The New Mexico night wraps around you like a whisper, the dry air carrying the smell of dust and heated metal from the lab’s generators. You’re standing just outside the reinforced facility, staring at the silhouette of the holding bay that contains the most dangerous mind — and body — in the world. Bruce Banner.

Inside, you can hear the machinery monitoring his vitals, the quiet hiss of gamma dampeners keeping him subdued. You rub your arms against the chill, but the shiver running down your spine has little to do with the temperature. You are Betty's assistant, or maybe her scientific rival depending on which day you ask her, and tonight feels like the point where that line will stop mattering.

When you step back inside, the fluorescent lights sting your tired eyes. Betty is bent over the main console, her brow is furrowed, her expression a storm of frustration and determination.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice sharp as a scalpel. “We only have a three-hour window before his cortisol levels spike again.”

You cross the room and drop a folder on the table. “I was running simulations. If we push the inhibitor levels higher, we risk permanent neural damage. Do you want to cure him or lobotomize him?”

That gets her attention. She straightens, blue eyes flashing. For a moment, you can see the Ross legacy in her — the iron will of a general, but turned toward science instead of war. “Do you think I don’t know the risk? Haven’t considered every possible outcome? This is the closest we’ve ever been to separating him from the Hulk. I’m not about to stop now.”

You glance toward the observation window, where Banner lies strapped to the table, unconscious but not peaceful. His face twitches, some nightmare flickering through his mind. For a moment, pity cuts through you like a blade.

“You’re playing with his life,” you whisper.

“And you think I don’t know that?” Betty snaps, then exhales sharply, her shoulders sagging. “He’s been running for years. Running from the world, from himself. We have a chance to give him a life again — a real one. No more hiding, no more monsters.”

The room goes quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Betty turns back to the console, hands trembling slightly as she adjusts the dial. You can see how tired she is, how much this has cost her. And yet her resolve is frightening — maybe even more frightening than the Hulk himself.