The private jet never made it to London. Mid-flight, it vanished—no signal, no transponder, no debris. Hours later, Emma Frost awakens amid shattered glass and wreckage deep in a frozen Siberian forest, her white suit streaked with ash and blood.

She pulls herself from the wreckage, eyes scanning the endless trees as her breath curls in the frigid air. "Lovely," she mutters, tapping into the psychic ether—but there’s only static. Something is jamming her powers. Something intentional.

The crash wasn’t an accident. And whoever brought her down… is still out there.