[Third Person's PoV]
Batman and Robin stood atop the rooftops of Crime Alley, the cold night air stirring their capes as they surveyed the structure across the street. The moon hung high overhead, casting long, pale shadows over the grimy alley below.
Hovering silently beside them, defying gravity with ease, was Danny—arms crossed, white hair faintly glowing in the darkness, his green eyes fixed on the target ahead.
Both Batman and Robin held compact green-lensed binoculars to their eyes—customized tech that allowed them to track heat signatures inside the decrepit building. Through the lenses, they could see it all: armed men patrolling the hallways, crouching behind crates, perched near windows—dozens of them, twitchy and on high alert.
"It's definitely a trap," Robin muttered, narrowing his eyes. He placed one boot up onto the ledge, leaning forward. "They're locked and loaded… They're expecting us."
Batman grunted softly, his silence as grim as always, yet his eyes remained sharp and calculating behind the cowl.
Danny floated forward slightly, his gaze locked onto the building. His expression had hardened—quiet intensity replacing his usual levity.
"Actually…" he said slowly, "if you two don't mind, I'd like to handle this one myself."
Robin's head snapped toward him. "What? Are you serious?" he hissed. "There's like twenty of them in there—and they're ready for us! You want to walk in there alone?"
"That's exactly why I should," Danny replied, calm and resolute. "They're expecting you and Batman. They won't expect me coming in solo. That gives me the element of surprise. And besides…" he glanced down at his glowing hands before curling them into fists, "this one's personal. I want to see how far I've come. How I measure up. And it's not like I'll be completely alone—you'll still be watching. I'll know you've got my back if it goes sideways."
Danny turned to look up at Batman. His tone softened. "Please. Let me do this."
Batman looked at him for a long moment. He said nothing at first. Just stared—examined—read every twitch of Danny's posture, every nuance in his tone. In that moment, Bruce didn't see Danny Phantom, the ghost-powered teen with unpredictable abilities. He saw himself—a younger version, filled with determination, fire, and a desire to prove himself capable.
"…Very well," Batman said at last, his voice quiet but certain.
Robin's head whipped around, mouth hanging open. "You can't be serious—?!" he whispered harshly. "You're letting him go alone? They most likely have weapons designed especially for him"
Batman didn't even flinch. "We'll intervene if we need to. But with Danny's current capabilities, he should be able to handle this encounter. This could be a form of training for him. He needs to develop his instincts, to sharpen his control. What he needs is field experience more than anything. This is a chance to do so in a controlled setting. We'll be observing the entire time."
He turned back to Danny and gave him a nod. "If you're confident… proceed."
Danny responded with a respectful dip of his head. "Thank you."
He began to fade.
Literally.
His body shimmered and slowly became translucent, vanishing into the air like smoke. Only the faintest outline remained—just barely visible through their heat signature lenses.
"I'm off," Danny said softly, then floated forward, phasing across the street without making a single sound.
He didn't rush into the building. Instead, he stopped just before the wall, hovering close to its surface. His ghostly hands began to glow brighter, neon green energy curling along his fingertips. He placed both palms on the building's outer wall, closed his eyes, and furrowed his brow in concentration.
"What's he doing now?" Robin whispered, watching through his binoculars with confusion.
Batman's expression darkened slightly. "Wait."
Seconds later, the lights inside the building began to flicker. Sporadic at first—then violently. Bulbs sparked, buzzing erratically. Then, like a wave, the lights surged bright—too bright—before exploding. Sharp pops echoed in the night, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
Inside the building, chaos erupted.
"What the hell?! The lights are out!"
"They're here!! Be on alert!!"
"Eyes open! Don't panic—just keep your guns up!"
"They fried the whole damn system!"
Men stumbled in the dark, bumping into walls and each other. Gun barrels swung wildly, fingers twitching over triggers. Panic was beginning to take root.
Without a sound, Danny phased through the front door, slipping into the building like a ghost. The hallway was pitch black. Dust hung in the air. Only the dim glow from outside cast faint shadows.
Immediately, Danny spotted a row of armed men ahead—lined up down the corridor, flashlights trembling in their hands. One of them caught sight of him.
"There!! Target spotted!!" the man shouted, his flashlight beam locking onto Danny like spotlight.
Danny stood perfectly still in the center of the beam, his body shimmering faintly in the glow. Guns were raised. Fingers poised.
Then… he smiled.
"Boo~," Danny whispered, and with that single word, the flashlight died with a fizz. Darkness swallowed the corridor whole.
Outside, Batman and Robin saw it happen. Through the binoculars, the building lit up briefly with bursts of gunfire—scattered flashes blinking through the windows.
Then came the screams.
