LightReader

Chapter 13 - Chapter 12: The Ghost Boy

The reinforced room hums with low mechanical life — air vents whirring softly, the faint buzz of the camera in the corner, the occasional click of an automated lock resetting. It's cold, sterile, and perfectly silent except for Phantom's breathing. Even that is controlled. Even that sounds practiced.

Phantom sits shackled in the center of the room. The cuffs are thick, League-issued, but his posture doesn't scream "prisoner." He's slouched in the chair like it's a throne, one leg extended, head tilted just slightly toward the ceiling. Not defiance. Not submission. Calculation. His brown eyes drift lazily across the room — counting seams in the reinforced panels, tracking airflow through the vents, noting where the cameras can't see. Every detail matters. Every detail gets stored.

Internal Monologue (Phantom):"Same routine. Different captor. They think steel holds ghosts. They never learn."

The door hisses open. A black shape steps inside — broad, armored, deliberate. Batman. He doesn't bring a file folder, doesn't bring restraints beyond the ones already locked in place, doesn't even bother with the theatrics of interrogation. He brings himself. The weight of knowing more than he says. The room feels smaller the moment he enters.

Batman doesn't sit. He doesn't need to. He takes a few steps forward, boots making no unnecessary sound. He stops just outside Phantom's striking distance.

Batman:"You didn't fight me at the end. Why?"

Phantom doesn't move for several seconds. The silence stretches long enough to become its own kind of answer. Finally, his head tilts slightly — like he's considering whether this is even worth responding to.

Phantom:"Would it have mattered?"

Batman's jaw tenses beneath the cowl.

Batman:"It always matters."

No more words for a moment. Just the hum of the light above, the quiet shift of fabric as Batman adjusts his stance. He pulls a compact device from his belt and drops it onto the metal table. The holographic projector flickers to life. Video footage fills the room with a cold, blue glow — Phantom in the field, dismantling League operatives like they were practice dummies. No wasted movements. No hesitation. Every strike meant to end, not to warn.

Batman:"Slade doesn't keep assets. He keeps ghosts. He breaks them until they don't know who they are."He lets that hang in the air. Batman leans in just slightly, enough for the light to catch the hard edges of his mask."That you're sitting here means there's something left of you."

Phantom's lips twitch — not quite a smile. More like the shadow of one. Amusement? Pity? Even he doesn't know.

Phantom:"You think you can fix what he made? Or use it?"

Batman doesn't blink. Doesn't move. He's an immovable object staring down a weapon that doesn't quite know if it wants to be a man again.

Batman:"I don't need to fix you."His voice is flat, final."But I can give you a purpose that isn't disposable."

For the first time, Phantom's posture shifts — the slightest lean forward. The first trace of interest he's shown. The cuffs creak softly as his wrists flex. He studies Batman in silence for a long beat, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter, almost testing:

Phantom:"And if I say no?"

Batman's answer comes instantly, unshaken.

Batman:"Then you go back to being Slade's ghost. And sooner or later, he'll erase you for good."

The two stare at each other — a silent standoff. Batman doesn't move. Phantom doesn't blink. Somewhere outside, the sound of footsteps echoes faintly in the hall — the Team waiting, not knowing that their lives just got more complicated.

Phantom leans back in his chair again, settling into the shadows like they belong to him.

Phantom:"…Then maybe I want to see how long I last."

Batman doesn't rise to it. He never does.

---

The holographic projector hums back to life. Batman hasn't moved, but his presence shifts — colder now, more methodical. He taps the console on his wrist, cycling through a cascade of data: blurry photos, grainy satellite images, intercepted comms. Each one paints the same story: death, silence, vanishing footprints.

Batman:"Five years."His voice cuts through the hum. Measured. Controlled."That's how long you've been a ghost."

The hologram changes: a timeline appears, peppered with red markers across the globe — Gotham. Markovia. Qurac. Santa Prisca. Bialya. Russia. The map looks like a contagion chart. It's not random.

