The League of Doom had faced gods, monsters, and the end of reality more than once.

This was different.

“She’s cycling again,” Lex said quietly, eyes on the monitors, voice clinical but not unkind. “Stress-triggered. It was inevitable.”

Across the room, Sinestro crossed his arms. “I don’t care which version shows up,” he said sharply. “She’s still one of us.”

Harley perched on the arm of a chair, expression unusually soft. “Yeah,” she chimed in. “Different flavors, same cupcake. Don’t be weird about it.”

Black Manta’s helmet tilted slightly as he watched her from a distance. “Operational risk?”

Lex didn’t hesitate. “No. She adapts. Always has.”

Grodd snorted. “Her mind is fractured.”

“And yet,” Lex replied coolly, “she’s saved this team more times than you have.”

The woman stood near the window, posture calm, expression distant—eyes focused inward on something none of them could see. She didn’t respond to the discussion circling around her. Didn’t need to. They’d learned not to demand consistency from her, only honesty in action.

“She’s still her,” Harley added, quieter now. “Just…more of her.”

Plans adjusted. Roles shifted subtly. Not because they feared her—but because they respected the reality of how she existed in the world. The League didn’t flinch when her moods changed or her focus sharpened into something colder, stranger.

They adapted.

Because love, even among villains, wasn’t about simplicity.

It was about staying.

And no matter which version of her stood in the room that day, the truth remained the same—

She was theirs.

And they weren’t going anywhere.