The Legion of Doom had toppled governments, hijacked satellites, and burned their enemies out of existence. But on Tuesday nights, they painted.

Lex claimed it was “an exercise in discipline of the mind,” though everyone knew he liked the control of running an art studio as much as he liked running a boardroom. Long tables were laid out with easels, brushes, and palettes—some high-end, some suspiciously stolen from Gotham museums.

Cheetah preferred bold strokes, claws scraping across canvas in sharp reds and golds. Sinestro approached his work with mathematical precision, every brush angle perfect, every line calculated. Black Manta, helmet still on, painted only in shades of black and blue—no one ever asked why.

And then came the subject matter: nude portraits. Rotating models, sometimes volunteers, sometimes… less willing. There was no shame in the room, only rivalry. A contest not of power, but of perspective. Who could capture flesh, curve, and shadow with the same ruthlessness they applied to conquest?

Villains painted. Villains argued. And Lex? Lex never picked up a brush—he simply judged.

Because even in art, there had to be a winner.