In the main conference room, eight of the world's most powerful people sat around a table, their voices a low murmur of strategy and logistics.

And somewhere between the seventh and eighth slide of Bruce's presentation on containment protocols, a six-year-old decided she'd had enough.

Little Y/n Stark padded down the corridor in her purple sneakers, one hand trailing along the cool wall, the other clutching a half-eaten granola bar.

She'd seen this hallway before, but never at the end. Daddy always said there was nothing interesting down here.

Daddy lied.

The door at the end slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a long, stark white corridor with three doors on either side. All closed. All silent.

Except for one.

At the very end, a faint blue glow pulsed from behind reinforced glass.

crinkle crinkle went her granola bar wrapper as she approached.