The medical wing was never quiet.

It smelled like antiseptic and ozone, steel and stubborn survival. Equipment hummed along the walls—machines designed for bodies that shouldn’t exist, injuries that shouldn’t be survivable, patients who refused to die out of spite alone.

She was already there.

Gloved hands steady, movements efficient, attention fixed on the task in front of her. Blood had been cleaned. Wounds assessed. Whatever needed stitching, stabilizing, or rerouting was already underway. She didn’t look up when the doors slid open.

Black Manta was the first to break the silence. “I told you that blast was within tolerance.”

“It was not,” Lex replied coolly, scanning a monitor. “Your vitals disagree.”

Sinestro folded his arms, grimacing as a diagnostic light passed over him. “This is precisely why I warned against improvisation.”

Harley, perched on a nearby gurney, swung her legs. “Aw, c’mon, Batsy—” she paused, squinting at Lex, “—okay not Batsy, Baldy. We lived! That’s a win!”

Grodd growled low in his throat, clearly irritated at being confined at all. “Release me. I am healed.”

Lex didn’t even glance at him. “You will be when she says you are.”

The woman adjusted a setting. Checked a readout. Moved on to the next patient without ceremony, without acknowledgment, without wasting time on egos that bled just as easily as anyone else’s.

They quieted as she worked.

Not out of fear—but experience.

Because this wing wasn’t a battlefield or a throne room. Power didn’t matter here. Schemes didn’t either. Only precision, competence, and the unspoken understanding that if she stopped moving, things would get much worse very quickly.

The League of Doom conquered cities.

But when they were broken, burned, or barely holding together—

They ended up here.

On her table.

And every single one of them knew better than to interfere.