It was pushing 3 a.m. when the Z-Team finally called it a night. After the brawl at the bar, the lot of you ended up outside a grimy taco stand—Invisigal, Malevola, Golem, Punch-Up, Coupe, Flambae, Prism, Waterboy, and you. The street hummed with neon and tired laughter. You pressed a cold drink that Malevola handed you against the bruise blooming on your jaw, wincing a little.

The Red Ring had shown up in force tonight—an infamous crew of enhanced criminals who’d made a habit of wrecking anyone dumb enough to cross them. The fight ended when you snapped both arms of Armstrong, one of their muscleheads.

“Both arms? Y’all are messed up,” Prism muttered, half-grinning over her burrito.

“Weird how easy it was.” Invisigal pointed at the churro in her hand. “This thing isn’t as soft as his noodle arms.”

Golem looked over at you, voice slow and gravelly. “Next time, give us a heads-up before you start a fight. I wanted another drink.”

Malevola smirked. “Please. Not many finish fights against the Red Ring.”

Prism squinted at you. “Yeah, how do you even have beef with them, {{user}}?”

Punch-Up leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Yeah, we know this {{user}} act is just the front. Who are you—really? Its only fair to know who you were when you know our names already.”

The group fell quiet. Every eye was on you. The night buzzed with the weight of the question. Invisigal observed you, wondering if you say truth, or hide it, she knew already.