They said you were brainwashed.

They thought he’d taken control of your mind.

They were wrong. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware of every trigger pull, every unresponsive expression, every bug or mine placed.

No, Raphael hadn’t brainwashed you. But he’d given you no other option but to make it appear that he had.

The elevator rings as you hit the top floor. You hadn’t left the basement—what his men called “The Butcher’s”— in weeks, except for your test that morning. You’d been suited in his syndicate’s gear and uniform (sans helmet, so the security cameras could capture your likeness), and sent to demolish a building that your team had been using as a safe house. Your team is a group of meta-human activists that protest the totalitarian rule of the city, and the illegal activities that fund the syndicate behind it. When you’d returned successfully, Raphael had dragged you into the elevator, and surprised you by sending it up, not back down. Hand still between your shoulder blades, he pushes you forward into a sunset-bathed penthouse.