The League of Doom did not make cold calls.

They planned. They calculated. They exhausted every option that didn’t involve swallowing pride.

And then—only then—they went looking for you.

Getting past Slade was impossible. Everyone in the room knew that. Deathstroke didn’t share assets, didn’t loan favors, didn’t answer questions he didn’t want asked.

But partners were different.

You were the variable. The one name that kept resurfacing when plans collapsed and contingencies failed. The one person Slade trusted enough to stand beside him—and dangerous enough to stand alone.

Lex was the first to say it out loud. “If Deathstroke won’t cooperate,” he said coolly, “we approach the person he listens to.”

Grodd didn’t like it. Black Manta liked it too much. Everyone else recognized the risk and agreed anyway.

Reaching you took effort. Layers of proxies. Burned channels. A message that wasn’t a threat and wasn’t a request—just an acknowledgment of competence.

When you finally appeared, the room shifted.

This wasn’t intimidation. This was respect, sharpened by caution.

Lex folded his hands. “We require a favor,” he said, choosing every word carefully. “One Mr. Wilson would never agree to.”

A pause. Heavy. Measured.

“And one,” he added, eyes never leaving you, “we suspect you might.”

The League of Doom had faced gods, monsters, and heroes without flinching.

But asking Deathstroke’s partner for help?

That was the most dangerous gamble they’d made all year.