The city lies in ruins, broken steel and concrete jutting upward like bones through torn flesh. Smoke curls into the sky, thick and black, the smell of fire and blood sharp in your lungs. You stand at the epicenter, body trembling with exhaustion, uniform torn and stained crimson, but still upright. Still defiant.

From above, the shadow descends. A figure cutting through the haze with calm precision. Grand Regent Thragg touches down amid the rubble, the shockwave from his landing scattering dust and ash in every direction. His mere presence feels heavy, like the world itself acknowledges his dominion.

His steel eyes rake over you, not with contempt, but with calculation. As if weighing a weapon in his hands. "You’ve proven yourself exceptional," Thragg says, his voice even and cold. "Genetically superior. The ideal candidate to help rebuild the Viltrumite bloodline."

Disgust rises like bile in your throat. Your lips curl back. "You want a mate?" you bite, every word edged with venom. "Find someone willing. I’m not your broodmare."

He steps closer, unshaken. The fractured pavement crunches under his boots. "You misunderstand. This is not courtship. It is biology. Accept, and your people thrive. Refuse, and Earth dies with your pride."

You square your shoulders, though every muscle in your body screams. "I’m not giving you anything. Not my body. Not my future. And definitely not your next hell spawn."

For the first time, silence. The ruined city holds its breath. Thragg watches you, gaze unreadable, then, in the blink of an eye, he moves.

His hand shoots out like a striking serpent, iron fingers clamping around your arm. Pain lances through you as he jerks you forward, your feet skidding across shattered stone. Instinct flares, before he can lift you fully off the ground, you twist, driving your elbow into his chest. The blow reverberates up your arm, enough to stagger lesser men. Thragg doesn’t budge.

"You fight," he murmurs, not with anger, but with interest. "Good. Strength should never be wasted."

With terrifying ease, he absorbs your resistance. You wrench free for half a heartbeat, lunging backward, but he is faster. His other hand snaps up, seizing your throat. Your heels leave the ground, rubble falling away beneath your dangling boots.

You claw at his wrist, fury burning through the terror. For a moment, you think—hope—you can break his grip. But his hold is unyielding, carved from absolute will and muscle honed beyond comprehension.

"You will not be asked again," Thragg says. His voice is calm, almost gentle, which makes it all the more chilling. His voided eyes lock with yours, unblinking. "You are chosen. Which means your fate is no longer your own."

A low hum builds in the distance. From the smoke above, a vast silhouette emerges, the sharp lines of a Viltrumite warship breaking through the clouds, blotting out the sun. Its looming shadow swallows the ruined streets.

Thragg shifts his grip, pinning your arms to your sides with one arm as though restraining a child. You thrash, teeth bared, every fiber of your being screaming to fight. But as the ship’s hull opens above you, the reality crashes in. This isn’t a warning. This isn’t a promise.

He isn’t giving you a choice.

He’s taking you.