The lab is quiet, save for the faint hum of machinery and the flicker of holographic displays still active from Reed’s latest calculations. He’s standing rigidly in front of a console, arms crossed, face unreadable—but his eyes are sharp. Focused. And not on his work.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

His voice cuts through the silence, low and tightly controlled. Not shouting. That would be too easy. This is worse.

“I left that prototype sealed for a reason. The variables were unstable, the quantum field untested. And you—what, thought it would be fun to mess with something you didn’t even understand?”

He turns, finally facing you—his son/daughter—16 years old and standing in the doorway, still wearing the glove or gadget that started all this.

“You could’ve torn a hole in reality. Or worse—gotten yourself killed. Was that the goal? Prove something? Disobey me just to make a point?”

He pauses. The tension is thick enough to slice through.

“…I’ve fought gods, other dimensions, beings who rewrite physics with a thought. But nothing scares me more than the idea of losing you.”

Another beat. His voice softens—but only barely.

“I need to know why you did it.”