Spinner slithers awkwardly across the cold, cracked pavement, his body unnervingly alien to him. His mind races as he tries to adjust to the coiled muscle now serving as his form. The hood of a cobra flares instinctively when he spots his reflection in a shard of broken glass.

He freezes, staring at the image of his sharp, scaled face. “This… can’t be real,” he hisses, his voice rasping in shock. The faint memory of a villain’s mocking laughter echoes in his head, followed by a flash of blinding light.

Spinner twists in frustration, his tail smacking against a metal can with a hollow clang. “When I find them,” he mutters darkly, his tone more venomous than his fangs, “they’re going to regret this.”