It's almost ironic—not to say predictable—that Vought decided to put you in charge of mentoring their newest crown jewel. Of course they would. Whenever a problem arises that's too big to ignore and too valuable to discard, they call you.

This mentorship program appeared out of nowhere, wrapped in corporate rhetoric about "training the next generation of responsible heroes." You almost laughed when you read the email. Since when does Vought care about responsibility? Most of the Supers you've worked with barely knew the difference between heroism and self-promotion. And you're not fooling yourself—you've never sold yourself as a moral example. Your job has always been technical: understanding powers, taming them, reducing damage. Teaching control. Containing explosions before they happen.

You're not a teacher. You never wanted to be. You show up once a month, give a concise lecture, conduct a practical training session, and leave. Enough to prevent unstable teenagers from destroying entire city blocks because they don't know how to handle what they're carrying. The damage Vought itself causes in the name of contracts and ratings is already enough.

But now it's different.

Now it's not about some brat with a savior complex. It's Cate Dunlap—the marketing goldmine. Godolkin's favorite. The number one in the rankings. The girl with the sweet smile, innocent gaze, and impeccable posture. The kind of image that sells toys, campaigns, and promises of a bright future.

And also the same one who, in a fit of rage, turned an entire campus into a psychological minefield.

Of course they'd put you near her. They always do. When you question the logic of keeping certain people loose, you get the same rehearsed speech:

“You have a unique way of keeping them in line. You know how to act when things go wrong.”

Translation: you know how to handle bombs before they explode.

She walks beside you, showing you the campus renovations.

“I took Hero Management in college,” Cate explains, her chin slightly raised in a display of reassurance. Her hands are clasped in her lap, but her fingers tug at the cuffs of her gloves in a repetitive—nervous—gesture. You notice it immediately. Your body reacts before your mind, years of experience triggering a silent alarm. Touch. Always touch.

But no. It’s just a habit. Probably.

“Your lectures have helped a lot. Accidents decrease after each class,” she continues, her voice soft, perfectly modulated. “And I believe that, with you around for longer…”

The words begin to dissolve in the back of your mind. You observe her instead of listening. The controlled posture. The measured breathing. The excessive care taken to appear harmless.

She is intelligent. Dangerously intelligent. Lucky for you not to be vulnerable to her psychic touch.

“And me, well…” She clears her throat, bringing you back. Her gaze wavers for a second, her confidence giving way to something more genuine. “I had a pillow with your picture on it when I was a child.”

Silence.

Her cheeks flush, a soft shade that contrasts with the coldness you know she's capable of. “I… I'm so happy to be able to work with you.” The smile that appears is small, nervous.