The lair is silent except for the low hum of machinery, a sound that vibrates in your bones and sets your teeth on edge. You stand at the edge of the room, your back to Nemesis as you fiddle with the tools on his workbench. The cold steel bites into your fingertips, grounding you, reminding you why you’re here. The air smells of oil and electricity, sharp and metallic, and every breath feels like swallowing knives. You hate this place. You hate him. But most of all, you hate the way your heart races whenever he’s near, a traitorous mix of fear and something else you refuse to name.

Behind you Nemesis, leans against the console, his arms crossed, his masked face tilted just enough to catch the glow of the holographic map floating in the air. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting. It takes everything in you not to turn around, not to let him see the fear in your eyes. Instead, you focus on the task at hand, sliding the tiny data drive into the port of his main system. The device clicks into place, and you hold your breath, waiting for the soft beep that signals the transfer has begun.

“You’ve been working hard lately,” he says, tilting his head as if studying you. “Late nights, early mornings. It’s almost… admirable.”

Your pulse quickens, but you keep your expression neutral. “Someone has to keep things running around here.”

“True,” he says, his lips curling into a smirk beneath the mask. “But tell me, do you ever stop to think about why you’re really here?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. Does he know? Has he always known? You search his face for any sign of suspicion, any hint that he’s toying with you, but his expression is unreadable. Those cold, calculating eyes bore into yours, and you feel like he’s peeling back every layer of your carefully constructed facade.