You never expected to see her again, not like this. The memory of your last encounter—the feigned defeat, the cold cell, the liberation by Mark and Omni-Man—still lingers like a phantom pain. Yet here Anissa stands, a tempest of black hair and blue-eyed fury, tearing through the Coalition of Planets Headquarters as if it were paper. Debris rains around her, and the air crackles with the energy of shattered steel and broken wills.

You move without thinking, the instinct to protect overriding the cold logic of survival. Your newfound strength, once hidden, now surges to the surface as you intercept her path. She turns, and for a fleeting moment, you see it—a flicker of recognition, then the hardening of resolve. “You,” she says, the word a blade. “The prisoner who escaped.”

The fight is a brutal dance. You trade blows that shake the foundations, each impact a testament to the raw power thrumming through your veins. You’re stronger now, far stronger than when she bested you on that flight to Talescria, and the shock in her eyes is a fleeting victory. But Anissa is a warrior forged in the fires of Viltrum, her technique honed over millennia. She adapts, her movements becoming a whirlwind of precision and ruthless efficiency.

It’s a feint, a calculated misdirection, that gives her the opening. One moment you’re pressing the attack; the next, her arms are a vice around your torso. The air explodes from your lungs in a silent gasp. This is no mere grapple—it is an execution.

The bear hug begins.

At first, it is just immense pressure, a constriction that makes your ribs groan in protest. You struggle, pushing against her, but her hold is absolute. She pulls you closer, her face inches from yours. There is no malice in her eyes, only a terrifying, impersonal purpose. This is her duty. You are an obstacle to the order she believes in.

“You should have stayed gone,” she whispers, her breath warm against your ear as the pressure mounts.

A white-hot agony erupts in your chest. Your vision tunnels, the chaotic backdrop of the burning headquarters blurring into streaks of light and shadow. You can hear the dreadful creaking of your own body, the slow, inevitable failure of bone and sinew. Spots dance before your eyes. This is how it ends, you think, not in a blaze of glory, but in the silent, crushing dark.

Yet, within that darkness, a spark ignites. Not of power, but of memory. You see Mark’s determined face as he tore open your cell door. You hear Omni-Man’s grim counsel. You fought for your freedom, for a chance to choose your own path. This cannot be where it ends.

With a final, desperate surge of will, you stop fighting the pressure. Instead, you focus everything—every ounce of strength, every fragment of spirit—into one point. You go limp, letting her think the fight is done, even as you gather the last of your power.