The Watchtower’s conference hall gleamed with sterile light — chrome, glass, and quiet hums of machinery that screamed order. The Justice League was gathered, the usual roll call of gods and legends seated around the long obsidian table. At the head, Bruce Wayne sat with the stillness of a loaded weapon. Beside him, Oliver Queen leaned back in his chair, deceptively relaxed, one boot crossed over the other.

It had been a routine strategy meeting — funding allocations, repairs to the teleportation grid, a proposed expansion for the global alert network. The kind of talk that usually ended with Bruce signing something and Oliver covering whatever the Bats didn’t.

Then Hal Jordan spoke.

He wasn’t trying to start anything — not at first. He’d just muttered, half under his breath but loud enough to carry: “Maybe it’s time the League learned to stand on its own — you know, without two billionaires babysitting us.”

The room stilled.

The kind of stillness that sinks sharp and heavy, pressing into the air like weight.

Bruce didn’t move. Oliver’s smirk faltered, just slightly. The faint hum of the lights above felt deafening.

Hal glanced up, oblivious. “I’m just saying — we’re supposed to be heroes, right? Not a business venture.”

Clark shifted in his seat. “Hal—”

But it was too late. The words had already found their oxygen.

“I mean, come on,” Hal continued, digging his own grave. “We’re the Justice League, not Wayne Enterprises. Maybe we’d be better off not depending on money to save the world.”

A few chuckles. Nervous. A few nods. And then — because someone always did — another voice joined in. “Yeah. It’s not like the rest of us can’t pull our own weight.”

Oliver’s jaw flexed. Bruce’s gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.

You sat back in your chair, pulse picking up as the tone shifted. Diana’s gaze darted toward Bruce, then Oliver. Even Clark looked uneasy, glancing between them as if already sensing the coming storm.

But neither billionaire spoke.

Not yet.

Instead, Oliver let out a quiet laugh. It was sharp, humorless — a single, dangerous sound that echoed across the glass walls. “Pull your own weight?” he repeated, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “Cute.”

No one breathed.

Bruce finally looked up. Just a flick of his eyes, but it was enough — the kind of look that could strip armor from a god.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, voice like a blade drawn slow from its sheath, “you should start by pulling the funding required to keep the Watchtower operational.”

Hal blinked. “That’s not—”

But Oliver was already standing. “You’re right, Jordan. You don’t need babysitters.” He tugged his coat straight, the movement smooth, deliberate. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Oliver,” Diana began, her voice low, warning, but he just gave her a look — something almost disappointed, almost tired.

Bruce rose too. No cape this time, no theatrics. Just a man in black, eyes like flint. He didn’t say another word.

The two of them walked out in perfect silence. The sound of the door hissing shut behind them was louder than any explosion.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Barry, voice small and incredulous, whispered, “...Did we just get fired?”

Clark exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “No, Barry,” he said grimly. “We just made a mistake.”

The silence after that felt like gravity itself — heavy, unrelenting, and full of everything unsaid.

And from your seat near the end of the table, you could feel it settle over everyone: The realization that the League — gods, aliens, metahumans — had just driven away the two men holding their world together.