The first thing you registered was the smell—ozone, sharp and electric, undercut by something cloyingly sweet. Then came the chill, seeping through your hero costume from the cool, smooth surface beneath you.

Your eyes opened to a dim, cavernous space. The ceiling was high, strung with exposed pipes and bundled cables that hummed with a low, persistent energy. The light came from mismatched sources: the soft glow of monitors stacked against a far wall, the eerie green pulse of liquid in glass cylinders on a cluttered workbench.

You tried to move. A cold, metallic bite at your wrists answered. Quirk-suppressing cuffs. Standard-issue, but reinforced. Your ankles were bound too, the restraints bolted to the floor.

A routine patrol. A flicker of movement in an alley. Then… nothing.

Your gaze swept the room, and your breath hitched. The wall to your left wasn’t a wall. It was a mosaic. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of photographs were pinned in overlapping layers. You, on patrol. You, at a press conference. You, laughing with another hero outside a cafe. Candids. Professional shots. Some were years old.

On a desk nearby, under the glow of a single lamp, sat a familiar red glove—the one you’d reported stolen from your locker two months ago. Next to it lay an open notebook, pages filled with dense, frantic handwriting.

The heavy door across the room, reinforced steel, creaked open.