Curiosity is a child's natural instinct.
And older kids are no exception.
Jordan was a seasoned master of ancestral logic, Damian was a rebellious rich kid who claimed he couldn't even tell if a woman was pretty or not, and Jonathan—who by all rights should have been highly popular with the school cheerleaders—was a fitness fanatic who valued muscle over romance.
For him, even a rare moment of personal release had to be meticulously scheduled around high cortisol days solely to regulate his stress levels.
Women?
Women would only interfere with Jonathan's muscle synthesis, or worse, cause muscle loss. Heaven only knew if his complete deviation from typical teenage interests was entirely a byproduct of this bizarre mindset.
As these three clueless virgins huddled together, they were completely consumed by curiosity toward this "female angel" statue.
They had absolutely no idea that this seemingly abandoned "angel"—boasting remarkably well-defined pectoral muscles—was about to drag them directly into an unexpected nightmare that far exceeded the boundaries of their comprehension.
"This statue was sculpted so round... I mean, so exquisitely." Jordan, after all, had spent years suppressing his true nature under intense pressure. He was incredibly smooth with his words, but even after quickly correcting his slip of the tongue, he still couldn't resist reaching out to touch it.
As for where exactly he was reaching—it was that precise spot on statues in tourist attractions that inevitably gets rubbed completely bare by visitors. Whether it was merely a trick of his senses or not, Jordan felt a faint, distinct trace of warmth beneath his fingertips.
However, knowing he would be relentlessly mocked if he spoke up, he didn't dare mention his discovery. Neither Jonathan nor Damian had noticed Jordan's odd behavior just yet.
The two of them were completely occupied by staring in utter astonishment at the statue, which had suddenly raised its head.
"This statue was totally bowing its head a second ago, right?"
"Yeah, I distinctly remember it looking like it was hiding its face and crying. How did it just look up all of a sudden?"
"Could we have just misremembered it... What do you call it when a collective memory shifts like that? The Saddam Effect?" Damian, ever eager to appear highly sophisticated, tossed out a guess.
"I think it's called the Dracula Effect," Jonathan offered. As a student-athlete planning to get recruited into college via a football scholarship, his academic prowess was safely on par with Damian's.
With three fools putting their heads together, not a single one of them managed to get the name of the Mandela Effect right. Of course, since this was a gathering of academic underachievers, nobody actually cared about the technicalities.
"Whatever it's called, this statue is definitely a high-tier piece of art, and it looks incredibly valuable. If we can find the right channels, we could probably flip it for a massive price."
Jonathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes instinctively darting toward Damian. The Young Master of Gotham undoubtedly knew plenty of wealthy elites who loved collecting this exact brand of high-end art.
"I get it."
Damian appeared exceptionally "shrewd" at this moment. That small face, which was usually plastered with a rebellious and untamable scowl back in the Batcave, actually displayed a rare seriousness characteristic of a reliable business partner.
"Big Brother Jonathan, leave this matter entirely to me. I can definitely get it sold." Damian's emotional intelligence was firing on all cylinders; it seemed his rebellious streak was strictly a regional trait exclusive to his hometown of Gotham.
The moment he left that specific environment.
He instantly manifested a remarkable capacity for navigating social dynamics and interpersonal relations, a direct product of his high-society upbringing.
"..."
Jonathan hadn't actually intended to flip property that clearly belonged to someone else; he had merely wanted to gauge a rough estimate of its value from Damian. He was left entirely speechless by how smoothly Damian had taken the bait.
Damian remained completely oblivious to his confusion.
He continued to flex his sophisticated social etiquette. Seeing that Jordan was entirely captivated by the statue, continuously scanning it with looks of sheer awe and even reaching out to caress the smooth, icy stone surface, the Gotham heir leaned in closer. He lowered his voice, adopting an tone reserved exclusively for sharing deep secrets.
"Brother Jordan, I heard... that lunatic Joker somehow managed to get his hands on a real, living angel! He has it locked up inside one of his safe houses, tormenting it every single day!"
