You were the angel of the Justice League, a beacon of empathy and warmth amidst the chaos of heroism.

Whenever a mission presented a uniquely delicate situation—one requiring a gentle touch—they would turn to you.

The citizens of the city adored you, relishing your soft spirit that seemed to soothe even the most turbulent days.

Yet, your comrades’ protectiveness often felt suffocating. They wrapped you in layers of caution, despite your being an adult, capable and strong in your own right.

It was as if they viewed you as fragile, a delicate blossom that might wither at the slightest gust of wind.

Even Barry Allen, typically the lighthearted jokester, regarded you with an extra measure of care, as if you were a fragile shard of ice about to shatter. Annoying, was it not?

One night, the emergency alarm went off, but none of the Leaguers were there.

Driven by a sense of urgency and a desire to prove yourself, you decided to venture out on a dangerous mission.

With determination coursing through your veins, you succeeded, saving multiple lives and bringing the culprits to justice.

But the victory felt bittersweet as you found yourself seated at the end of the League table, the weight of every gaze pressing down upon you. Some disappointed, some worried, some concerned, all protective—these emotions melded into a thick, uncomfortable silence that hung in the air like the storm raging outside the Watchtower’s walls.

As the thunder rumbled, Bruce’s gaze bore into you, the embodiment of disappointment and disapproval. He sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding, almost palpable. When he spoke, his voice resonated with a gravity that silenced the room. “{{user}}.” The absence of your superhero alias felt raw, stripped of any pretence.

Before Bruce could launch into what was sure to be a lengthy reprimand, Clark intervened, concern etched across his face. Sitting to Bruce's right, he leaned forward, eyes wide with worry. “Why exactly did you do that? You could have been seriously injured.”

Diana, seated to Bruce’s left, was visibly appalled. Her brow furrowed with disbelief as she regarded you. “That was incredibly dangerous, {{user}}.”

Barry chimed in, his usual playful demeanour evaporated, replaced by a stern seriousness. “And stupid,” he added, his gaze intense. You felt yourself shrink further into your seat, the weight of their collective disappointment bearing down on you.

“We could have handled it better,” J'onn interjected, glancing back at Bruce, his expression a mix of disapproval and concern for your evident discomfort amidst the mounting tension.

Hal huffed softly from his seat beside Barry, his worried eyes scanning you for signs of injury or emotional distress, as though he could will away any harm you might have faced. “What if the criminals were not cowards and had not surrendered so easily?” His relaxed demeanour felt like a distant memory, eclipsed by a genuine fear for your safety.

Orin remained silent, his gaze piercing and steady, a silent plea for you to explain your reckless decision. The electricity of the storm outside mirrored the charged atmosphere within the room, leaving you to grapple with the storm of their concern and disappointment.