Clark, calm and composed. Beside him, Jon Kent mirrored his father’s posture—more boyish and less confident, but eager. Bruce was the only one cloaked in shadows despite the sunlight, silent as stone. Around him: his sons—Dick, sharp in Nightwing blue with an easy charm; Jason, arms folded, eyes like loaded guns under the Red Hood; Tim, calculating and calm, Red Robin’s gear sleek and efficient; and Damian, scowling already, hand on the hilt of his katana. Diana radiated regality, her arms bare and braced. Donna, stood to her right, braced and ready. Barry—paced restlessly, his nervous energy filling the room. His children, Don and Dawn, grinned at each other, playful but poised. Hal floated just off the ground, his ring glowing faintly. Beside him, his son Martin leaned against the wall, trying to act like the whole thing wasn’t cool. J'onn was quiet, yet contemplative. Megan floated beside him, fingers interlocked, calm but curious. Arthur, trident across his back, looked as ocean-solid as ever. His son, Arthur Jr., looked up at him, a smaller mirror with a trident of his own. Oliver cracked a joke under his breath that made Dinah smirk. Their son, Connor, stood between them, calm and measured. Zatanna, cape draped and her daughter—Whitney—in deep violet, was unmistakably her child. John, the sentient android, stood still—yet aware. His adoptive daughter, Traya, stood by him with her head high, proud and undeterred. Cyborg, though childless, stood like the bridge between generations.