The Legion of Doom had gathered in many places—boardrooms, bunkers, hidden lairs carved out of mountainsides. But tonight? Tonight, their table was a polished stage and the lighting came in neon red.

Lex sat in the VIP booth like it was his throne, sipping whiskey while running calculations on the back of a napkin. Sinestro complained about the music, Grodd scared off two waitresses with a single glare, and Cheetah seemed more interested in the fight breaking out at the bar than the dancers on stage.

It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t conquest. It was downtime. Villains didn’t get much of it, and when they did, it looked like this—cash peeled from armored-car robberies, laughter that sounded more like growls, and the knowledge that Gotham’s underbelly belonged just as much to them as the Justice League’s shining towers did.

And in the haze of smoke and bass-thick air, the Legion wasn’t planning the end of the world.

They were just being…human.