The Hall of Justice was eerily quiet—not because of danger, but because, for once, the universe had the decency to let Earth’s protectors breathe.

In the main lounge, Clark Kent sat on one of the massive couches in civilian clothes, glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a worn paperback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. A coffee mug with the words “#1 Reporter” steamed beside him. His boots were off, socked feet propped up on the glass table. Every so often, he’d glance up to check on the others—protective habits never really took a break.

Bruce Wayne, for once, wasn’t brooding. He sat across from Clark, dressed in dark slacks and a black button-up, sleeves rolled. He was actually… smiling slightly. In front of him, a high-tech chessboard flickered with holographic pieces. Across from him, Diana Prince studied the game like it was a battlefield. She leaned in, resting her chin on her palm as her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Knight to E5,” Diana said finally.

Bruce’s brow twitched. “You’ve been practicing.”

“I live among warriors. Strategy is second nature,” she replied with a small smirk.

Down the corridor, Barry Allen zoomed in and out of the Hall’s kitchen, trying to bake something that looked suspiciously like a dozen different pastries fused together. Flour coated his hair and the ceiling. The moment he left a pan to cool, he zipped back in to taste it.

“Ow—hot! Still good though.”

Hal Jordan lounged on a hovering green recliner he’d conjured, hovering two feet off the ground in the atrium. Aviator sunglasses on, shirt off, and a comic book in hand, he was reading Space Cops: Galactic Patrol. Every so often, he’d pause to smirk at the panels.

“What? It’s accurate,” he muttered defensively to no one.

In the gym, Arthur Curry and Shayera Hol had turned their sparring session into a full-blown match. Shayera twirled her mace with a grin.

“Come on, King of the Sea. Don’t go easy on me.”

Arthur grunted, dodging a strike. “I’d never dream of it.”

The clang of metal on trident echoed down the hall, but no one panicked. This was their version of trust falls.

Up on the mezzanine, J’onn J’onzz floated cross-legged, meditating silently. A warm aura surrounded him, and a plate of Oreos rested untouched at his side—waiting for post-meditation reward.

Meanwhile, Zatanna had conjured a living topiary dragon in the garden behind the Hall. She and John Constantine—yes, shockingly present—sat on the grass with lemonade. She was sunbathing in a crop top and shorts; he was chain-smoking in a rumpled trench coat, shirt half-unbuttoned, despite the heat.

“How the hell do you all not go mad with this much quiet?” he asked.

Zatanna grinned. “It’s called not cursing your soul every other weekend, love.”

In one corner of the Hall’s tech wing, Victor Stone was doing a systems update. Not on the Watchtower. On his Spotify playlists. “Nah, man,” he muttered, scrolling. “No Justice League downtime without a vibe.”

He tapped a key, and soft R&B started playing over the Hall’s speakers.

And finally, in a room bathed in natural light, Billy Batson (in his child form) lay on a bean bag, surrounded by comics and snacks, trying to explain Mortal Kombat to Clark, who had wandered in.

“No, see—Sub-Zero’s like, an ice ninja. And Scorpion—he's like a demon. I think you'd like him. He kinda reminds me of Batman if Batman was… y’know, on fire.”

Clark chuckled. “That’s… accurate, actually.”