Not the kind of screams that come from injury or combat—but from terror. Sheer, paralyzing terror. Men shouting incoherently. Pleading. Fleeing. Weapons clattered against the floor.
Robin's shoulders tensed, a chill crawling down his spine. "What the hell is he doing in there…?"
Batman didn't answer. His binoculars stayed trained on the building.
But in the shadows behind the cowl, Batman allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to form.
Inside the darkened building, chaos had taken hold.
Flashes of gunfire momentarily illuminated the narrow hallways—brief glimpses of a grinning phantom darting through the chaos like a vengeful spirit. One second, the men could see the distorted outline of a boy's face in mid-air, sharp canines bared in a feral smile—then nothing but darkness again, pierced only by the ghostly glow of two piercing green eyes.
Danny was barely visible, his translucent body blending into the shadows. He weaved through the corridors with terrifying speed, phasing through gunfire, fists, and even the walls themselves.
With a flick of his wrist and a blur of movement, Danny sent grown men flying across the hallway like ragdolls. One punch was enough to shatter ribs, send weapons clattering, and leave groaning bodies crumpled against cracked walls. His movements were wild, unpredictable—imperceptible.
And all the while… he laughed.
A chilling sound that echoed unnaturally through the building. It wasn't just his voice. It was layered, warped—as if multiple versions of him were laughing in a different plane, overlapping into the same moment. It bounced off walls, drilled into their ears, and clawed at their sanity.
Gunfire erupted again.
Danny didn't flinch.
He raised his hand, and emerald beams of ectoplasmic energy burst from his palms—melting weapons on contact, the metal liquefying and spilling onto the ground in steaming puddles. One man screamed as the barrel in his hands turned to sludge and burned their hands.
Danny grabbed him with his ghostly tail, wrapping it around his leg and slammed him against the wall hard enough to leave long jagged cracks, before flinging him across the hall into two more thugs trying to retreat.
Another turned to run towards him with a knife, only for Danny to phase through him, grab him by the head, and launch him overhead. The man slammed against the ceiling, dropped to the ground with a dull thud—and didn't get up.
Danny's laughter grew darker. More distorted. Hollow.
"Come on," Danny whispered in a voice that wasn't entirely his, "don't die yet. I'm just getting started."
He raised both hands. Ectoplasmic energy surged around his limbs. Desks, chairs, metal cabinets—all began to tremble. Then they lifted, hovering in the air as though pulled by strings. Danny's hands twitched—and the possessed furniture shot forward like missiles, slamming into the panicked men and knocking them across the hallway, crushing some under the weight.
Screams filled the air.
One man aimed a flashlight at him—just as Danny extended a glowing hand.
The light died instantly.
The hallway went dark again.
More screaming.
Danny's ectoplasmic aura expanded, and with it, so did his reach. He began lifting people. Men screamed in horror as their bodies were seized by invisible tendrils of energy, hoisted up like marionettes. They flailed helplessly as Danny slammed them into the floor, walls, ceiling—again and again. Bones cracked. Cries turned into gargled sobs. Blood painted the cracked plaster.
Without pause, Danny phased upward through the ceiling to the second floor, ghost tail trailing behind him.
More thugs opened fire from the shadows—bullets tore through the hallway like a storm.
But Danny didn't dodge.
He floated still, eyes glowing, arms outstretched as if to welcome the attack.
The bullets froze in the air.
Wrapped in a web of ectoplasmic energy, every round hung suspended around Danny, dozens of them, spinning slowly in midair.
Then… the clips clicked empty. Hollow, mechanical click-click-clicks echoed through the dark.
Then silence.
Danny grinned.
The energy around him dissipated. The bullets all dropped to the floor, raining down in a metallic cascade that rang like ghostly wind chimes around him.
"Heheheh~" Danny's laughter came again—quieter this time, more intimate. His pale face appeared for a second—his smile twisted into something manic, his glowing green eyes curved into crescent moons beneath his hands.
Then he vanished.
Completely.
Not a shimmer. Not a flicker.
Only the laughter remained—echoing louder and louder, overlapping with itself like a broken record. The sound warped and bent into something inhuman. And beneath it, a deeper, mixed with ghostly wail, a ghostly keening that buzzed through their skulls like nails across glass.
"F-Fuck this shit! I'm out!!" one of the men screamed, panic overtaking his senses as he bolted for the stairs.
He made it two steps.
A flash of green—a pull—and he was ripped backward, his body slamming into the concrete wall with a sickening crunch before he collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Hahahahahahahaha!!"
Danny's voice echoed through the halls, growing more erratic.
"You can't leave yet!"
"I haven't finished playing!"
"I haven't finished having fun!!"
