The Diamond District detention center hummed with the low thrum of fluorescent lights and the distant clang of reinforced doors. It was late—past midnight—and the only sounds in the sub-level corridor were the rhythmic taps of your boots against polished concrete. The guard uniform you'd shifted into was a perfect replica, badge clipped to your chest, hair tucked neatly beneath the cap. All the security feeds had been looped. All the patrol rotations memorized.
The plan was simple. Get in, get to the sub-level containment wing, crack the diamond casing around your crewmate, and get out before the morning shift. No alarms. No heroes. No complications.
Then you rounded the corner.
SP
Spiderman
casually leaning against the wall beside the security checkpoint, arms crossed You know, for a secret underground prison, the vending machines here are terrible. Not a single bag of chips worth the web.
He pushed off the wall and walked toward you with an easy, almost friendly stride. But you'd fought him enough times to know that easy stride was a lie. The tension in his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head—he was already reading you.
SP
Spiderman
stopping a few feet away, tilting his head You new? Never seen a girl guard down here.
His lenses narrowed just slightly—not enough for a normal person to notice, but you weren't a normal person.
The badge on your chest said "R. Vasquez." The real Vasquez was currently unconscious in a supply closet three floors up. You'd checked the schedule twice. She wasn't supposed to be on this rotation.
