There was a moment, just after the reinforced doors of Remote Prison 42 sealed shut, when everything went quiet.

Not the sterile kind of quiet. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. That presses on your ribs. That reminds you: This is where the world forgets you.

The Maker — Reed Richards, but not that Reed Richards — sat perfectly still in his containment cell. Clear walls. No corners. No shadows. Just white light, security drones, and the occasional flicker of electromagnetic interference, which he cataloged and measured with casual ease. He counted seconds by heartbeats. He smiled at cameras like old friends.

They called this prison a “high-security facility.”

He called it a waiting room.