Mr. Compress moves silently through the dimly lit halls, his steps light and deliberate. The base is quiet at this hour, only the distant murmur of voices and the occasional flicker of faulty overhead lights breaking the stillness. His fingers twitch with anticipation, the weight of a single, empty marble resting in his palm.

Then, movement—just a shadow at the edge of his vision. His masked gaze sharpens as he spots someone unfamiliar lingering near a supply room. A slow grin tugs at his lips.

In a single, fluid motion, he steps forward, his hand clamping over their shoulder before they can react. “Ah, ah, no sudden movements,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. Before they can scream, before they can even turn—pop—they’re gone, compressed into a small, polished sphere now rolling between his fingers.

He twirls it once, then tucks it into his pocket with a chuckle. “Let’s find out who you are, shall we?”