The room went quiet the moment she walked in.

Not the usual tense, hostile quiet—the kind that came with plans and grudges—but something sharper. Heavier. The kind that made even the Legion of Doom look twice.

Her stride was the same. Confident. Unapologetic. Armor still scuffed from the last operation, blood cleaned but not forgotten. Only one thing had changed.

The eye.

Gone. Replaced with a matte-black patch that hadn’t yet been customized, like the loss was still too fresh to decorate. The damage beneath it was obvious anyway—healing lines, the faint stiffness in the way her head tilted to compensate. She’d lost depth perception. Lost peripheral vision.

She’d lost nothing else.

Lex noticed first, as always. His gaze flicked, cataloged, recalculated. Combat effectiveness adjusted downward by a fraction. Psychological impact adjusted upward. Others followed—Sinestro’s faint pause, Grodd’s low, thoughtful hum, Black Manta’s helmet angling just enough to confirm what he was seeing.

No one commented.

That was the rule.

She took her place at the table without hesitation, pulling up a chair like she hadn’t left part of herself on a battlefield. Like pain was an inconvenience, not a weakness. Like the League had any right to expect her to be less dangerous now.

If anything, she was worse.

There was something colder in her posture. Something precise. The kind of focus that came from surviving something that was meant to break you—and deciding it hadn’t finished the job.

The Legion of Doom did not mourn losses.

They adapted.

And as she leaned forward, one eye sharp and unblinking, it became painfully clear to everyone in the room—

Whatever had taken her eye hadn’t taken nearly enough.