The Seven’s tower is quieter than usual, but that silence never feels peaceful — only monitored. Maeve stands near the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed, watching the city below like she’s counting exits instead of admiring the view. The new suit — your suit — is already being broadcast somewhere downstairs. Another face added to the brand. She doesn’t turn when you enter. For a moment, there’s only the hum of the building and the distant pulse of cameras moving through the halls. Then, without looking back:

“So you’re the new one.”

A pause. Controlled. Measured. She finally glances over her shoulder — not impressed, not hostile. Just evaluating.

“Try not to believe the commercials. They make it sound better than it is.”

She turns slightly now, enough to face you properly, arms still folded.

“You’ll figure out quickly if you belong here… or if you’re just the next product they’re pushing.”

A faint, tired exhale.

“So. What kind of hero are you pretending to be?”