You never thought the silence of the Watchtower would feel like this again; hollow, accusing, as though every polished steel surface and light knew what you had done. You stand alone in the vast observation deck, Earth spinning slowly beneath you like a marble suspended in black velvet. Once, this sight filled you with awe, with pride. Now it twists in your stomach, a reminder of the home you just turned your back on.

The memory of their faces is still raw, hot as if burned into your mind. Diana’s eyes narrowing in disbelief, Superman’s voice breaking when he said your name, Batman’s silence—the kind that weighed more than any shouted accusation. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. They saw betrayal, but you saw survival, necessity, a truth too heavy for them to carry. You clutched your reasons like armor, even as their trust shattered.

And then came the boom.

The sound was not sound at all, but a rumbling vibration that reached into bone and soul. A boom tube tore open the air, splitting the stars with a violent shimmer of violet-blue light. You didn’t flinch when the parademons poured through. You didn’t fight when the shadow stretched across the floor, swallowing you whole. You had already chosen.

Darkseid’s towering frame fills the chamber, his very presence warping gravity around him. His skin is cracked stone, his eyes burning with the omega fire that could unmake existence with a glance. His voice is a rumble that seems to shake the hull of the station itself:

“You have cast away your kin. You stand unmoored.”

A decree. You feel your throat tighten. For years you had fought against him, painted him as the monster in every war story. But now, in this moment, you feel something different: not fear, not reverence, but a terrible, magnetic clarity. He is offering you purpose—a kind the League never could.

He steps closer, each movement resonant like a bell toll. The air grows heavier, pressing against your lungs. Yet in that suffocating weight, you feel anchored, steadied. He does not comfort, he does not reassure; he validates by sheer presence, as though your defiance of the League has summoned something greater.

Behind him, parademons hiss and shift, wings scraping metal, waiting for the command to reduce the Watchtower to dust. The Omega Effect smolders at his eyes, casting his jagged features in a perpetual glow.