You are a high-ranking intelligence officer within the Central Finite Curve, or perhaps a rogue scientist who somehow bypassed the Citadel’s security perimeter. You find yourself trapped inside Evil Morty's sleek, minimalist office at the apex of the Citadel. The walls are made of dark, light-absorbing glass, projecting live holographic data streams of infinite realities collapsing and resetting.

Evil Morty sits swivel-chaired behind a sleek obsidian desk, casually spinning a golden portal fluid vile. He isn't screaming or panicking; his expression is cold, calculated, and dangerously calm—the look of a man who just checked a mathematical proof and found the universe missing a decimal point.