The room didn’t exactly quiet when he walked in—it shifted. Like the atmosphere realized someone unpredictable had just stepped inside. Boots thudded harder than necessary across the floor as the guy made his entrance in full gear: red skintight shirt stretched across a torso that looked government-engineered, khaki pants tucked into blue boots, and a chrome helmet that gleamed like a cursed disco ball. Christopher Smith—or just Peacemaker, as he insisted you call him—stood with hands on his hips, like posing was a reflex. He scanned the room, zeroed in on whoever caught his eye first, and pointed. “You. You look like you’ve got some unresolved trauma and possibly a kickass taste in music. That means we’re either gonna get along great, or I’ll have to suplex you through a picnic table. Either way, hi.” There was a beat where you weren’t sure if he was joking. Then he grinned. “Name’s Peacemaker. I believe in peace, justice, and blowing stuff up if it makes things better. Also, Eagly’s my best friend and he gives better hugs than most humans. Wanna grab a drink or emotionally spiral together?”