"What do you say? Let's find an opportunity to go rob him! Stealing from a monster like the Joker definitely doesn't count as a crime, right? We'll call it... eliminating a public menace and confiscating wartime spoils!"
A distinct hint of cunning that absolutely did not belong to a direct Wayne heir surfaced across Damian's face.
"Does that really not count as a crime?"
Listening to the conversation drift further and further into absurd territory, Jonathan couldn't resist cutting in. His wholesome, traditional values forged on a Kansas farm made him feel that stealing property—even from a visual psychopath like the Joker—was inherently a criminal act.
After all, just because the target was a criminal didn't mean they could completely disregard human rights.
Jonathan was the child whose moral compass aligned most closely with Clark Kent's.
A textbook, pure-hearted Kryptonian successor.
In contrast, the Gotham prince possessed a vastly different perspective. He cast a glance at Jonathan that practically screamed "you are still far too naive," before slapping his chest and offering an absolute guarantee.
"Don't worry! Just like every state has its own independent legal system, Gotham operates the exact same way! Gotham has its own laws!" His tone was utterly definitive, as if he were stating an immutable truth of the cosmos.
And perhaps, in reality, it genuinely was a fact.
"When my tyrannical corporate father was rewriting the relevant legal statutes and clauses, I was standing right beside his desk watching him do it! The legal framework explicitly includes a specific clause: Seizing illegally held hazardous or high-value items from a confirmed supervillain for the purpose of 'safekeeping' or 'resource reallocation' is deemed entirely lawful!"
Good grief.
Watching one's own father draft custom laws right in the comfort of their home.
What an incredibly niche family recreational activity.
Hearing this "Gotham Prince" openly declare that Gotham possessed its own constitution and that he had personally witnessed his father alter the law, Jonathan's jaw dropped. He felt his entire worldview taking a massive, catastrophic hit. He had a stomach full of arguments regarding the sanctity of the legal system and procedural justice.
But what could he even say?
This was simply the reality of America. This was the exact brand of freedom and democracy that defined the nation—if you didn't cook the citizens alive in a pot, how could you possibly call it a democratic society?
Possessing a steadily sharpening understanding of American civilization, Jonathan violently forced his brewing complaints back down his throat. Ultimately, his inner turmoil manifested as a deeply complex expression and a heavy, silent resignation.
This country wasn't supposed to be like this.
A sudden, suffocating weight settled deep within Jonathan's chest, leaving him feeling utterly blocked, though he couldn't quite articulate why. His mind abruptly flashed back to a proposal Ian had pitched to him after failing to brainwash Lois Lane.
Whether there was still enough time to change everything entirely depended on who exactly sat inside the Oval Office. Recalling Ian's magnetic, seductive words once more, Jonathan had to admit that his younger brother's rhetoric might actually hold a terrifying amount of merit.
"If there really was a president who could make America truly great for once..." Jonathan's inner thoughts grew incredibly conflicted. Yet, compared to Jonathan's deep existential concerns regarding the sanctity of the legal system...
Jordan's attention was glaringly focused on far more practical matters.
"The Joker is actually keeping an angel?" he muttered to himself. Then, as if a lightning bolt had struck his brain, his eyes flared with absolute realization.
"Ian runs a massive operation harvesting angels inside his factories! I'll bet anything the Joker sourced his merchandise directly from Ian! They probably even have a long-term commercial distribution agreement!"
Within his imagination—which occasionally conjured plot holes even wilder than Ian's—the concept of an "angel" had somehow morphed into a common commodity, seemingly no different from a broiler chicken raised in a commercial poultry farm.
"?????"
The sheer absurdity of the statement caused Jonathan to press a hand against his forehead in pure exhaustion.
"Satan is absolutely going to adore you."
He offered his brother a deeply heartfelt evaluation.
The oldest Kent brother genuinely believed that if his younger sibling had lived during the Age of Sail, he would have undoubtedly achieved spectacular success within the colonial trade networks, likely cementing himself as a notoriously prominent noble.
