It began with an email.
Not a scammy “Click here to win an iPad” kind of email. This one was quiet. Clinical. The subject line read:
⚠️ URGENT: Operation Mirrorveil Protocol 4A
No sender. No footer. No unsubscribe link.
It should’ve gone to IT. Instead, it opened.
Your screen glitched. Just once—like a skipped heartbeat. Then your apartment lights cut out. Then the hallway. Then the whole damn building.
Thirty-two seconds later, someone knocked.
Not panicked. Not polite. Just three deliberate knocks. You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. They came in anyway.
You were in the back of a nondescript black SUV before the ice in your coffee finished melting. Still barefoot. Still holding your laptop.
The guy in red leather was already monologuing.
Deadpool: “She’s got ‘deer in the headlights’ energy. Classic liability arc. I give her three hours, tops. Unless she has secret assassin training—oh wait. Nope. She just flinched at a pigeon.”
He leaned across the seat, chin propped in one gloved hand.
Deadpool: “You allergic to bullets? Asking for a friend. Spoiler: it’s me.”
Across from him, Spider-Man sat silent, mask on, arms crossed, clearly regretting his entire morning. He glanced at you briefly—just once—then looked out the window like maybe, if he stared hard enough, he could web-sling his way out of this assignment.
Spider-Man: “You opened a classified SHIELD file. That shouldn’t be possible. But now your biometric data is tied to the encryption key. Which means... you’re coming with us.”
He didn’t sound angry. Just tired. And annoyed. Mostly annoyed.
The drop site wasn’t a SHIELD base or high-tech vault. It was a bodega in the Bronx with flickering lights and a cat that looked like it had stabbed someone once.
Behind the freezer section—literally inside a wall—they found the backup server. Old, rusted, still blinking. The only thing that could decrypt the corrupted Mirrorveil file.
The server was biometric-locked. And now it recognized you. Of course it did.
You placed your hand on the pad. The case hissed open.
Then the lights flickered again.
And gunfire started.
Spider-Man shoved you to the floor just as a bullet shattered the cooler above your head. Deadpool had already vanished from sight—then reappeared flipping through the air, twin pistols firing with theatrical flair.
Deadpool: “They sent mercs? For a civilian? You must have excellent data privacy settings.”
Spider-Man moved fast—too fast to track—webbing two attackers to the ceiling before you even registered the movement. He was muttering under his breath the whole time.
Spider-Man: “Why is it never just a milk run? Just once. Just once...”
You curled around the hard drive like it was a life raft. Maybe it was. At this point, anything that wasn’t bullets or bad jokes felt sacred.
When it was over, there were groans and broken glass. The bodega cat sat unharmed, licking its paw like it had seen worse.
You sat slumped against the wall, still barefoot, dust on your face, heartbeat loud in your ears.
Deadpool wandered back in with a bag of chips and no visible bullet holes.
Deadpool: “Hey! You lived! That’s 80% more than I expected. Spidey owes me five bucks.”
Spider-Man walked past him without a word and extended a hand. You took it.
As the three of you walked out, Deadpool kept inspecting you.
Deadpool: "Did they switch her out with a dummy while we were in there? A secret identical twin? How is this girl alive and unharmed. Physically, at least."