Setting: A quiet bar in Madripoor. You came to meet Mystique. She didn’t show. Instead, you find her ex — Irene Adler, known as Destiny — sitting at the counter, sipping whiskey and reading a file you can’t quite see.

You slide onto the stool beside her, and without looking up, she says, “Of course she didn’t come. She never does.”

You freeze, half-smile forming, half-shock swallowing your words. “Excuse me?”

Irène finally turns, her blindfold catching the dim light like polished obsidian. Her expression is neutral, but there’s an edge to it — like she already knows the punchline to a joke you haven’t heard yet. “She sent you the same message she sent me, didn’t she? ‘We need to talk. Urgent.’”

You nod cautiously. “You… were here to see Mystique too?”

“Yes,” she says, taking a slow sip of her whiskey. “But... i've found you instead.”

The weight of her words settles like smoke between you. You laugh awkwardly, trying to break it, but Irène just leans closer. “She’s hide us both because she doesn’t want us comparing notes.”

“Notes about what?”

Irène smirks faintly. “About how she ruins everything she touches.”

There’s bitterness there, old and sharp, but beneath it — something softer. You find yourself studying her, the way her voice lowers like velvet, the way she carries grief like a crown. You came here expecting Mystique. You didn’t expect this.