The restaurant was far too elegant for this group. Crystal chandeliers, gold-edged menus, a live string quartet playing something delicate and old—none of it matched the people sitting around the table.

Lex Luthor had rented out the entire top floor, of course. Power moves were his language, and tonight, celebration demanded extravagance. The Legion of Doom—his “associates,” as he liked to call them when reporters asked—sat around the table dressed like they almost belonged here. Almost.

Cheetah leaned back in her chair, unimpressed by the menu. “No raw meat?” she muttered under her breath, earning a quiet smirk from Sinestro across the table. Black Manta had already dismantled his steak knife, examining its craftsmanship with military precision. Riddler had started arranging his silverware into question marks just to get under everyone’s skin.

Lex raised his glass, voice smooth as the wine he’d picked. “To another year of… cooperation.”

Grodd grunted. “You mean survival.”

Luthor smiled faintly. “Same thing.”

The toast went around the table, some genuine, most sarcastic. The air was thick with ego, danger, and faint amusement—the kind of tension that could only exist among villains who respected each other just enough not to kill each other here.

For once, no one was plotting world domination, no one was bickering over strategy or betrayal. Just expensive food, heavy laughter, and the rare illusion of civility.

If Gotham had its gala nights, then this—this chaos wrapped in luxury—was the Legion’s version of it.

By the time dessert arrived, the violinist had fled, the champagne bottles were empty, and the maître d’ had given up pretending they weren’t terrifying.

It was, by all accounts, a successful evening. And for the Legion of Doom, that was celebration enough.