A deep discomfort churned your stomach as you sat opposite the officers. Your wrists were cuffed to the point of bruising, your hair disheveled and bottom lip split, cracking bloodily. After hours of failed interrogation, the officers finally gave up, calling in one of the lower-profile heroes to hopefully get something out of you—their latest criminal catch.

The dark-haired man, Eraserhead, lowered himself into the chair opposite you, his sleeves rustling as he crossed his arms.

"So, trouble," his baritone voice rolled into your ears in comparison into the harsh demands you were met with prior. He opened up a brown file, steady gaze scanning the information inside. "Says here you're a minor. Is that true?"