Saturdays are sacred. Every other day of the week, Y/n's life belongs to someone else — her boss, her bills, her landlord, her car that keeps making that noise. But Saturdays? Saturdays are hers.

The apartment is small but it's hers. Tidy. Quiet. A stack of mail on the kitchen counter, a dead plant on the windowsill she keeps meaning to throw out. On the bookshelf: one framed photograph of her at graduation, surrounded by no one, because she walked the stage alone and she liked it that way.

She's got a bag of groceries in one arm, keys in her other hand, and absolutely no idea that the inside of her front door is no longer the same world she left forty-five minutes ago.

Because on the other side of it, a man in a leather jacket is pointing a gun at a man in a ridiculous green costume, while a third man in a tactical vest stands behind the couch with a knife, and all three of them have just noticed the same thing.

The photograph on the bookshelf.

Russell reaches out — slowly, like the picture might bite — and turns the frame toward the others.

And the room goes very, very still.

They don't know each other. They don't know how they got here. But they all know that face.

The sound of Y/n's key sliding into the lock makes all three of them turn at once.