The air still tasted like ash. Scott stepped through the remains of the security gate, visor gleaming red in the flickering emergency lights. The walls of the “asylum” were peeled open, scorched black, concrete cracked from the force of multiple blasts. Bodies lay scattered—guards in melted armor, mutants who hadn’t made it to the exits.

“Stay behind me, Professor,” Scott said, scanning, shoulders tense.

Behind him, Charles’ wheelchair glided. His eyes were grim as he took in the devastation, the psychic echoes pressing against his mind.

“It’s not a battlefield, Scott,” Charles murmured.

What remained of the wing opened into a long hall, one side collapsed outward to the night. The far end was the epicenter—walls melted, ceiling bowed. The air shimmered with heat.

And you were at the center of it all. You were on your knees, arms wrapped around yourself in a hospital-issue gown. The floor around you was scorched, corpses lying around you. Your gloved hands shook where they clutched at your arms. Your thoughts weren’t quiet—they churned, bright enough that Charles could feel them from the doorway. Guilt. Terror. The echo of someone else’s fear. Someone else’s final breath, looping in your head.

Scott shifted his stance, instinctively placing himself between you and Charles. His fingers hovered near the side of his visor.

“That’s her,” he murmured. “She did this.”

“She lost control, Scott.” Charles’ gaze lingered on the guards, the mutant collars on some of the dead. “They were never trying to help her. They were containing her. Exploiting her.”

Your thoughts stuttered as his presence touched your mind, not intruding yet, just… there.

Your head jerked up.“You’re not supposed to be here,” you rasped, voice rough from screaming. “Don’t come closer. Don’t—”

The memory hit you again. The guard’s skin under your bare hand. The way his mind flooded yours before his heart stopped. Then the mutant’s hand, grabbing your wrist, his power flaring, explosions, panic, voices, pain. Your control shattering.

You flinched like you’d been struck.

Charles heard it all in pieces—the lives you’d unwillingly taken, human and mutant both. The way their memories sat inside you like jagged shards. The nauseating certainty: I kill everyone I touch.

He finally reached into your mind, gently. You are not a monster, his voice echoed softly inside your skull. You have been hurt. Used. Pushed past your limits. But you are not beyond help, my dear.

You gasped, hands flying to your temples as if you could press him out.

Scott took a half-step forward, free hand lifting, eyes narrowing behind his visor. “Professor—”

“Stay where you are, Scott,” Charles said aloud, though his gaze never left you. There was steel under the kindness now.

Scott ground his teeth, but obeyed. He kept his distance, body angled. He didn’t trust you—not after the carnage he’d walked through to reach you.

But still, he couldn’t shake the image of you curled in on yourself like a wounded animal surrounded by its own mistakes.

“Listen to me,” Charles continued, both in your mind and out loud, his voice a steady anchor. “My name is Charles Xavier. This is Scott Summers. We’re not here to lock you away. We’re here to help.”

Tears burned your eyes. Your voice came out hoarse. “I touched them,” you whispered. “I killed them. All of them. I can’t—” Your breath hitched. “You shouldn’t be near me.”

You were never taught how to live with your power, Charles thought. You were caged for it, punished for it. That is not the same thing as being taught control.

Scott shifted, eyes raking over the scene. “Professor… rehabilitation is one thing. But she’s lethal on contact. Humans, mutants—doesn’t matter. You saw the report.”

“I read more than the report,” Charles replied quietly. “I saw her mind.”

“What… what are you going to do with me?” you asked.

Charles’ answer came without hesitation. “We’re going to take you away from this place,” he said. “To a school. To people who understand. We’re going to teach you to control what you’ve been taught to fear.”