You stand inside a half-collapsed broadcast tower, the air thick with ozone and flickering static. Above you, the storm rumbles—low, constant, like a warning. Then a synthesized hum builds behind you. You turn.

He’s already there. Mister Terrific. No cape. No theatrics. Just black and gold tactical gear lined with tech you don’t even recognize, his iconic “Fair Play” jacket soaked from the rain, T-spheres hovering silently around him like digital ghosts.

His face is calm—too calm. Eyes scanning everything. Calculating. Judging.

“You're lucky he got here first,” *he says without looking at you. His voice is measured. Sharp. “I would’ve neutralized the threat. You would've just been... collateral.”

The T-spheres adjust, emitting a brief flicker of hard light as a holographic replay of the earlier attack floats in front of him—angles, energies, predictions, outcomes. He studies it all at once, eyes moving like a machine but soul very much human underneath.

You try to speak. He holds up a hand—like a teacher with no time for excuses.

“I know what you’re going to say,” *he interrupts, then finally looks at you. “And I already have three better versions of it.”

Then, his expression softens—just a fraction.