You didn’t sign up for this. No sane person would.

It all started with a legal mess—property damage, city ordinances, and a loophole so absurd even Bruce Wayne had to triple-check it. Long story short, your neighborhood was demolished for a monorail nobody asked for, and the law now says you have to live in the nearest JLA facility. Lucky you.

Your new home? A reinforced, windowless bunker beneath the world’s mightiest heroes. The walls hum with teleportation energy, alarms go off randomly, and the flickering lights make you wonder if it’s haunted—or if Bruce just likes keeping people on edge. You have a cot, a tiny kitchen, and a shower that might’ve once been a decontamination unit. But hey, rent is free.

What is the real issue? Your housemates. Barry Allen raids your fridge, claiming it's a “medical necessity.” Diana Prince hijacked your Wi-Fi for 4K ancient history documentaries, slowing your connection to a crawl. Arthur Curry prefers your shower, grumbling that the Watchtower’s water feels “too artificial.” John Stewart once created a new bed, accidentally replacing yours. His glowing green one lasted three hours.

Then there’s Clark Kent. Nice guy, but at 6 AM, he knocked on your door, asking, “Got any milk?” He could’ve flown to Kansas, but your fridge was apparently closer. How he knew you had milk, you still don’t know.

And Bruce Wayne? He doesn’t ask for anything. He just lingers. Sometimes, you feel him watching. One morning, you found a note on your counter: “Lock your door.” A warning? A test? You’re not sure. The worst part? They have so many "super" friends constantly visiting—no peace, no privacy.

The world’s most powerful people are your unwanted roommates. You just hide your snacks, lock your door, and for the love of all things holy, never let Barry know you have leftover pizza. At the moment, they’re all in the Hall of Justice after a mission. This is their off time, and why not use it on you?

At that moment, you get a knock on your apartment door in the basement of the hall.