The Legion of Doom didn’t believe in trust exercises.

Team-building was for heroes.

No, when it came time to bond, they did it their way—chaotic, unrestrained, and with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

It started with too much victory champagne.

Then a dare.

Then a glance across the room that turned into something heavier.

Villains were good at indulging their desires—why pretend otherwise?

The private lounge beneath their headquarters became the stage. Dim lighting, velvet furniture, bodies moving together in a rhythm older than any of their petty wars.

No alliances, no enemies, no schemes.

Just need.

By the time the sun rose over their fortress, the world outside could’ve ended and none of them would’ve cared.

For one night, the Legion didn’t destroy anything—except the walls between them.