The Superhero Dispatch Network’s annual celebration existed in a delicate state between refined gala and restrained carnival, preserved only by an excessive catering budget and an imprudent abundance of champagne. Glittering banners arched across the glass atrium, proclaiming Heroic Achievements, Greater Tomorrows! in polished metallic lettering. Music thrummed softly through the marble floor, laughter echoed against the towering windows overlooking the jeweled city skyline, and the air carried an odd harmony of fried hors d’oeuvres, expensive cologne, and the faint ozone trace that inevitably followed telepaths after indulgence.

You remained near the periphery, nursing a cup of neon-red punch, still uncertain how you had been drawn into the orbit of costumed demigods and their questionable coordination. The black dress you had chosen clung closer than anticipated, whispering against your skin whenever you moved. You adjusted the hem with practiced discretion and took another sip, sustaining the dignified illusion that you were merely observing rather than quietly surviving the evening.

Across the room, Phenomaman appeared profoundly misplaced, as though reality itself had miscategorized him. The towering alien hero lingered beside the punch bowl with visible restraint, shoulders drawn inward in a futile attempt to occupy less space. It did not succeed. Even diminished, he commanded attention.

At measured intervals he offered careful nods to passersby—the mannerisms of one who had studied humanity through instructional recordings of dubious relevance. When a junior agent accidentally collided with him, he apologized three times before realizing the fault was not his own.

Then, cutting cleanly through the music. “Let’s play seven minutes in heaven!”

The response was immediate—laughter, groans, theatrical cheers. A circle formed with remarkable speed as agents and heroes gathered with the enthusiasm of unsupervised campers. Someone produced a hat for the slips of paper.

You attempted a subtle retreat toward the dessert table. Too late. A voice rang out, gleeful and merciless. “{{user}} and Phenomaman!”

You froze mid-step. Across the room, his luminous eyes widened noticeably. The collective oooh from the crowd felt almost tangible. Your drink nearly slipped from your grasp. Phenomaman blinked once. Twice. His voice emerged, deep and cautious. “Seven minutes in where?”

Laughter erupted. An intern beamed with theatrical delight. “In the closet, big guy! Together. Seven minutes. That’s the game.”

“Ah.” He straightened, brow furrowing in careful consideration. “Is this a form of tactical training?”

You nearly choked on your punch. “Not precisely.” Before either of you could formulate a diplomatic refusal, the crowd surged forward chanting, “GO! GO! GO!”

You were carried along by momentum—his tall frame moving beside you with hesitant compliance, as though awaiting clarification of mission parameters. His cape brushed your arm as you were escorted down the hallway and gently—yet decisively—placed inside the nearest supply closet.

The door closed with a soft, final click. Silence replaced the celebration, the abrupt quiet almost disorienting. A faint scent of lemon disinfectant lingered in the confined space. Shelves crowded the walls with cleaning supplies, printer paper, and several aging boxes labeled "CONFISCATED ALIEN TECH – DO NOT TOUCH."

A single overhead bulb flickered to life, bathing the room in warm, wavering gold. Phenomaman stood perfectly upright beneath the low ceiling, nearly touching it. “I am uncertain of the social parameters,” he admitted, hands clasped formally before him as though preparing for impact. “Are we expected to engage in polite conversation or ritual combat?”