It was a trap.

Your comms died with a final, static shriek. Your photokinetic aura, a soft golden glow you always wore like a second skin, flickered and died under the dampening field that suddenly clamped down on the street.

The last thing you saw was Steve’s shield, a streak of red and blue, flying toward you as he shouted your name.

Then nothing.

You wake to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the cold bite of metal on your wrists and ankles. The room is dark, lit only by a single, dim panel in the ceiling. You’re on a narrow cot, dressed in plain gray fatigues. Your head throbs, a deep, drugged ache behind your eyes.

The door hisses open. A man steps inside. He’s tall, dressed in a crisp, black uniform without insignia. His hair is dark, his features sharp and calculating. He doesn’t smile.