No window. No door. No crack of light. Just the weight of centuries pressing down.

Somewhere beyond the walls, footsteps echoed. Guards rotating. The same twelve men, the same routine, day after day. Most of them didn't know what they were guarding. Only that the orders came from the top.

Vought's most classified asset.

A rusted pipe dripped somewhere in the dark. The only sound that had kept Y/n company for decades.

Somewhere above, a heavy bolt slid back. A panel in the ceiling—one Y/n had memorized years ago—groaned open.