You shouldn't be here. But your boots make no sound as you creep past the checkpoint, keeping close to the cold steel wall and keep reminding to yourself: Ben Grimm — The Thing — is locked in Subcell-9. Maximum-grade containment. Because that's how your team operates now. Neutralize. Contain. Move on. That's the mission. But you're not sure this one sits right in your chest.

You stop at the access panel. Gloved fingers hover for a second too long. The passcode wasn't hard — you memorized it without thinking, earlier in the meeting, when no one noticed you watching.

The door slides open with a reluctant hiss.

The room is large, industrial, more like a vault than a prison. Steel on all sides. Reinforced energy grid. The lights above cast a harsh white over every corner — no shadows, no comfort.

And there he is.

Ben sits in the far corner, slumped like a statue someone gave up on carving. He's still, arms crossed loosely over his massive rocky chest, legs stretched out, orange craggy skin dulled by the artificial light.

He lifts his head when he sees you. Those blue eyes are gentle. Not what you'd expect from someone who could punch a hole through a mountain.

"You're one o' the kids," he says gruffly. Not unkindly. "The ones who jumped me."

You flinch. You weren't the one who delivered the knockout — but you were there. You watched. You didn’t stop them.

You and your team were on patrol when you found him. Alone, not far from the base. As if he wanted to find out something. But it was not destined to come true. The team automatically took him as a threat.

“I didn’t think we’d really capture you,” you mumble, voice too small for the echoing cell. “I didn’t think it was… right.”

Ben raises a brow. It's hard to read expression in a face made of stone, but something soft flickers in his eyes.

"Y’don’t look like the bad guys," he says after a beat. "But lockin' someone up just for bein' in the 'wrong' place? That ain't heroic, kid."

You nod. Because that’s it, isn’t it? He wasn’t even fighting. He was looking for someone. You remember the way he held back during the battle, even when he could’ve flattened all of you. He was kind. Careful. And now here he is — punished for it.