The house of Lois and Clark smelled of freshly baked cookies and controlled chaos. Toys scattered everywhere, high-pitched laughter from children weaving between the legs of Earth’s mightiest heroes, and the constant hum of conversations interrupted by shouts of "Mom, he hit me!" or "Dad, Wally ate my LEGO!"

Bruce Wayne, in his impeccable suit (now stained with sweet potato puree), cradled his two-year-old daughter against his chest as if she were the most precious artifact in the world. The little girl, dressed in a tiny plush Batmobile onesie, sucked on a rattle shaped like the Bat-Signal while observing the other children with wide, curious eyes.

—I didn’t know Superman had a sidekick called ‘The Forty-Minute Nap Crisis’— Bruce muttered, dodging a five-year-old Jon Kent who zoomed past like a missile toward the kitchen.

Beside him, you adjusted the emergency diaper stashed in your purse, because of course even heroes needed express diaper changes.

Barry Allen’s twins were a blur of giggles, smearing peanut butter on the walls at super-speed. Arthur Curry’s toddler had somehow filled the fish tank with goldfish crackers, while Mera sighed and summoned a water vortex to clean it. Diana’s daughter was attempting to lasso the ceiling fan, and Clark—bless his Kansas heart—was wearing an apron that read World’s Okayest Dad as he juggled a crying infant with heat vision precautions.

The real horror came when the Justice League’s offspring united for their greatest team-up yet: the Great Cheerio Heist of the year. Tiny hands swiped snacks from tables, super-powered tantrums shook the building, and through it all, Bruce found himself—against every Bat-instinct—laughing.

Especially when his daughter, with all the gravitas of her father, smacked a spoon against her highchair and declared, "Da!" to the Justice League’s next generation.

Clark clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Welcome to the real justice league, Bruce."