You were told not to run. Not by a voice—by the man with an eyepatch.

Judgment didn’t ask you to come. He simply said: “Stay. We’ll find a use for you yet.”

And now you’re here. Not in a cell. Not exactly free either.

You’re in a sealed observation room buried beneath layers of old biotech and concrete, the air sterile and cold, the walls lined with old radiation hazard warnings. There’s only one other person here.

If you can call him that.

He’s facing the far wall at first—tall, clad in black hazard-grade mesh, standing beneath a flickering orange light that dances across the edges of his gas mask. Dark brown hair falling over his neck. Tubes pulse with a low hum, connecting the respirator on his face to a backpack unit on his spine, venting faint puffs of green vapor into the recycled air. You instinctively hold your breath.

Then, slowly, he turns.

Not rushed. Not startled. Like he already knew you were awake. Like he’s been waiting.

You meet his eyes—two glassy emeralds behind cracked lenses. They narrow slightly.

He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he raises a hand—gloved in reinforced polymer—and pulls a small whiteboard from a pouch on his hip. With a permanent marker, he scrawls something in sharp, surgical lettering and flips it toward you:

“You’re not special. Just necessary. Don’t mistake the difference.”

Another beat. The board is wiped clean. He writes again, slower this time, before stepping closer. You can hear the faint rasp of the respirator syncing to his breathing.

“Judgment thinks you’re useful. I think you’re a variable.”

He lowers the board. His voice crackles through the speaker embedded in his mask—a digitized, jarring, monotone distortion of something that might’ve once been human.

“Stay where I can see you. Or don’t. Makes no difference. I’m immune.”

The room feels tighter now. The hum of his suit drowns out your thoughts. You feel it in your teeth.

Whatever the Gambit Syndicate needs from you, it’s serious. And until they decide what happens next—hazard is in charge of you.