What on earth was wrong with these people?
Why did he have to be stuck outside in the dead of night with these two?
Damian and Jordan—one openly discussing custom Gotham legislation, the other treating divine angels as common trade cargo—were competing to see who could accumulate a longer prison sentence.
It was giving Jonathan, who firmly adhered to a relatively traditional moral code, a massive migraine. Consequently, he attempted to steer both of them back onto a righteous path.
"I think, considering we are all descendants of Justice League members, we ought to..." Jonathan began to earnestly preach, hoping to guide them toward establishing a proper sense of morality, values, and legal boundaries.
However, faced with Jonathan's diligent lecturing, Damian merely scoffed in open disdain.
"The law?"
A sneer of profound cynicism and maturity that looked entirely out of place on a boy his age surfaced across Damian's small face.
"Big Brother Jonathan, I have to say, you are far too naive. The legal system in America is, at its core, nothing more than an instrument of raw power designed to serve the wealthy elites and the ruling class."
He spoke with an eloquence that was chillingly realistic.
"The politicians sitting inside Capitol Hill drafting those laws love to scream about equity and justice, making insider trading strictly illegal. Yet behind closed doors, which one of them dares to claim they haven't made a fortune manipulating the stock market?"
"In reality, even the janitors working inside the White House manage to pull massive returns from the market! Do you think Warren Buffett would ever dare claim he's a financial god in front of those masters in Congress?"
His raw, unmasked critique of modern society—forged strictly from the elite perspective of Gotham and the Wayne family—acted like an icy needle, instantly popping the idealistic notions Jonathan held dear.
There was no room for denial.
Because what Damian was describing was, to a massive extent, the bleeding, undeniable reality. Jonathan opened his mouth, only to realize he was completely incapable of mounting a counterargument from any angle.
Defeated, he could only slap his hand against his forehead as a wave of deep, profound exhaustion washed over him. At this point, he simply wanted to sprint home, collapse onto his bed, and be left entirely alone with his thoughts.
"Does anyone happen to remember..."
Jonathan attempted to drag the conversation back to their original, relatively normal objective with a completely drained voice, "...that we came out here specifically to hunt for an abandoned, secondhand sofa?"
They still needed to transport Master Damian back in maximum comfort.
To this.
Jordan, who had originally initiated the logistics proposal, showed absolutely no intention of backing him up.
"Hold on a second, Big Brother." Jordan waved his hand dismissed, his focus still firmly locked onto the angel statue. His eyes flickered slightly, clearly plotting something.
"I want to... double-check first whether the owner of this estate genuinely doesn't want this item anymore."
As Jordan spoke, his gaze swept across the exquisite contours of the sculpture. "Even if... even if we can't flip it for cash... hauling it back to my bedroom... to use as a, you know, a custom decoration would be absolutely fantastic."
His tone carried a tiny, barely detectable hint of guilt.
Staring at his brother's shifty demeanor, Jonathan's heart skipped a beat as a terrible premonition flooded his mind. Had this kid's brain corrupted to the point where he was eyeing a solid stone statue because he lacked a proper silicone alternative?
'Yikes... Kryptonians...'
Since Damian was standing right next to them, Jonathan couldn't exactly expose Jordan's deeply unhinged inner thoughts out loud.
Seeing that nobody was actively stepping forward to stop him, Jordan ceased his hesitation. He took decisive strides toward the grand front doors of the lavish villa. Raising his hand, he brought his fist down heavily against the thick, solid wood panel.
*Knock! Knock! Knock!*
The sharp knocking sounds traveled an immense distance through the silence of the night.
Yet, inside the residence, a suffocating silence prevailed. There was absolutely no response.
No sound of footsteps, no voice calling out to inquire, and not a single light flickered to life.
"Maybe there's nobody home?" Jonathan stepped up, tilting his ear toward the door to listen closely before speaking to Jordan.
