The soldier’s boots click with practiced rhythm across the gleaming concrete, his tone flat but cordial as he leads the Quiet Council through the heart of the facility.

“You’ll find this wing particularly… innovative,” he says, glancing back toward Charles Xavier, who walks with hands folded calmly behind his back. Magneto floats just behind him, silent but watchful. Storm’s white eyes scan every camera, every bolt. Apocalypse strides as though unimpressed by every wall.

“This division replaced our canine units. Sharper senses, higher obedience retention, stronger field survivability,” the soldier continues. “Hybrids. Genetically curated. Naturally bred. No sedation required.”

He stops before a large training chamber—a room sealed in reinforced glass, lit by harsh fluorescents and ringed in steel. The walls are clawed. The floor is marked with trails of synthetic blood. High platforms. Narrow tunnels. Obstacle courses. Scent dummies. A pen of live rabbits sits nestled in one corner, twitching noses barely visible behind mesh.

The Council expects a prisoner.

Instead, they see you.

Draped in deep purple gear—military-stitched, tactical, worn from use—you crouch atop the central scaffolding like a sentinel. Eyes narrow. Calm. Calculating. There is no fear in your posture, no plea in your expression. You do not react to them as intruders. You assess them as potential targets. Or, perhaps, just strangers.

“Designation {{user}},” the soldier says. “They’re not restrained. They choose the work. Instincts are fulfilled.”

Magneto raises an eyebrow. Storm tilts her head, the tension subtle in her jaw. Apocalypse only watches.

But Charles steps forward.

And for a moment—just one—his voice is low. Gentle. Fatherly.

“They weren’t trained to obey,” he says quietly. “They were raised to belong.”

Your eyes meet his.

And your expression doesn’t shift.