Batman:"One hundred and twelve confirmed assassinations. Double that if you count suspected hits. Arms dealers. Politicians. High-value targets. No survivors. No witnesses."

Phantom's expression doesn't change. He could be hearing about the weather. Brown eyes fixed on the hologram, but there's no flicker of shame, or pride, or anything human. Just… stillness.

Batman:"And these."

The display shifts — grainy satellite footage: shadow-like figures slipping across rooftops, blurred silhouettes caught in thermal scans. Multiples. All moving like him. All killing like him.

Batman:"Your shadows. Detected in over thirty countries. League analysts flagged them as anomalies. You left a bloody trail across three continents without ever being seen."

Batman steps closer. The glow of the hologram sharpens the hard lines of his mask.

Batman:"No one does that unless they're trained. Conditioned. You didn't make yourself like this."

Phantom tilts his head slightly at that — the tiniest tell. He doesn't speak. Not denial. Not confirmation. Just a man listening to his sins like they belong to someone else.

Batman:"Slade Wilson made you into this. A living weapon. His infiltration ghost. His personal wraith."

*For the first time, Phantom turns his head, meeting Batman's stare directly. There's no heat in it. No fight. Just a look that says: You're not wrong.

Batman waits, but Phantom gives him nothing. No confession. No denial. Just silence. The same Hydra-captured Winter Soldier silence — a man so deep in his own programming that words don't mean what they used to.

Batman:"You can keep playing the part. Or you can start clawing back who you were before Slade hollowed you out."

Phantom leans back, his shackles clinking softly. His voice is quiet, almost amused — but not warm.

Phantom:"…You sound like you think there's a person left to save."

Batman's voice hardens.

Batman:"If there wasn't, you'd be dead already."

Silence. Neither of them blink. The hum of the projector fades as Batman powers it down. The room feels smaller, heavier. A coffin with two ghosts inside.

Without another word, Batman turns and walks out, leaving Phantom alone with his thoughts — or the absence of them.

--

Mount Justice's central hub hums with the soft, living glow of the holographic table. The Team lingers in loose formation — Robin perched casually on the table's edge, fingers drumming like he's impatient for bad news; Wally pacing, jittering like static electricity personified; M'gann hovering near the back, hands clasped nervously; Kaldur standing tall, the only one projecting calm. Superboy leans against the far wall, arms crossed, silent but coiled.

The air shifts when Batman enters. It always does. He doesn't stride. He arrives — like a shadow that decided to take shape. No cape flourish, no wasted movement. Just presence. The kind that stops conversations cold. It does now.

Batman:"We have a new… asset."The pause before "asset" says everything. He didn't come here to sell them on a new friend.

He taps the console. The holographic table blooms with flickering images: Phantom — blurred in low-res surveillance — moving through firefights like smoke, slipping between security grids, dismantling targets with surgical precision. No wasted movement. No survivors in frame.

Batman:"Codename: Phantom. Infiltration operative. Trained under Slade Wilson."

That name drops like a weight. Even the rookies feel it. Robin straightens slightly. Kaldur's jaw sets. M'gann glances nervously at Superboy, who doesn't react outwardly but flexes his hands like he wants something to break.

Batman:"Classified skill set: reconnaissance, assassination, deep-cover operations. Unknown metahuman enhancements."

Robin:"Unknown?"His voice is sharp, skeptical. He hops off the table, crossing his arms."You brought Hydra Junior here and don't even know what he can do?"

Batman:"We know enough."He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The next words land like a verdict."He doesn't miss."

Wally throws up his hands, pacing a few steps like he's trying to physically walk away from the absurdity of it all.

Wally:"Oh, great. So the Bat picks up another orphaned ninja with trauma issues. Just what we needed."

Kaldur's voice cuts through before Batman has to.

Kaldur:"Enough, Wally."

M'gann floats closer to the table, studying Phantom's frozen image in the hologram. Her voice is quiet, thoughtful, unnerved.

M'gann:"He doesn't… look like an assassin."

Robin:"That's the point."

