
His psychic presence brushes against Phantom's mind — and hits a wall.
Not a normal mental defense. This is something else. Layered. Brutal. Constructed.
Psimon: "So many doors. So many locks. Who built you, little ghost?"
The shadows surge upward like claws, and Phantom moves.
He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't speak. He's already in motion, knife drawn, sprinting toward the source of the psychic attack.
Robin groans on the ground, barely conscious. "What the hell—why is he—"
Wally grabs him, pulling him back. "Dude, he's not—he's not with us right now."
The truth is worse:
Phantom doesn't even recognize them.
--
Bialya. Nightfall.
The sky burns orange at the horizon, fading into the deep blue-black of night. The desert wind howls low, kicking up sand that coats the air in a fine haze.
Psimon stands at the center of the fortified dig site, fingers pressed to his temple, face twisted in concentration. His psychic tether stretches out like a spiderweb, probing Phantom's mind.
Psimon: "So many layers… who built you?"
He presses deeper, eager. But every step into Phantom's head is like walking into a minefield — jagged, cold, and alien.
Psimon: "You're not like the others. So much conditioning. So much… emptiness."
Phantom doesn't respond. He doesn't need to.
His shadows move for him.
They erupt from the ground like blackened spears, striking at Psimon with lethal precision. The psychic reels back just in time, barely erecting a mental shield to keep the darkness from skewering him.
Psimon: "Tch—unruly little weapon."
A voice cuts across the chaos — smooth, commanding.
Queen Bee: "Enough."
She descends the steps of the dig site with an unhurried grace, her soldiers keeping a wide berth from Phantom, who now stands in the sand, mask tilted just slightly toward her.
Queen Bee: "Careful with that one, Psimon. He isn't just another toy."
Her eyes narrow as she studies Phantom. There's recognition there. Ownership.
Queen Bee: "I remember you."
She steps closer, unfazed by the roiling shadows that hiss like vipers at her approach.
Queen Bee: "I helped write your programming. Back when you were still… blank. Does your new mask make you feel human, little ghost? Or do you still dream in commands?"
Phantom doesn't answer. He doesn't move. But his fingers twitch.
Queen Bee smiles knowingly.
Queen Bee: "There it is. That's what I like about you. Even when you pretend to be free, the leash is still tight."
Psimon snarls, pressing harder against the mental wall. "If you're done taunting him, I'd prefer you help me control him before he—"
He doesn't finish.
Phantom moves.
No warning. No words. Just violence.
He hits the nearest squad like a storm. One moment he's standing still — the next, he's inside their formation, a blur of steel and shadow.
His first strike takes a soldier at the knee, the blade severing through armor like paper. Before the scream can escape, a shadow tendril coils around the man's neck and yanks him underground, swallowing him in the sand.
Another soldier raises his rifle — only for Phantom's knife to sink between the plates of his armor, twisting as the man collapses with a strangled gasp.
Shadows spear upward from the ground like jagged pikes, impaling two more through the chest and hoisting their bodies like broken marionettes. They twitch for only a moment before going still.
The air fills with panicked shouts in Bialyan, cut short one by one. Muzzle flashes light up the night — but every bullet vanishes into a shifting wall of darkness, the shadows eating the rounds before they reach him.
Phantom flows between them with inhuman efficiency — no wasted movement, no hesitation. A knife slash here, a shadow-strike there. Every kill is clean. Every kill is intentional.
One soldier breaks ranks and runs. He makes it three steps before a shadow arm lances through his back, dragging him screaming into the dark.
The screams echo. Brief. Choked. Then silence.
Up on the ridge, Robin, Wally, and Artemis crouch behind the remnants of a crumbling dune wall, watching in stunned silence.
Wally's voice cracks. "Uh… is it bad that I don't know which side he's on right now?"
Robin's gaze stays locked on Phantom. His movements are too precise. Too methodical.
Robin: "He's… not confused."
Wally swallows. "Then what is he?"
Robin exhales sharply.
Robin: "He's running patterns. Cadmus patterns."
Below them, Phantom doesn't stop. Don'tt hesitate. Every strike is surgical. Every shadow obeys without question.
A machine.
A ghost.
And for the first time since this mission began, the Team understands:
This isn't memory loss.
This is a weapon off its leash.