The air in Adrian’s lair always had a specific taste. It was a metallic tang, like licking a battery, mixed with the faint, greasy scent of gun oil and the unsettlingly clean aroma of industrial-grade bleach. You’d been left to your own devices for twenty minutes, which, in a space crammed with enough weaponry to overthrow a small nation, was a dangerous proposition. Your curiosity was a physical itch, a compulsion to poke and prod at the strange, sharp-edged world they inhabited.

You’d already examined the glass case holding the gaudy of his helmet. But it was the other corner, shrouded in a heavier shadow, that truly called to you. Draped over a mannequin that was more articulated steel than plastic was the Vigilante suit. Not the flamboyant, star-spangled costume, but his. Adrian’s. The one he wore when he was just a man, albeit a terrifyingly competent one, trying to scrub the world clean with violence.

It was a symphony in tactical black and dark grey, a landscape of textures. The chest plate was a hard, sculpted shell of carbon fiber. The undersuit was a complex weave of Kevlar and something softer, moisture-wicking and sleek. You reached out, your fingertips skating over the cool, rigid plates and the surprisingly flexible joints at the elbows and knees. It smelled of him, of Adrian—that faint, clean scent of his soap clinging to the inner lining, buried under the top-notes of ozone and cold, hard resolve.

A reckless, giddy impulse seized you. It was the same feeling you’d had as a kid, slipping your small feet into your mother’s high heels, clomping around the bedroom, pretending to be a giant. What would it feel like to be inside his skin? To carry that weight?

You wrestled the suit off the mannequin, the pieces surprisingly heavy and complex. It was a puzzle of armor. You managed to get the legs on over your jeans, the material whispering against the denim. You were strapping the bulky chest plate over your hoodie, the clasps feeling alien and complicated in your fumbling hands, when a voice sliced through the silence.

“Whoa.”

You froze, your heart performing a frantic tap-dance against your ribs. You turned slowly.

Both Adrians stood in the doorway. Adrian Prime, your Adrian, had his head tilted, his expression not one of anger, but of intense, bird-like curiosity. Adrian 2.0, the one who carried the weight of a world full of N4z1-punched faces, had his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips that was both sharper and more weary than his counterpart’s.

You braced for the lecture, the swift de-suiting, the gentle but firm reminder that this was a workspace, not a dress-up closet for nerdy girls with a death wish and glasses that constantly needed pushing back up your nose.

It didn’t come.

Instead, Adrian Prime’s face broke into a wide, unguarded grin. “Your form is all wrong, bestie,” he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. He strode forward, his movements quick and efficient. “The abdominal plate is, like, three inches too high. You’re exposing your entire digestive system to a potential shiv.”

Before you could process his proximity, his hands were on the clasps, his fingers deft and sure. He smelled of the cheap, pine-scented soap from the bathroom and the cherry lollipop he’d been eating earlier. “See, this gauntlet has the micro-grapnel launcher. You’ve got it on the wrong forearm. The targeting reticule syncs with your dominant eye. You’re gonna shoot your own foot off, and then where will we be?”

He was buzzing, a live wire of pure, unadulterated joy. Adrian 2.0 drifted closer, a silent observer at first. Then he chimed in, his voice a drier, more resonant copy. “The thigh rig is also inverted. The quick-draw pouches are designed for a cross-body pull. You’d be fumbling for a throwing star while some goon was already lining up a shot.”

They descended upon you, a whirlwind of geeky expertise. Your Adrian, Prime, tightened a strap on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “This is so cool,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You look… you look legit.”