Lex Luthor insisted on structure—agendas, schedules, meetings. As if a room full of supervillains could be tamed with bullet points and coffee.

Cheetah was already on her third eye-roll. Black Manta hadn’t said a word since he sat down, helmet on, arms crossed like a sulking deep-sea statue. Riddler brought pastries—booby-trapped, of course—and Sinestro was arguing semantics with Gorilla Grodd over interstellar jurisdiction again.

And at the head of the table, Lex clicked his pen like a man on the verge of vaporizing them all.

“We need cohesion,” he said. “A unified strategy.”

Captain Cold groaned. “We need a drink.”

“You need to take this seriously.”

“We need therapy,” Harley chimed in, spinning in her chair, upside down and completely unbothered.

The meeting hadn’t even started, and already half the room was plotting an exit—or a coup.

It was going to be a long afternoon.