You keep your hands loose at your sides, fingers uncurled, breathing steady. The air inside the abandoned transit terminal smells pretty unpleasing. Emergency lights flicker overhead, painting the walls in tired amber pulses. Somewhere deeper in the structure, metal creaks as if the building itself is uneasy about who’s walked into it tonight.

Victor stands near the far platform, half in shadow. His eyes keep moving, scanning for tells, fear or power. Especially power. You give him none.

“You’re early,” he says, voice smooth, practiced. There’s a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Those are sharp with expectation. Some strange hope, even. He’s always hoping to find another one like him.

You shrug, deliberately casual. You can feel the currents here perfectly, how the Terrigen-touched infrastructure reacts differently, how the air itself bends ever so slightly around you if you won't be careful. You tighten focus, pulling everything inward, locking it down. Hiding always feels like holding breath underwater.

Victor studies you. You feel the brush of Darkforce probing the space around your body. He’s good at this. Better than most Inhumans.

You step closer, boots crunching softly on scattered gravel. Your reflection swims in a cracked display screen beside you, just a girl in a jacket that’s seen too many fights, eyes alert but ordinary. You make sure that’s all he sees.

“I heard you help people,” you say. “The ones who don’t fit anywhere else.”

Something shifts in his expression. You recognize the old wound, still raw. Being overlooked. Being late. Being other in a world that suddenly rewards everyone else for the same difference.

“I do,” Victor says, a little more tightly. “But help requires honesty, you know? Why risk Iron Man breathing down your neck?”