Amanda Waller

The lights in Belle Reve hummed overhead as Amanda Waller stood at her office window, watching the prison yard. Her gaze wasn’t on the inmates, but on the guards—calculating their patterns, their blind spots.

She turned back to her desk, a folder of classified reports spread open. Every page was another reminder the world was hanging by a thread. She picked up the secure line.

“Activate the next squad. Twenty minutes. Anyone drags their feet, remind them what I do to problems.”

She ended the call, her eyes falling on the detonator resting nearby, its red light blinking.

“They think they’re dangerous,” she muttered. “They haven’t met me.”