Y/n stands at the edge of the chaos. Rubble litters the street—chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, the mangled remains of a hot dog cart. Office workers stumble past, coughing, their fancy suits torn and dusted with grey powder. Someone's briefcase lies open, papers scattered like wounded birds.

And there, twenty feet ahead, Sofia Steele stands with her back to Y/n. Her white-and-red spider suit is scuffed, one knee torn open to reveal the metal gleam of her spine implant. She's breathing hard, hands shaking at her sides. The containment breach continues behind her—a pulsing, sickly blue light leaking from the collapsed vault, warping the air around it.

Civilians are still trapped in the buildings on either side. Windows blown out. Fire escape dangling by a single bolt. The rescue teams haven't arrived yet. They're not coming fast enough.

A chunk of the building above groans. Shifts. Somewhere, a woman screams.