Then:
"You can't leave…"
"You can't leave…"
"You can't leave…"
The voices repeated, distorted, glitching like a broken transmission—each one more unhinged than the last. The walls vibrated with his growing voice.
The last thing many of the men saw was Danny's glowing face flashing for an instant—twisted in wicked glee—before being slammed through doors or even ceilings. Some tried to leap from windows in a desperate attempt to escape, but Danny would snatch them midair, dragging them back in as though reeling in prey.
No one escaped.
Not until Danny was done.
Dean Cooper stood with his back pressed against the wall, his entire body taut with fear. His trembling hands clutched an advanced-looking firearm—its sleek design glowing with violet energy, humming softly with power. The gun looked like something out of a science fiction movie, custom-built to deal with one thing: ghosts.
And tonight, that was exactly the nightmare stalking the halls.
He brought one shaky hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the panicked breaths that slipped through his fingers. Sweat clung to his skin despite the cold. His heartbeat thundered in his ears like war drums, drowning out everything but the gut-twisting screams on the other side of the door.
Men he had known for years—killers, thugs, mercenaries—were howling like they were being torn apart. One after another, the voices fell silent, swallowed by a cacophony of laughter that didn't sound human. It echoed as if it came from every wall and nowhere at once—distorted, wrong, layered with something inhuman beneath the pitch.
Dean's knees almost gave out as he pressed his back harder against the wall near the door, his breath shallow and rapid. His weapon shook in his grasp. He knew what that laughter belonged to. And worse—he knew who it was for.
'It's here for me… It's here for me.' He repeated over and over again, unknowingly scaring himself further.
The screams were dying out now. All that remained was that warped, manic laughter.
Then… nothing.
A sudden silence fell over.
Dean's eyes snapped open, his throat tightening. The eerie quiet was worse than the screams. It was a silence that weighed down on the soul, a silence that made your imagination run wild. Still gripping his gun, he slowly—agonizingly—reached out toward the doorknob.
He tried to steady his breath. In. Out. In. Out.
His fingers touched the knob, cold as ice, and turned it. With painstaking slowness, he opened the door an inch—then two—and peeked into the hall.
And froze.
Bodies.
Dozens of them.
His men lay strewn across the corridor like discarded dolls. Some were sprawled across the floor in twisted heaps. Others slumped against the walls, unconscious, unmoving. A few hung from the stair railings as though they'd been flung there by invisible hands. Blood was smeared on the walls, mingling with broken glass and dented furniture. Not a single one responded to his movement or made a sound.
But the worst of it—the most horrifying sight—was floating at the center of it all.
There, hovering just above the ground like a specter of death, was him.
Danny.
His silhouette was backlit by the pale moonlight seeping through a cracked window, his body draped in darkness except for the faint shimmer of his ghostly form. His tail gently swayed beneath him like a serpent coiled in midair. He hovered with a disturbing stillness, arms hanging low in front of him, head down, his back facing Dean.
He looked like a puppet without strings.
Dean's fear spiked, but he clenched his jaw, his terror morphing into desperation. This was his chance. The thing wasn't looking at him. Maybe, just maybe, he could get the drop on him.
He raised the gun slowly, arms steadying as he took aim. His finger hovered over the trigger.
But before he could fire—
Danny's head twisted around slowly. Not just turning—it lulled, unnaturally, like it was disconnected from his spine.
His glowing green eyes locked onto Dean's.
And then came the smile.
Wide. Cruel. Unsettling. Viscous, glowing green saliva dripped slowly from the corner of his stretched lips. The substance shimmered in the moonlight like acid.
Danny didn't say anything.
He just grinned.
Dean's breath hitched.
Then—
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" Dean screamed as his fear exploded into panic. He pulled the trigger and unleashed a stream of violet energy from his gun in a wild barrage.
But Danny was no longer there.
He disappeared in an instant—vanished into the shadows.
Then… he reappeared. Closer. Off to Dean's left.
Dean jerked, swinging the weapon toward him.
Gone again.
Danny now hovered to his right, even closer. His smile hadn't faded. If anything, it had grown wider.
Dean's panic rose as he tried to track him. His heart thudded in his chest like a jackhammer.
Danny vanished again and again, reappearing closer and closer.
Until…
This time, he appeared right in front of him.
Face to face.
Dean gasped.
All the breath left his lungs as he found himself inches away from Danny's face. The boy's eyes glowed like radioactive lanterns. His smile was twisted—unnatural—and now Dean could see up close the thick, green drool dripping down his chin like slime.
"Hello, Dean~" Danny cooed in a sickeningly sweet voice. "Just the person I was looking for~"
Dean's scream shattered the silence like glass. A long, primal cry of pure terror erupted from his lungs, echoing through the corridor, rising above the stillness and the bodies.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
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