However, Jordan's brow furrowed tightly. His eyes, which had fully inherited the Kryptonian genetic traits, easily pierced right through the thick wooden barrier, taking in the full layout of the interior.
"No..." he lowered his voice, speaking in a register that only Jonathan's advanced hearing could capture, his tone laced with a hint of bewilderment. "I can see... someone is right there."
"There's a woman standing right behind the door... crouching down, curled into the corner... and her face... her face is completely flushed with guilt!" Jordan's x-ray vision had been unlocked for quite some time now.
He could see the scene inside the house with absolute clarity.
"Is that so?"
Hearing this, Jonathan was instantly taken aback.
Someone was home?
And they were actively hiding behind the door looking guilty?
No matter how one spun it, that scenario sounded incredibly bizarre.
"I've got it!"
Damian, who had been lazily kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk, perked up the millisecond he caught Jordan's words. Like a shark catching the distinct scent of fresh blood, he instantly bounded over in pure excitement!
"The homeowner is hiding behind the door looking guilty? Impossible! A typical wealthy citizen would have already marched out with a shotgun to drive us off their property or look for an excuse to hunt us down."
A look that practically screamed "I've deciphered the truth" instantly plastered itself across Damian's small face. He smacked his palms together, his voice jumping a full octave.
"There is only one absolute truth behind the scenario you just described!"
"The person hiding behind that door is definitely a burglar! They aren't the actual owner of this house!" He looked as if he had been possessed by a legendary master detective, launching into a chain of deductions with a profound sense of misplaced confidence.
"Everything aligns perfectly now!" Damian pointed a dramatic finger backward at the angel statue sitting along the curb, his tone absolute.
"This highly valuable artistic masterpiece was undoubtedly pulled from the house ahead of time by that very thief, who moved it to the curb so a getaway truck could easily haul it away later to flip on the black market!"
"Right now, he must still be inside ransacking the rooms for other valuable loot!" The more he spoke, the more seamless his deductions felt to his own ears. His face beamed with the sheer triumph of a detective uncovering the ultimate truth.
"We have to stop him! Drag him out into the open!" Damian's sense of justice—or more accurately, his absolute obsession with causing a massive scene—flared to maximum capacity. He violently whipped his head back, intending to point at the angel statue once more to serve as the structural anchor of his deduction.
However, the exact millisecond his head turned, the smug triumph and excitement plastered across his face froze instantly!
Damian's mouth hung half-open, his expression locking completely.
The remaining words died instantly inside his throat.
The angel statue, which by all rights should have been standing quietly on the roadside lawn a few meters behind them...
At this exact moment!
Had somehow, inexplicably, manifested a mere fraction of a distance away from them!
No, it wasn't just "close"!
That statue!
Was currently standing completely still on the pavement, less than three steps away from where they stood! It looked as though, during the precise window they were entirely focused on knocking on the door and debating the situation, it had silently and effortlessly... glided right up to them!
The pristine white stone body of the angel statue radiated a faint, ghostly shimmer under the dim glow of the streetlamp.
Its bowed head seemed to have... lifted just a fraction higher than before? The shadows masking the crevices between its clasped fingers appeared to have deepened significantly.
"What is going on here!"
Jonathan and Jordan both realized in an instant that their previous sensations hadn't been a trick of their collective memory at all. The statue, an object that should have been entirely inanimate, was genuinely altering its physical posture!
The statue could actually move!
It stood right there, within arm's reach, silently "staring" down the three teenagers who had crossed its path. Realizing something was deeply wrong, even Jordan—despite possessing a body built to rival Superman—couldn't help but flash through a dozen horror movie plots.
A bizarre, indescribable chill, resembling a faint electrical current, instantly crawled up the spines of all three boys.
*Hiss!*
The midnight street remained entirely devoid of sound, save for the rustling of leaves caught in the wind and the rhythmic, accelerating thumping of their own... heartbeats.
"Are we... are we literally being haunted by a ghost right now?"
"Don't scare me, Jordan! Stop leaning your weight on me! You're supposed to be a second-generation Superman!"
