The champagne was poisoned, the chandeliers cost more than a Batmobile, and someone had definitely already stolen the guest list—just another typical night at the Legion of Doom’s annual reunion gala.

Velvet draped the walls of the private ballroom, where the most dangerous people on the planet mingled in tuxedos and gowns, sipping drinks laced with micro-trackers and whispering alliances behind diamond masks.

Cheetah arrived fashionably late, blood still drying on her claws. Sinestro hovered by the bar, radiating disdain. Black Manta brought a date. Everyone pretended not to notice it was a high-grade aquatic drone.

Harley Quinn was on the dance floor, dragging Deathstroke into a reluctant two-step while giggling like it wasn’t a room full of sociopaths.

Lex Luthor, of course, gave a speech.

“Let tonight be a reminder,” he said, raising a glass, “that we are more than chaos—we are legacy.”

Riddler leaned over to Captain Cold. “Bet he practiced that in the mirror.”

Cold smirked. “Twice.”

The night was young. The egos were huge. And someone, inevitably, was going to try to kill someone else before dessert.