You’ve learned something about Fisk Tower; everything polished, everything immaculate, and of course, everything controlled. Even the silence feels curated. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, Manhattan glittering far below like something unreachable. You’re high enough that the city feels too unreal.

High enough that escape feels impossible.

Your wrists ache from something biting into your skin. You feel it keeps your mutant abilities curled tight and useless. Kingpin doesn’t take chances, just collects power the way other men collect art. And right now, you’re part of the gallery.

You wait for the guard’s footsteps to fade.

Three breaths.

Four.

You focus and twist your wrists, teeth clenched as metal scrapes skin. Pain sharpens you. You’ve tried before. You’ll try again. You refuse to become another ornament in Fisk’s empire.

The dampener freezes just for a second.

It’s enough.

The lock on the balcony door snaps with a metallic crack as your ability surges weakly but decisively. Cold night air slams into you, sharp and glorious.

You run.

The corridor outside is too empty. Plush carpet muffles your steps. You almost make it to the service stairwell before something brushes the back of your head.

A whisper.

“Still trying?”

Her voice slides through the hallway like silk drawn over a blade. She leans against the wall ahead, one boot braced behind her, red hair spilling over her shoulders like spilled wine. She tilts her head, studying you.

“You’re making this a habit. I almost admire the persistence.”

You dart toward the stairwell anyway.

The air ignites. Flame blossoms along the walls in a controlled sweep, just enough to herd you back. Heat licks your skin, stinging and suffocating. You stumble, coughing.

She doesn’t move from her spot.

“You know,” Mary murmurs, stepping closer, “he wants you cooperative.”

Her gloved fingers brush your jaw, deceptively tender.

“But I’m not as patient as Mr. Fisk."