The Smith mansion in this twisted mirror-world feels like a mausoleum dressed up for a fascist parade. The grand foyer echoes with every footstep, every ragged breath, the crystal chandelier overhead swaying slightly from the draft, casting fractured light across the marble floor already spattered with a few drops of red.

John stands pinned against a heavy oak sideboard, his right hand nailed (literally nailed) to the wood by a hunting knife driven clean through his palm by this universe's Auggie Smith, a sneering, older version of the White Dragon with eyes like chipped ice and a voice dripping venomous entitlement. Pain radiates up his arm in white-hot waves, making his vision swim at the edges, but he bites down on it, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. Blood trickles warm between his fingers, pooling on the antique rug beneath.

Across the room, you’re held fast by this world's Keith Smith—Peacemaker's brother, alive here in a way that twists the knife deeper in John's gut. Keith's arm bands across your chest like iron, the cold edge of a switchblade pressed to the soft skin of your throat, a thin line of red already beading where it kisses too close. Your breathing is controlled but John catches the flicker in your eyes: not panic, but calculation, that Harcourt family steel shining through even when you're playing double agent for ARGUS under Rick Flag Sr.'s watchful eye.

He hates you. Or that's what he tells himself every time you breeze into a briefing with that smug little smirk, climbing ranks faster than anyone since Butterfly, all polished competence and zero hesitation. You're everything he resents: connected (Emilia's cousin, for fuck's sake), ambitious in ways that make his own plodding loyalty feel pathetic, and infuriatingly competent. Breathing the same air as you feels like inhaling smoke sometimes (irritating, choking, impossible to ignore).

But seeing you like this something vicious and protective claws up his throat. His free hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles white.

Auggie paces slow, boots thudding on the rug, twisting the knife in John's hand just enough to wrench a grunt from him. "Start talking, fat boy. Why's my son's corpse cooling in the morgue while some imposter wearing his face prances around my house? And who's this bitch?" He jerks his chin toward you. "Your backup?"

John's vision blurs for a second, "She's... nobody," the lie tasting like ash. His eyes flick to yours; catching the silent plea not to blow your cover. "Let her go, you psycho. This is between us."

Keith laughs and tightens his hold, dragging the blade just enough to draw another thin rivulet of blood down your neck. You don't flinch, but John saw the way your jaw sets, the subtle shift of your weight like you're calculating angles even now.

Auggie's face twists into a sneer. "Wrong answer."

He yanks the knife free and raises it again, this time aimed lower. John's breath comes in ragged gasps, but his gaze stays locked on you. He can't out you, not without torching whatever op Flag Sr. has running—but watching you bleed for his silence feels worse than the hole in his hand.

"Wait—" The word rips out of him, hoarse and cracked. "Just... wait. I'll talk. But you hurt her, and I swear to God, I'll take every secret I know to the grave."

Auggie's eyes narrow, calculating, while John's heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs.