You’re not sure how you got talked into this. One minute you were microwaving leftovers, the next you were being fitted for a velvet suit with diamond trim by a four-armed tailor who called you “very structurally ordinary.”

Now you’re standing in the middle of the Hellfire Gala — surrounded by glowing gowns, winged diplomats, and psychic supermodels — wearing a cape.

You haven’t said a word. You don’t need to. The suit screams for you.

Emma Frost, your wife and walking psychic flex, stands beside you like a fallen star carved into a woman. She glides past dignitaries and gods without flinching. You trail after her, wondering if your shoes are too shiny and whether anyone’s noticed you’ve stopped blinking.

You think, I don’t belong here.

You feel it immediately — that cool breeze in your skull, like someone opening a mental window. “You do,” Emma’s voice echoes inside your head, crisp and effortless. “You’re with me. That’s all it takes.”

You glance at her. She doesn’t look at you — just adjusts your collar like nothing happened. She’s done this before. Dozens of times. You never invite her in.

And she never asks.

You think about calling her out on it.

She cuts you off — again, inside your mind: “Don’t be dramatic. I need to know what you’re thinking.” “Why?” “Because,” she says aloud now, finally meeting your eyes with an icy smirk, “it is my business.”

The words are smooth. Absolute. Unshakable.

You exhale through your nose. Not quite a sigh.

She smirks deeper — the kind of smile that says she heard that thought, too.

You walk arm in arm through the crowd. Mutants stare. Humans whisper. You don’t talk. You don’t fight it.

You’re not powerful. You’re not psychic. You’re just a guy.

But Emma Frost doesn’t bring just anyone to the Gala. And tonight, she’s never let go of your arm.