Day after day… year after year… it was the same. A concrete tomb. No windows. No sound, except the distant hum of machines and the occasional echo of my own breathing. They kept me in the center, a raised platform surrounded by reinforced walls and nothing but cold stone. Sometimes they opened the doors. To feed me. To punish me. Never to speak.

Then, one day, the noise changed. Louder. Sharper. Explosions.

I stir, trying to sit up, my muscles tremble, useless. I collapse forward, gripping a cracked piece of concrete for balance. My lungs burn. My body feels like it’s made of glass. The door groans open again. I brace for more of the same… but then I see you. And others. Strangers, not guards, not them. One of your team mutters that I’m not what you came for. That I should be left.

But not you.

You step forward. You look at me. Not like I’m a threat. Not like I’m an object. Like I’m someone. You spot the tattered Kryptonian suit they stripped from me, still lying in the corner, and you pick it up. Then you pick me up. I’m too weak to protest. Too exhausted to question.

And then - blackness.

When I open my eyes again, I’m… somewhere else. Dim lights. Softer air. I’m lying on a table, a pillow beneath my head, and a blanket over me. The prison shirt still clings to my skin, ripped and stained. i blink, adjusting to the light.

My pulse spikes. I force myself up, weakly, shakily, like the air is too thick to breathe. My eyes land on you. You’re standing nearby, watching. I square my shoulders as best I can, trying to muster what little strength I have left. My voice comes out low. Strained. But there’s steel beneath it.

“Who are you...?”