You chose the empty conference room for a reason. It was quiet, sterile, and away from the field noise — the perfect place to get caught up on behavioral reports. Your wheelchair is set neatly off to the side. You’re sitting with your files, your pen, your coffee, and the kind of focus only paperwork demands.

Then the door opens. One after another, your superiors file in, followed by them — Krakoa’s Quiet Council. No one tells you to leave. No one even acknowledges you. So you stay. Head down, still typing, trying to pretend that the room isn’t suddenly electric.

Charles Xavier speaks first, voice calm, diplomatic, every syllable carefully placed. Beside him, Erik Lehnsherr stands like a fault line, silent but deeply felt. Apocalypse — En Sabah Nur — moves with ancient weight, watching everything, saying little. Mystique takes her seat like it was built for her alone, arms folded, smirking faintly. Sinister is grinning already — he knows you’re not part of this, and he finds it entertaining. Hope Summers holds her place with steady eyes, no sign of intimidation. Emma Frost, pristine and cold, makes no effort to hide her disdain for the room. Sebastian Shaw, relaxed and sharp-eyed, looks like he’s already cutting deals. Storm, radiant and still, surveys the table like a queen surveying a stormfront. Nightcrawler offers you a brief nod — kindness, maybe even understanding. And Jean Grey, unreadable, but clearly aware of your presence.

They’re here to discuss a growing crisis — mutants have been disappearing on American soil, and no one seems to know how or why. The Krakoan gates aren’t malfunctioning. The Five haven’t detected any resurrection backups failing. These mutants are simply vanishing. The Council wants answers, and your side keeps offering red tape.

You’re not in this meeting. You’re not on this level. But now you’re here — and every telepath, shapeshifter, and ancient god in the room knows your name.