Batman swipes the hologram. It changes — to a world map, thirty red dots scattered across it. Some in warzones. Some in cities. Some in places they shouldn't even know exist.

Batman:"Thirty confirmed kills. All high-value targets. Arms brokers. Dictators. Black market financiers. When the League started connecting the bodies, they found one common thread: Phantom."

Silence. The dots blink faintly like the map itself is bleeding. Wally stares at it too long, then mutters under his breath:

Wally:"And you thought… bringing him here was a good idea."

Batman turns his head slightly. That's enough to shut him up.

Batman:"He's here because he's useful. Whether or not he becomes more than that—"His jaw tightens. He lets the silence carry the rest."—is up to him."

The weight of those words hangs heavy. No one misses it. Batman didn't say "up to you." He said "up to him." Like they won't get a say in what this ghost decides to become.

On the hologram, Phantom's blurred image lingers. Standing still. Staring at nothing. A shadow in a body. And for the first time since Cadmus, the Team realizes Batman just put something in their house scarier than anything they've faced so far.

The holographic table dims, Batman gone as suddenly as he arrived. His words — "asset," "thirty confirmed kills" — still linger in the air like smoke. The Team stays frozen for a moment, no one wanting to be the first to speak. Then, inevitably…

Wally:"Okay. Just so we're all clear — Batman brought an assassin into our house."He waves a hand at the now-dark hologram."And not just any assassin. Slade's assassin. That's… that's like letting a live grenade babysit us."

Robin:"He's not wrong."Robin hops back onto the table, leaning forward, voice sharp but analytical."This guy worked for Deathstroke. He's trained to manipulate, infiltrate, kill. You don't just walk away from that."

M'gann:"Maybe… maybe he didn't have a choice."She steps closer to the table, her voice soft, hopeful."You heard what Batman said. Slade breaks people. Maybe Phantom was—"

Robin:"—Brainwashed? Sure. Maybe. Or maybe he's just really good at acting like he was."

Superboy pushes off the wall, stepping into the group's circle. His arms are still crossed, his voice low, rougher than usual.

Superboy:"…He feels familiar."

The others glance at him. He doesn't elaborate right away. His brows knit, like he's trying to grab at a memory that won't come.

Kaldur:"Familiar how?"

Superboy shakes his head, frustrated.

Superboy:"I don't know. Just… like I've seen someone like him before. Or fought them."

Wally:"Cool. So now we've got a killer ninja and Conner's déjà vu problem."

Kaldur:"Enough."His voice cuts through the noise. Calm, but firm. He looks at each of them in turn."We do not know his full story. Nor his purpose here. But I share your concerns."

He looks back toward the hall Batman left through.

Kaldur:"Batman does not use words like 'asset' lightly. Which means we are not being told everything."

The weight of that lands. Even Robin doesn't argue. For once.

M'gann:"Maybe… we could try to talk to him? If someone reached out—"

Robin:"Yeah, M'gann, you go have a heart-to-heart with the guy who racks up kills like a hobby. Let us know how that goes."

M'gann folds her arms, defensive but undeterred.

M'gann:"He's not just a weapon. He's… he's someone."

Wally:"Someone who can probably kill us all in our sleep."

Superboy's jaw tightens at that, but he doesn't say why. The silence that follows says what they're all thinking: Batman didn't bring Phantom here to make friends.

The reinforced door slides shut behind Batman. The sound echoes like a gavel hitting wood. Phantom hasn't moved — still shackled, still slouched like this is all routine. Batman steps closer, boots heavy against the metal floor. No theatrics. Just presence.

Batman:"You've been playing double games."His tone is low, measured. A statement, not an accusation."One day you work for Slade. The next, you derail his operations. Why?"

Phantom finally shifts his gaze from the floor to Batman. Brown eyes meet the cowl — not sharp, not angry, but hollow in a way that's worse.

Phantom:"You keep assuming there's a 'why.'"

Batman:"Everyone has one. Even ghosts."

