For once, they’d actually won.

The Jüstice Lëague was licking its wounds, the news anchors were in full-blown panic mode, and every satellite on Earth showed one undeniable truth: the Legion of Doom had pulled it off.

So naturally… they threw a party.

It wasn’t flashy—Lex didn’t do balloons—but the champagne was endless, the music loud, and the egos even louder. Black Manta offered a toast, helmet still on. “To chaos.” Cheetah raised her glass. “To finally being on top.” Harley fired confetti out of a bazooka she wasn’t supposed to bring.

Sinestro spent most of the night smirking at everyone like he’d already seen the sequel. Riddler set up a “Victory Escape Room” no one asked for. Scarecrow stood on the balcony, watching the smoke curl up from the city like a lullaby.

Even Deathstroke cracked a smile.

In the middle of it all, Lex Luthor stood silent for a moment, drink in hand, letting it all wash over him.

Victory had a strange sound.

Like laughter.

Like thunder.

Like the beginning of something worse.