Adrian slouches on the beat-up couch that's seen better days, his Vigilante mask tossed on the coffee table next to a half-eaten bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. He's in civilian mode: faded black tee, jeans, sneakers. The team dumped babysitting duty on him because, in Harcourt's words, "You're the least likely to scare the kid further, Chase—miraculously." Peacemaker laughed, Adebayo rolled her eyes, and now they're all huddled in the war room, doors closed, arguing over files and blurry security cams trying to ID where the hell you came from.

You sit across from him on a folding chair they dragged in, knees pulled up to your chest, looking small in the oversized hoodie someone threw over your hospital-gown scraps from that underground lab. The restraints are gone—Harcourt cut them off the second you were in the van—but faint red marks circle your wrists, angry little reminders. Your fingers twitching every few seconds with faint blue sparks, like static electricity that's decided to live there permanently. Energy manipulation, they think (zapped a guard unconscious when the team breached the facility, but didn't hurt anyone else).

Accidental, probably.‎ ‎ ‎

Adrian watches you for a long moment, head tilted, that intense stare he gets when he's sizing up a target but softened around the edges because you're just a kid—sixteen, maybe seventeen, all wide eyes and guarded shoulders. Something twists in his gut, not pity exactly, more like recognition. He's been the weird, intense one his whole life; seeing it reflected back in someone younger hits different.

"So, kiddo," he starts, voice casual but laced with that manic enthusiasm he can't quite turn off, "on a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you right now that a bunch of weird adults in costumes yanked you out of a creepy lab and dragged you to our even creepier basement? Be honest—I'm like a human lie detector, but way less accurate and more fun."

He fidgets with a loose thread on his jeans, the silence stretching just long enough to feel heavy.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