Phantom leans forward. The chain between his cuffs rattles softly, almost deliberately, like a serpent testing its range.

Phantom:"Maybe I just like watching the board burn."

Batman doesn't blink. Doesn't shift. Phantom hates that. He pushes again, testing for any reaction.

Phantom:"Or maybe I just go where the wind blows. It's easier when you don't pretend you have a soul."

Batman steps closer — one deliberate movement, closing the space without breaking the tension.

Batman:"That's a convenient story. But it doesn't fit the evidence."

Phantom tilts his head, amused despite himself.

Phantom:"You've been digging."

Batman:"Blüdhaven. Ten years ago."

The words hit like a thrown batarang. Phantom's smirk falters. Batman sees it. Seizes it.

Batman:"A boy goes missing in a warehouse fire. Family presumed dead. Case never solved."He drops a photo onto the table — a charred building, long cold. Police tape. Forgotten tragedy."Then nothing. No sightings. No records. Not until you show up as Slade's phantom."

Phantom doesn't touch the photo. Doesn't even look at it. He stares at the wall instead, jaw tightening slightly. The first real crack in the mask.

Batman:"Six years old. And then… gone. Where were you?"

Phantom's voice is quiet now. Calm. Almost too calm.

Phantom:"Where do ghosts go, Batman? Wherever their chains drag them."

The silence after that stretches long enough to feel like its own conversation. Batman doesn't press — yet. He files the answer away. Another breadcrumb. Another fracture in Phantom's armor.

Batman:"Slade owns your past. He doesn't have to own your future."

That one lands. Phantom's smirk fades entirely. He doesn't look at Batman, but his voice sharpens — almost cutting.

Phantom:"There's more than just Slade in my past, Dark Knight."

Batman doesn't rise to the bait. He's already pulling on the next thread. But Phantom's tone lingers — not defensive. Not mocking. Warning.

Batman straightens, stepping back toward the door.

Batman:"You're staying here until I decide you can be trusted."He glances once at the restraints."Get used to the walls."

Phantom leans back again, sinking into the chair like the weight of the cuffs doesn't exist. He doesn't watch Batman leave. His voice is low, almost an afterthought:

Phantom:"Cages are still cages, no matter who builds them."

Batman pauses at the door for half a beat, then leaves without another word. The room feels colder when the Dark Knight is gone.

--

The lounge feels smaller than usual. Batman's words — "asset," "thirty kills" — still weigh on them like chains. No one wants to say it first, but Wally inevitably breaks the silence.

Wally:"Okay, but seriously — Batman's letting Mister 'I-Kill-People-for-a-Living' stay here? While we sleep here? Am I the only one who hears how nuts that sounds?"

He paces like a live wire, gesturing wildly.

Wally:"Thirty confirmed kills. That's a wolf, guys. Not a stray we're supposed to take in."

Robin:"Calm down."Robin's perched on the arm of the couch, mask catching the low light. He's not calm either, but his voice is cool — detached, like a detective already three steps ahead."We don't know his endgame. Which means we figure it out before it bites us."

Wally:"Oh, good. Robin's plan: wait until the ghost ninja decides which one of us to start with."

Kaldur:"Enough."Kaldur's voice cuts through the rising noise, deep and steady. His arms fold, but his tone carries weight."We will extend him the chance to earn trust. The League believes in redemption. We should do no less."

Robin:"Yeah, well, I believe in contingency plans."

M'gann floats closer, wringing her hands. She hesitates before speaking, but her voice is soft and firm.

M'gann:"Maybe… he just needs someone to help him remember who he was."

Robin laughs — short, humorless.

Robin:"I don't think that's the case, M'gann."He leans forward, elbows on knees."Batman said thirty kills in five years. All high-value. That's not a mistake. That's someone who knows exactly what they are."

M'gann:"Or someone who was made to think that's all they could be."

Wally flops onto the couch with a groan, covering his face.

Wally:"Awesome. Can't wait for the part where the scary assassin has a redemption arc while we're all one bad day away from being mission thirty-one."

