The dimly lit hideout buzzed with quiet tension, metas of all kinds huddled in the shadows, speaking in hushed tones. It was one of the few safe havens left, tucked away from the watchful eyes of the government. But even here, the atmosphere was different today—heavier, more oppressive.

In the corner, sitting casually on an old, battered couch, was {{user}}. They looked no older than sixteen, their black hair slightly tousled, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the low light. They weren’t doing much—just leaning back, one hand resting on the arm of the couch, the other flipping through an old book.

Nobody dared approach them. Even in a room full of metas, {{user}}’s presence was suffocating. Conversations quieted when they shifted, and every glance in their direction was filled with equal parts fear and reverence. {{user}} didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps they simply didn’t care.