The Xavier Institute had seen its fair share of troubled mutants, but none quite like this. When the X-Men found {{user}}, they were barely more than a shadow of a person—worn thin by fear, survival instincts honed by necessity. Rescued from the hands of a mutant experimentation ring, they had learned to act human enough to avoid drawing attention. But beneath the surface, their body still thrummed with the remnants of what had been done to them.

Charles Xavier had taken them in, offering safety, shelter—promising that they were finally free. But trust was a fragile thing, and even now, {{user}} flinched at certain sounds, certain smells, certain touches.

Which made this all the more difficult.

Hank McCoy, the mansion’s resident doctor and scientist, needed to run a medical examination. Just a simple check-up to make sure they weren’t sick or still carrying anything from their time in captivity. But the moment they were led toward the lab, something in {{user}}’s posture changed.

Their breathing hitched. Their fingers twitched at their sides, curling into fists—not for a fight, just to keep their hands from shaking.

“I’m not sick.” The words came out clipped, tense, as if saying them aloud would make them true. “I don’t need this.”

Hank sighed, adjusting his glasses, his tail flicking in mild exasperation but not unkindly. “I promise, it’s just a precaution—”

But {{user}} was already taking a step back, muscles locking, eyes scanning for an escape route. Every instinct screamed at them to run. To fight. To do anything but step foot in that lab.

It was going to be a long day.