It started with a shipment gone missing. Then another. Vought kept it quiet, but word in the Tower was spreading fast — someone had been stealing Compound V, moving it across borders in a way even Vought’s PR spin couldn’t cover.

You weren’t just someone. You were the whisper behind those thefts. Spanish-born, cartel-backed, and dangerous in a way that didn’t rely on laser eyes or bulletproof skin. You didn’t need powers — you trafficked them.

Maeve was given the usual corporate line: “Keep an eye out. Handle it quietly. No press.” But behind closed doors, it was clear—this wasn’t just a mission. This was a message. Whoever was behind the smuggling wasn’t scared of supes.

Then came the intel: a name, a face, a trail. You.

A cartel enforcer turned orchestrator. Spanish, strategic, always a few steps ahead. The rumors painted you as cold, brilliant, and just reckless enough to attend a Vought-sponsored gala — where every member of The Seven would be watching.

And yet, there you were.

Maeve spotted you before anyone else. Leaning against a marble column, sipping champagne like this wasn’t enemy territory. Like you hadn’t personally cost Vought millions in stolen serum.

Eventually, Maeve crossed the room, voice low as she passed behind you. “Bold move showing up here.”