"I am a second-generation Superman... but... but I'm still terrified of ghosts! Ian explicitly told me! I have absolutely zero magic resistance!"
Just as the three boys' minds went completely blank from the statue's horrific displacement, their bodies freezing rigid as if locked in blocks of ice, a hurried, gravelly male voice heavily laced with the thick rasp of a chain-smoker violently cut through from the opposite side of the street.
"Watch out! Don't blink!"
The voice crashed down like a sudden thunderbolt, instantly shattering the deathly silence and violently dragging their nearly paralyzed cognitive faculties back into reality. Almost entirely by instinct, they violently whipped their heads toward the source of the sound!
Standing a short distance away was a man wearing a crumpled, rumpled trench coat, his tie completely askew, with a half-burnt cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.
He was currently navigating a low iron railing in an incredibly clumsy, ungraceful scramble. His face was entirely written over with sheer panic and a look that screamed he had just seen a ghost.
John Constantine!
"Do you know what this thing is? I'm pretty sure I've seen Ian draw a custom doujinshi comic starring you!" Although the three teenagers didn't recognize him personally, at this exact moment, any outside intervention felt like a miraculous lifeline.
However.
The exact millisecond their gaze drifted away, focusing entirely on Constantine.
"Bloody hell, you stupid kids! Didn't I just tell you not to look away?!" Seeing their reaction, Constantine's face drained of color instantly, and he launched into a string of furious curses.
His voice was packed to the brim with raw fury and blinding panic!
His warning had come a critical step too late. Or perhaps, from the exact moment these three boys had been firmly caught within the "sight" of that statue, the rules of engagement had already been irrevocably triggered.
It took only the fraction of a second required for Constantine's gaze to instinctively shift!
Within that precise window of crossed lines of sight, the exact moment their attention was diverted!
The angel statue that had been standing silently behind the three boys with its head slightly raised underwent a cataclysmic, horrific transformation!
It no longer possessed even a shred of that serene, praying or mourning disposition. Its entire frame resembled a vicious predator snapping awake from a deep slumber, instantly teleporting directly into the exact spatial coordinates the three teenagers had occupied a millisecond prior.
The hands that had been tightly clasped against its chest violently tore apart, its arms thrusting forward with five fingers splayed wide in an aggressive, lunging motion designed to touch or violently seize a target!
And because its head had snapped fully upright, its hands clearing away from its visage, the dim light finally permitted Constantine to see it clearly.
That face, which had originally appeared breath-takingly beautiful and sacred, was currently twisted into a display of pure, unadulterated ferocity! Its jaw had unhinged to an inhuman angle, revealing a cavernous maw packed with rows upon rows of jagged, razor-sharp shark teeth!
Where was the trace of angelic mercy or compassion? This was clearly a flesh-devouring demon birthed from the deepest trenches of the abyss!
As for the three teenagers—Jonathan, Jordan, and Damian—within that exact split second, they had vanished entirely from existence, as if they had been completely consumed by the demonic angel statue.
On the pavement, nothing remained except for the heavily altered, monstrous form of the statue, standing right before an entirely empty sidewalk. It looked as though those three living, breathing teenagers had never existed there to begin with.
"No!"
Constantine let out a low, ragged roar of pure dread. He felt a wave of absolute ice surge from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his skull, remaining completely oblivious to the fact that the cigarette dangling from his lips had fallen right onto the pavement.
Cold sweat began to seep rapidly from his forehead.
This reaction wasn't entirely born out of guilt or panic over his failure to save the three children in time. Rather, the primary driver was a crushing, suffocating pressure descending from above, causing his very soul to shudder in absolute terror.
*BOOM!!!*
An indescribable, monumentally horrific aura violently crushed down from the heavens! The trees lining the street bent at violent, unnatural angles, while dust, debris, and trash were instantly swept into a swirling vortex in the sky.
Even the concrete terrain beneath his feet seemed to vibrate in terror!
Before his eyes.
Superman descended from the heavens.
Furious and ferocious.