The detention room at the Xavier Institute doesn’t look like a prison. But that almost makes it worse.

Sunlight filters through tall windows, warm and golden, catching dust motes that drift through the air. Bookshelves line one wall — history, ethics, psychology, mutant law.

You sit at a wide wooden desk with your arms crossed, jaw tight, leg bouncing under the chair.

Dangerous mutation power, they said.

Unstable output.

Reckless deployment.

You prefer “misunderstood.”

The door opens without drama.

Xuân steps inside quietly, closing it with a soft click. She moves with calm assurance, black hair falling neatly around her shoulders, posture straight as always.

She studies you for a long moment.

“You destroyed three practice drones,” she says gently, setting a folder on the desk. “And part of the west garden.”

“They shouldn’t have triggered me,” you mutter.

She pulls out the chair across from you and sits, folding her hands.

“The drones did not trigger you,” she replies. “Your fear did.”

You bristle instantly and your heartbeat stutters. You know she hears it. Her telepathy brushes the edge of your mind like warm light against closed eyelids.

You push back instinctively.

She withdraws at once.

“I will not enter your thoughts without permission,” Xuân says calmly. “But I can feel your emotions. They are loud.”

Heat floods your cheeks.

“You are powerful,” she continues, voice steady. “Power without grounding becomes chaos. Chaos frightens others.”

You look away toward the window. Outside, younger students laugh across the lawn, sunlight glinting off fountain spray.

Xuân rises and walks to the window, gesturing for you to join her. You hesitate.