Through it all, Superboy hasn't said a word. He stands near the far wall, arms crossed, but his eyes are locked on the floor — brows furrowed like he's fighting with a memory. The others don't notice until he finally speaks, voice low and rough:

Superboy:"…I know him."

The room freezes. All eyes turn to him.

Robin:"What?"

Superboy:"I've seen him before."He hesitates, jaw tight. It's clear he doesn't want to say it, but he forces the words out."At Cadmus. Weeks ago. We fought. And… I lost."

Silence. Even Wally stops breathing for a second. Robin's mind is already turning, piecing the implications together. Kaldur's expression hardens. M'gann shifts nervously in midair, glancing between them all. The idea sinks in: Batman didn't just bring a stranger into their home. He brought in someone who's already proven he can take down their strongest teammate.

No one notices the faintest flicker of a shadow beyond the doorway. Batman stands silently in the hall, listening to every word. Unseen. Unheard.

--

The reinforced door slides open. Batman steps into the room where Phantom sits chained. He doesn't acknowledge him — doesn't need to. Phantom doesn't move either, eyes fixed on the floor like a dormant weapon. The rest of the Team files in behind Batman, slower, uneasy. They've never been in the same room as the ghost until now. The air is thick with unspoken tension. Robin leans into a wall, arms crossed, scanning Phantom for tells. Wally stays near the exit. Kaldur stands ready, centered. M'gann hovers just behind them all, her discomfort written on her face. Superboy enters last, jaw set, fists clenched.

Batman doesn't waste time.

Batman:"Superboy. Start talking."

Superboy's eyes cut to Phantom — who doesn't look at him, doesn't look at anyone. He just sits there, shackled, silent. But his presence fills the room. Superboy takes a breath, stepping forward.

Superboy:"…It was Cadmus. Weeks ago. Before I met the Team."

Robin straightens. Kaldur frowns. M'gann tilts her head, picking up the unease radiating off him.

Superboy:"They were… testing me. My limits. My control."He swallows hard, hands curling into fists."And then… they put me in a room with him."

For the first time, Phantom looks up. His brown eyes lock on Superboy. No smirk. No reaction. Just that same hollow stillness. Superboy doesn't look away. Batman's voice cuts through the silence:

Batman:"Tell them what happened."

Superboy's jaw tightens.

Superboy:"…He beat me."

The room stiffens. Even Wally shuts up. Robin's eyes narrow behind the mask. Batman doesn't flinch.

Batman:"Show them."

Superboy hesitates, then exhales. His eyes drift past them all as the memory takes over —

Flashback – The Test

White light. Cold walls. The sterile hum of Cadmus containment. Superboy stands in the center of a reinforced room — bare-chested, fists up, breathing steady. He's already sweating. The intercom above crackles with a disembodied Cadmus voice:

Voice:"Initiate Phase Three. Weapon versus Weapon."

The opposite door hisses open. Phantom steps in. Not the boy chained in the Cave — the weapon. Dressed in black tactical gear, boots silent against the floor. His expression blank. Not calm. Not angry. Blank. A machine wearing a boy's face. He doesn't speak. Doesn't blink. He just moves forward with the slow, inevitable pace of a predator that already knows how this ends.

Superboy growls, bracing himself.

Superboy:"I don't want to hurt you."

Phantom doesn't answer. Doesn't even acknowledge him. He just keeps walking — and then he's gone. A blur of movement.

The fight is chaos. Brutal, efficient. Phantom moves like water through cracks — flowing around Superboy's swings, ducking under grabs, punishing every opening with surgical precision. He doesn't waste an ounce of energy. Every strike lands where it hurts most: joints, pressure points, nerve clusters.

Superboy swings wild — raw power, no discipline. Phantom slips past him, drives an elbow into his throat, then a knee to his ribs. Superboy stumbles back, wheezing, more surprised than hurt. Phantom doesn't give him time to recover. He's on him again, driving fists into his midsection, then a spinning kick to the side of his head that drops him to one knee.

