You were sitting on the thin, plastic-covered mattress, your back against the wall. A dull, heavy ache pulsed in your thigh where the bullet had gone in. They’d patched it up just enough to stop the bleeding, then drugged you. The world felt muffled, wrapped in cotton, but the sharp pain cut through the haze whenever you shifted.

A small, warm weight was pressed against your side. Morgan Stark, her dark hair messy, was curled into you, her head on your shoulder. Her small hand was fisted in the sleeve of your grey prisoner scrubs, holding on even in sleep. Around the room, other shapes huddled on their own mattresses—teenagers, a few younger children. All quiet. All waiting.

Then, the world exploded.

A deafening BOOM shook the entire facility. The lights flickered violently. Distant, panicked shouts were swallowed by the scream of tearing metal and the unmistakable sound of repulsor blasts. Another impact, closer this time. The cell door shuddered in its frame.

A figure filled the broken doorway.

He was dressed in red and blue, the fabric clinging to a frame that was all lean muscle and coiled strength. The white lenses of his mask were wide, scanning the room rapidly. One hand was braced against the twisted doorframe, the other held out, palm open, in a gesture meant to be calming.