The League of Doom had adjusted their operations around a lot of things.

World-ending threats. Ego clashes. Unstable alliances.

Narcolepsy had been… an unexpected variable.

She sat at the conference table, chin propped on her hand, eyes focused—until they weren’t. One slow blink too many, shoulders slackening as sleep took her mid-breath, mid-presence. No warning. No drama. Just out.

Lex didn’t even look surprised.

“Pause the presentation,” he said calmly.

Black Manta glanced over. “She just fell asleep.”

“Yes,” Lex replied. “That happens.”

Sinestro frowned. “In the middle of a briefing?”

Harley leaned over, peering at her face with exaggerated concern. “Aww, look at her. She’s doin’ the lil sleep thing again. That’s, like, her third nap today.”

Grodd growled. “Is she compromised?”

Lex shot him a look. “She neutralized a metahuman strike team two hours ago and rewired your psychic dampener yesterday. No. She is not compromised.”

As if on cue, she shifted slightly in her chair, breathing even, body relaxed in a way none of them ever truly managed. Someone—no one admitted who—draped a jacket over her shoulders without waking her.

“Do we wake her?” Black Manta asked.

“No,” Sinestro said sharply. “She’ll wake when she needs to.”

Lex tapped his tablet, rerouting the agenda. “We proceed. She’ll catch up. She always does.”

And she did.

They’d learned that her condition didn’t make her weak—it made her precise. Efficient. Ruthless with her energy when she was awake. Plans adjusted. Timelines flexed. Guards doubled when needed.

The League of Doom didn’t mock it. Didn’t resent it.

They adapted.

Because when she was conscious, she was indispensable.

And when she wasn’t—

They protected her rest like it was part of the mission.