[Third Person's PoV]
Vantasma clutched his artistic tools with a firm, resolute grip. His eyes narrowed with concentration as he dipped his brush into the palette, swirling the colors together with delicate precision. Within seconds, the hues blended into a vivid emerald green that shimmered faintly with ghostly light.
Danny and Dick stood by, watching in wonder as the ghost artist lifted his brush and traced a perfect circle in midair. Fluid, sweeping lines followed, curling around the perimeter like vines in motion, giving the illusion of movement and energy coalescing in real time. The space within the lines began to ripple, and then, with a soft hum, the air shimmered and parted like a curtain.
Before them, a glowing green portal crackled into existence, radiating a spectral glow that cast soft shadows on their faces.
Vantasma turned toward them, his eyes bright with pride and said, "Here. This will lead you out of this place."
Danny and Dick exchanged looks—relieved, grateful. A genuine smile tugged at both their lips.
"Thanks, Vantasma," Danny said, jogging forward. His shoulders visibly loosened with the thought of finally getting out of that unnerving place.
Dick chuckled softly and patted Vantasma's beret with a friendly gesture. "Appreciate it," he added before stepping through the portal. In the blink of an eye, he vanished into the swirling green energy.
Vantasma lingered for a brief moment. A smile touched his lips—small, content—before he followed after them.
But the calm shattered in an instant.
As they emerged from the portal, the three froze. Before them stood an employee of the event, poised in the middle of the storage space, clutching a priceless vase in both hands. The man's eyes locked on them, wide and unblinking. The room was filled with heavy anticipation, but everything felt still in that instant.
Clearly, the auction had already begun—and they had just crashed it.
Danny reacted without thinking. Panic surged through him, and before anyone could speak, he punched the employee square in the face. The man dropped like a stone, the valuable vase slipping from his grasp.
Danny lunged forward and caught it midair, cradling it like it was made of glass— Probably because it was.
"Danny…" Dick hissed, watching the unconscious man slump to the floor. "What the hell was that!?"
"I panicked, okay?!" Danny snapped, his voice a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. He gingerly placed the vase on a nearby table as if afraid it might crumble.
"You know what, that's fair," Dick admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly, I probably would've done the same."
Danny blinked at him. "Then why the judgmental tone earlier?!"
"No reason," Dick shrugged, "I was just shocked by how fast you knocked the guy out. It was... efficient."
Their bickering was interrupted by a sudden whoosh—the portal behind them shut off with a soft hiss, the air now heavy and quiet.
They turned to see Vantasma standing still, his gaze locked on a painting displayed nearby. It was large, once vibrant, but now… haunting. Deep red hues twisted through the canvas like bleeding wounds, and distorted figures seemed to press outward from within the image.
Vantasma stared for a long moment, unmoving.
When Danny opened his mouth to speak, Vantasma spoke first, voice low. "I don't remember it ever looking this bad… The original was beautiful. It depicted the almond tree in blossom."
"Maybe after all those people got trapped inside," Dick suggested, his tone thoughtful. "Their spirits must've warped the painting. Death has a way of staining things."
Vantasma gave a silent nod. That explanation made sense—especially since the two rosebuds in the center were now withered and rotting, standing in stark contrast to the rest of the blossoms.
He took a breath and stepped forward. "Even if I can't fix or enhance the work of an artist… The least I can do is restore the artist's original vision."
Vantasma raised his brush once more. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the old paint flying, cleansing the bristles. The brush shimmered, colors vanishing until only black remained.
He pressed the tip gently against the canvas.
In an instant, all the distortion and spiritual residue were sucked into the brush like ink into a sponge. The corrupted reds faded, replaced by soft whites and pastel blues. Blossoms bloomed again on the branches, bringing Van Gogh's vision back to life.
The brush now pulsed red—filled not with paint, but with trapped souls and corrupted energy.
Danny took a cautious step closer. "What are you gonna do with that?"
Vantasma looked at the brush, his expression contemplative. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I'll probably release it somewhere safe… somewhere it won't hurt anyone."
"Or…" a new voice cut in, soft but distinct, "you could give it to me."
Danny and Vantasma snapped to attention. Danny instantly shifted into a defensive stance.
Dick blinked in confusion. "What? What are you two staring at?"
"You don't see her?" Danny asked, pointing toward a display case.
