The Gotham Grand Royal was not merely a hotel; it was a monument to the city's complex soul. Standing at forty-eight stories, the Art Deco masterpiece featured a twin-tower design connected by a sprawling glass bridge that looked like a transparent ribcage against the smoggy sky. By day, its limestone carvings of gargoyles and weeping angels were impressive; by night, bathed in the sickly amber glow of Gotham's streetlights, the building looked absolutely menacing, a gothic sentinel watching over the bay.
Inside, the grand ballroom had been scrubbed of its usual corporate sterility and transformed into a sanctuary for the world's most decadent treasures. The room was a sprawling, two-story expanse of mahogany and gold leaf, accessible by twin velvet-shrouded staircases that curved like the wings of a predatory bird. Glass cases lined the perimeter, housing artifacts that whispered of ancient empires and Middle Age sorcery. The air was thick—a cloying, expensive cocktail of heavy perfumes, vintage bourbon, and the invisible, sharp scent of old money.
"Watch the tray, Jake. You're tilting," a voice hissed.
Jake Long, currently wearing the magical face of a thirty-something career waiter named Morty Sanders, adjusted his grip on the silver platter. Beside him, his grandfather—disguised as a stoic, graying server named Joyce Rickleton—moved with a grace that didn't match his supposed age.
"I'm watching it, Grandpa," Jake whispered back, his voice strained. "But these shoes are two sizes too small. How does a professional waiter even breathe in these things?"
"With dignity, young man. Now, move. We are here to blend in, not to complain about footwear," Lao Shi replied, deftly snatching an empty flute from a passing socialite without breaking his stride.
Jake scanned the room, his eyes darting behind his borrowed spectacles. The guest list was a "Who's Who" of people who could buy and sell small countries. In one corner, Bruce Wayne stood with an air of practiced boredom, swirling a glass of ginger ale that everyone assumed was scotch.
He was deep in conversation with Oliver Queen, the billionaire from Star City who had arrived with Dinah Lance on his arm. Dinah looked radiant in a floor-length canary-yellow gown, though Jack noticed her eyes never stopped tracking the security guards.
Nearby, Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin—was huddling with members of the Kane family, his umbrella hooked over his arm like a weapon he wasn't allowed to unsheathe just yet.
"Look at them," Jake muttered as he offered a tray of crab cakes to a woman dripping in diamonds. "They have no idea what's sitting on that stage."
At the far end of the ballroom, the auction stage was bathed in a focused spotlight. The centerpiece was still draped in velvet, but Jake knew what lay beneath: the Orb of Malphorus. It was the reason they were masquerading as catering staff, the reason Fu was held hostage and the reason his feet were killing him right now.
Jake and his grandfather shared a brief, sharp eye contact across the floor. Everything seemed to be going calmly—until Lao Shi suddenly stiffened. His movements, usually fluid and controlled, became rigid. He caught Jake's elbow and nudged him toward a shadowed alcove behind a decorative marble pillar.
"What is it? Did someone spot the disguise?" Jake asked, his hand instinctively reaching for the magical charm hidden in his pocket.
Lao Shi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head toward a figure standing near the West staircase. "Look there, Jake. The boy with the cat".
Jake followed his gaze. Amidst the sea of tuxedos and gowns, the boy stood out like a bruise. He looked to be in his mid-teens, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. His jet-black hair was styled into two sharp, horn-like points, and his frame was unsettlingly slender and scraggy, with limbs that seemed just a bit too long for his body. He wore a black suit, pressed so finely it looked like it was made of shadows, and his face was a collection of sharp, angular lines.
But it was the eyes that stopped Jake's breath—a piercing, unnatural red. In his arms, he cradled a ginger cat, his long fingers scratching behind its ears with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion.
"Who the freak is that? He looks like he crawled out of a Tim Burton movie," Jake whispered.
"That is Klarion the Witch Boy," Lao Shi said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. "A powerful sorcerer from a realm of chaos. He is an absolute nuisance my boy. He doesn't play by anyone's rules, and he treats the world like a toy he's tired of playing with".
Jake felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. "Great. A chaos magician. Is he here for the Orb?"
"Undoubtedly," Lao Shi replied. "But he isn't the only one we have to worry about. Look to the bar."
Jake shifted his focus. Standing alone near the mahogany bar was a man who radiated a completely different kind of energy. He was tall, about six feet, with a well-built, athletic physique that his black business suit couldn't quite hide. His auburn hair was distinctive, marked by two vertical white streaks that framed his temples like lightning bolts. Like the boy, his eyes carried a faint, reddish tint.
"That is Jason Blood," Lao Shi explained. "He is an expert demonologist. But more importantly, he is the host of a powerful demon named Etrigan".
Jake's jaw dropped. "Wait, like... there's a literal demon inside him? Right now? Next to the shrimp cocktail?"
"He is a good man, an old friend of mine," Lao Shi said, though his expression remained grim. "But the demon he carries is ancient and volatile."
"If he's a friend, why don't we just go talk to him?" Jake asked, feeling a desperate hope. "If we have a demon-host on our side, Klarion won't stand a chance, right?"
Lao Shi shook his head. "If both Jason and Klarion are here, it means they are tracking the same scent. They are both after the Orb. Jason usually acts for the greater good, but we cannot be sure if his version of 'good' aligns with our mission to keep the Orb out of everyone's hands. We cannot risk exposing ourselves yet".
Jake let out a long, low groan, leaning his head against the cold marble of the pillar. "Just great. Fantastic. We've got a teenage witch, a demonic vessel and a room full of billionaires who think they're the ones in control. What's next? The whole Arkham Asylum crashing the party?"
Smack.
Lao Shi delivered a sharp slap to the back of Jake's head.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"Don't jinx us, boy!" Lao Shi hissed. "The universe has a twisted sense of humor in Gotham. Now, straighten your tie and get back to work. The bidding is about to start."
They stepped back into the fray, Jake's heart now hammering twice as fast. He watched Klarion, who was whispering into the ear of his ginger cat. The cat seemed to look directly at Jake, its yellow eyes narrowing with a terrifying intelligence. Across the room, Jason Blood stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on the velvet-covered stage with a look of profound, weary duty.
Suddenly, the overhead chandeliers dimmed, casting the room into a dramatic, high-contrast twilight. The chatter of the elites died down to an expectant murmur. A man in a sharp white tuxedo stepped onto the stage, his voice amplified by a sleek microphone.
Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer said, his grin visible even from the back. "Thank you for your patience. I believe we've kept you waiting long enough."
He reached for the velvet cloth.
Jake felt the air in the room turn heavy, like the atmosphere was being sucked out of a vacuum. Beside him, Lao Shi's hand went into his pocket, gripping his own talisman firmly.
"Jake," the old man whispered.
"Yeah?"
"If things go sideways... don't worry about the shoes. Just run."
"Way ahead of you, Gramps."
The cloth came off. The Orb sat on its pedestal, pulsing with a faint, sickly violet light. For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then, the bidding began—and with it, the feeling that the floor was about to drop out from under them.