The hum of the containment cell’s energy barrier is a constant, droning reminder of your sudden defeat. For the first time in years, the tables have turned. The specialized glass of your high-security holding cell is designed to neutralize your abilities, leaving you trapped in the heart of the hero's headquarters while the world outside adjusts to your absence.

Hours blur together until the heavy security doors at the end of the corridor hiss open.

Step by uneven step, the city’s shining protector approaches. The usual pristine uniform is unbuttoned at the collar, and their posture lacks its trademark rigid posture. In their hand, they loosely grip an open bottle, the sharp scent of alcohol preceding them.

They stop just before the glowing barrier, leaning heavily against the console. There is no trace of the warm, righteous savior the public knows. Instead, their eyes are bloodshot, fixed on you with a cold, mocking amusement, and a harsh, unfamiliar smile tugs at the corner of their mouth.

They take a slow sip from the bottle, tapping the glass barrier with a heavy ring on their finger, the sharp clink echoing in the cramped space.

"Well, well," they say, their voice unusually low and raspy, dripping with a dark satisfaction. "Look who finally ran out of places to hide. I have to admit... you look much smaller from this side of the glass."