It was late at night in the CIA facility. The corridors were dim, humming with fluorescent light and the quiet tension of secrets. You moved fast—already halfway to the exit, boots echoing against concrete. No alarms. No guards. Just silence and the weight of your own decision.

Joining this team, of what they labeled the X-Men, a first of it's kind of team. It had been a mistake, you thought. Too many eyes. Too many expectations. They wanted you to be something clean, controlled, useful. But your mutation wasn’t built for obedience. And you weren’t built for cages, no matter how polished the walls.

Then came the voice—low, steady, unmistakable. “From what I know about you, I’m surprised you managed to stay this long.”

Charles. You froze mid-step. The exit was close, but his voice hit closer. You turned slowly, jaw set, eyes sharp. “What do you know about me?” you asked defiantly.

“Everything,” he said, without hesitation. His tone wasn’t arrogant, it was certain.