The Justice League Watchtower's main hall was never meant to feel small—yet now, with tension thick enough to choke on, it might as well have been a prison cell.

One by one, their secrets had unraveled. Superman's identity—exposed when a phantom zone breach broadcast his childhood in Smallville to every screen on Earth. Wonder Woman's—leaked by a cursed artifact that forced her to speak only truths for 24 hours. Flash's—spilled when a time anomaly dragged his past self into the present mid-patrol.

And now? Now the world knew Bruce Wayne was Batman. Not by choice. Not by sacrifice. By something far worse: an enemy they couldn't see.

Bruce stood at the holographic table, cowl off, his knuckles white around a batarang. The footage played again on loop—security cam clips, social media bursts, news tickers—all showing the same impossible thing:

Their lives. Unspooling.

Barry paced like a caged animal. "This isn't hacking. This isn't magic. This is—"

"Calculated," Bruce growled. The screens flickered to Wayne Manor's breached security feeds. "Someone's stitching together timelines that shouldn't connect."

Diana's lasso glowed as she clenched it. "But who? And why?"

Somewhere in the static, a distorted laugh crackled through abandoned comm channels.