Seated casually atop it was a woman neither of them had noticed before. Her skin was pale—almost unnaturally so—like porcelain. Her black hair was cropped just above her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless black tank top, with a silver ankh hanging over her chest.
She leaned forward, chin resting atop her hand. Her eyes, though ancient, were kind. Her smile was calm, serene—peaceful in a way that made Danny's heart skip a beat. There was something final, something eternal, in her presence. And yet… it wasn't menacing.
She felt inevitable, yet oddly gentle.
Danny's lips parted, and with Vantasma at his side, they both breathed the same name in reverent unison:
"Death."
Dick's expression grew increasingly concerned. "Death? What do you mean death?! And why did you both just whisper that?" He took a half-step back, eyes darting around the room as he began bombarding them with questions. "Why can't I see anything? Are we in danger?"
A soft, melodic chuckle drifted through the air, light and warm, but tinged with something ancient. The woman sitting atop the display case tilted her head ever so slightly and smirked. "Seems I don't need to introduce myself then," she said, her tone amused. Her attention shifted to Danny, and her next words sent a chill down his spine. "Hiya, Daniel. I've had my eye on you for quite some time now."
Danny stiffened, his eyes widening in alarm. A lump formed in his throat at the weight of her gaze.
But then, to his surprise, she suddenly burst out laughing and waved her hands in front of her. "Oh no, I'm sorry! I just wanted to say something ominous like that at least once to someone. It sounded so much cooler in my head."
Danny blinked, his tension faltering. He chuckled—awkwardly, hesitantly—more out of survival instinct than genuine amusement. He got the sudden fear that not laughing might offend her, and offending Death didn't sound like a good idea.
Dick, still squinting and completely lost, frowned. "Wait, can I not see her because I'm not a ghost or something? You said 'Death.' Does that mean I'd have to… you know, die to be able to see her?"
"She says you're right," Danny said, turning toward him. "She's not letting you see her yet. Says she's... shy."
"Shy?" Dick echoed, bewildered, then rolled his eyes. "Great. Wonderful really, 'Death' is shy, is she?"
Death giggled and winked at Danny. "Tell him it's nothing personal. I do like him, really. I just prefer to keep things mysterious."
Danny nodded and relayed the message, although Dick still looked like he had a lot of questions that he was forcing himself to save for later.
"My parents and sister—" Danny began to ask suddenly, voice trembling with urgency and hope, but the rest of the sentence seemed to have died in his throat.
Death's expression softened into one of sorrowful understanding. She looked at him with heavy eyes. "Forgive me," she said quietly, "but I'm not allowed to answer most of your questions. I can't give you the reassurance you're looking for."
Danny's voice cracked. "Why not?"
"I just… can't," she answered, her voice low and filled with regret. She wished she could tell him everything, but a promise was a promise. One she had made long ago to her brother. And not even Death could break that vow.
Danny lowered his head. "Okay," he whispered. "Sorry." He didn't even know what he was apologizing for—perhaps for asking too much, too soon—but the words came anyway, carried on guilt and desperation.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Death replied gently, her voice like a warm breeze on a winter morning. Comforting, even if it couldn't erase the pain.
Dick continued to watch the interaction in silence, unable to hear Death's side of the conversation, but reading Danny's emotions loud and clear. He stepped slightly closer to his friend, silently offering support.
Then, Vantasma stepped forward, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Why are you here, Mistress?"
Death turned to look at the small ghost artist and smiled brightly. "Oh my gosh, aren't you just the cutest little thing?" she cooed, beckoning him closer and gently patting the top of his beret-clad head.
Vantasma froze at the gesture, unsure if he should be honored or horrified.
"To answer your question simply," Death continued, straightening up, "I'm doing my job. It's true—I've had my eye on you, Daniel. You're... quite the enigma. A soul who has died and yet still lives, existing between worlds. Naturally, I find that very interesting."
Her gaze slid toward the ghost brush in Vantasma's hand—the one still pulsating with red light, heavy with the souls of the lost. Her smile faded into something softer, something almost mournful. "And then I saw you struggling—unsure what to do with the spirits that have fallen out of the natural order. So, I decided to step in."
She stepped down from the display case and approached slowly, each step light, almost without sound. Her eyes remained fixed on the brush.
"You can leave them to me," she said gently, her tone filled with solemn kindness. "I'll make sure they rest peacefully. It's the least I can do for them."
The brush quivered slightly in Vantasma's hand, as though it could sense her presence. As though it recognized its rightful destination.
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