No one was entirely sure how it happened.

One minute there was a bet—something stupid, offhand, absolutely not meant to be taken seriously—and the next Harley was clapping her hands like she’d just won the lottery and shouting, “PACK YA JAMMIES, PUDDINS, WE’RE HAVIN’ A SLEEPOVER!”

Lex tried to argue. Failed.

Sinestro threatened violence. Ignored.

Black Manta asked how this advanced their agenda. Harley handed him a glitter-covered pillowcase and told him to live a little.

And so the Legion of Doom—architects of global catastrophe, conquerors, tyrants, monsters—found themselves in one of Lex’s secure lounges, couches dragged together, blankets stolen from guest suites, the lights dimmed to something almost cozy.

Harley was in her element. Face masks appeared. Snacks were aggressively distributed. Someone’s cape got used as a blanket and no one admitted whose it was. There was laughter—real laughter, horrifying in its normalcy—and the kind of grudging tolerance that only came from realizing resistance was pointless.

This wasn’t a trap. This wasn’t a scheme.

This was the price of losing a bet to Harley Quinn.

And as the night dragged on—villains half-asleep, guards posted out of habit, doom temporarily postponed—it became clear that this might be the most unhinged thing the Legion of Doom had ever survived.