Superboy roars, grabbing Phantom by the throat and slamming him against the wall. The impact cracks concrete. Phantom doesn't panic. Doesn't flinch. His eyes are still dead. He brings his legs up, wraps them around Superboy's arm, and twists — dislocating it with a sickening pop. Superboy howls. Phantom flips off him, landing in a crouch, already resetting his stance.

Blood drips from Superboy's mouth. Phantom doesn't even look winded.

It goes on like that: Superboy charging like a battering ram, Phantom dismantling him piece by piece. Every hit Superboy lands is met with three in return. Every grab turns into a counter. He's not fighting a boy. He's fighting a weapon that's been programmed to kill him. Finally, Phantom sweeps his legs, driving him to the ground, then plants a boot on his chest, pinning him effortlessly.

Phantom raises a fist. For a second, Superboy swears he sees hesitation — a flicker of something human. Then it's gone. The fist comes down—

Voice (intercom):"Enough. Stand down, Phantom."

Phantom freezes mid-swing. Slowly, mechanically, he steps back. His face unreadable. Superboy lays there, panting, humiliated. The intercom crackles off. The test is over. But Phantom's brown eyes linger on him for a fraction of a second longer — then he turns and walks away, the door hissing shut behind him.

Back to Present

Silence. The Team stares at Superboy like they're seeing him for the first time. Like they're realizing just how dangerous the boy shackled in front of them really is. Phantom doesn't react. He just sits there, listening, the same as he did in Cadmus: still, unreadable, a ghost in a cage.

Batman breaks the silence.

Batman:"Now you all understand."

The weight of his words settles in the room. Nobody speaks. Nobody dares.

--

The room is heavy with silence after Superboy's story. The Team stares at Phantom, who still sits shackled, head tilted slightly down like a dormant predator. But then…

He moves. Just enough to shift the air.

Phantom lifts his head, his brown eyes locking on Superboy. And for the first time since they entered, he speaks. His voice is quiet. Calm. Too calm.

Phantom:"Sub-level seven. South chamber. You came at me swinging wild. No guard. No strategy. Just… rage."

Superboy stiffens. He doesn't answer. Phantom doesn't need him to.

Phantom:"You tried to grab me three times. Failed all three. I broke your arm here—"He jerks his chin toward Superboy's shoulder."—because you led with your dominant side every time. Telegraphed. Predictable."

The Team exchanges uneasy glances. Phantom isn't guessing. He's replaying it like a movie burned into his brain. Superboy's jaw clenches. Phantom leans forward slightly, his cuffs clinking softly.

Phantom:"They told you what you were, didn't they? The Light's shiny new Superman. Their perfect little weapon."

Superboy growls low in his throat, fists tightening. Phantom doesn't stop.

Phantom:"I wonder what they said when you lost. When their big project — Superman's replacement — got dismantled by a boy half his size."

The words land like blades. Superboy lunges a step forward, but Kaldur catches his arm. Robin's eyes narrow. Wally mutters something under his breath, but no one dares interrupt. M'gann flinches at the spike of anger she feels radiating off Superboy. Phantom just watches him, unreadable, unflinching.

Phantom:"You were their disappointment. I was their reminder."

*The words hang in the air, heavy, poisonous. Batman's eyes narrow — not at the insult, but at the truth behind it. He sees the connection. Phantom knows Cadmus too well.

No one says anything. They can't. The chill in the room is suffocating. Phantom leans back into his chair, letting the silence swallow his words. He doesn't smile. He doesn't smirk. He just is.*

Batman:"Enough."His voice cuts through the tension like a blade. But Phantom doesn't look at him. His eyes stay on Superboy a moment longer — then drift back to the floor, like the conversation's already over.

Superboy exhales through his teeth, shaking with quiet fury. The Team doesn't know what to say. They all feel it — that creeping, chilling awareness that Phantom isn't just a boy in chains. He's a ghost with every scar and every kill still carved into him.

More Chapters