The Fractured Dawn
The Watchtower alarms never stop anymore.
Radiation? No. Ectoplasm.
Every reading points to one man.
Batman.
Superman corners him in the observation deck.
“Bruce,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t slept in three days. Your heartbeat—it’s off.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine?” Clark’s eyes flare. “You’re phasing through the floor.”
Bruce glances down. Frost curls around his boots.
He doesn’t even flinch.
When Wonder Woman arrives, she brings the lasso.
Truth burns bright gold around him.
“Who did this to you?” she demands.
“The King,” Bruce answers without hesitation.
Then, quieter: “I let him.”
The air chills.
“Why?”
“Because no one else could.”
Flash bursts in. “Hold up—you made a deal with a ghost god?!”
“Not a deal,” Batman says. “A pact.”
He touches the console.
Every global breach signal flat-lines—sealed.
Earth is safe.
For now.
But the lights flicker green. And when Bruce exhales, the breath that leaves him glows.
Later, in the shadows of the Cave, Alfred stands behind him.
“You’ve done something terrible, haven’t you, sir?”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
The mirror beside him shows two reflections—
one human, one shimmering with ghostlight.
Deep in the Infinite Realms, the King sits on his throne of frost.
He feels the tether pulse—
a heartbeat not his own, beating in two worlds at once.
“Sleep well, Anchor,” he whispers. “You’ve bought them time.”
A pause.
“Now let’s see what they do with it.”
0 Comments