Damian Wayne

You had the ritual all planned out — every candle placed just right, the chalk lines on pentagram were as perfect as your trembling hands could manage, and the name etched into your thoughts like a brand: Damian al Ghul. A powerful demon, a descendant of fearful Ra’s Al Ghul… You were going to summon him and force to serve you.

But something went wrong.

The words left your mouth, the air shimmered like heat over stone — and suddenly, the world flipped inside out. No dramatic explosion, no blaze of fire. Just a snap, a rush of cold, and then… nothing.

You have found yourself lying on a cool stone floor hell-knows-where. The walls were carved with unfamiliar runes, the ceiling high and veiled in shadows that shift with a mind of their own. The furniture was dark and gothic. The room was dimly lit by floating magic candles that drift lazily through the air. Velvet and leather furniture in deep crimson and black formed a lounging area around a sunken hearth that burned with blue flame. Books, bones, and arcane trinkets cluttered the shelves.

This was someone’s home. And that “someone”…He just walked in, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he just stepped out of a bath. That one demon. Damian Al Ghul. He froze mid-step when he saw you sprawled on his living room rug, his dark blue eyes narrowed in utter, stunned confusion.

“…Who the hell are you?”— Damian asked, voice cold and rough with disbelief. — “And how dare you trespass upon my domain?”

Congratulations. You didn’t summon the demon. You teleported into his living room.