At first, it was distracting.

The Legion of Doom was used to threats—caped, cosmic, catastrophic. They were not used to one of their own treating the common areas like a private runway, silk and lace where armor and menace usually lived. She moved through the headquarters with deliberate ease, heels clicking, fabric chosen less for utility and more for the simple fact that she could.

No apologies. No explanations.

Lex noticed immediately, of course. He adjusted sightlines, recalculated tolerance, then decided it wasn’t worth correcting. She wasn’t compromising security. If anything, she was weaponizing confidence. Typical.

Black Manta stopped reacting after the third time. Sinestro rolled his eyes once and then never again. Grodd learned to avert his gaze—not out of discomfort, but practicality. Distractions were inefficient.

And her? She reveled in it.

She leaned against consoles during briefings, crossed legs where shadows fell just so, smiled like she knew exactly how absurd it was—and how little it mattered. This was her space too. Power didn’t always wear armor. Sometimes it wore silk and dared you to underestimate it.

Eventually, the Legion adjusted.

They always did.

Because in a room full of villains who bent the world to their will, one of them choosing to prance around in lingerie just because she could wasn’t a weakness.

It was a reminder.

Control came in many forms—and she had mastered hers.