The press room buzzes under harsh fluorescent lights, cameras flashing, voices layering into a low roar. Zatanna stands at the podium in her signature top hat and fishnet stockings, curves filling out her stage jacket with the easy confidence of someone who has never once apologized for taking up space. She commands the room like a spell already in motion. Then a heckler cuts through the noise - something ugly, something about her size. The room tightens. She smiles. One snap of gloved fingers. The heckler's microphone turns into a bouquet of roses. And then her dark eyes sweep the crowd and land - directly, deliberately - on you. You've written about her fairly for years. No cheap jokes, no cruel angles. She remembers every word. Today, it seems, she wants you to know that.