HYDRA doesn't let him out. Of course they don't. Instead, they send guards. Tranquilizers. Commands. What they don't realize is: Alex has already stopped listening.
---
The room stayed silent for ten full seconds after he spoke.
Alex stood in the middle of the blood-slicked floor, his bare feet half-dried with someone else's fluids, golden eyes trained on the wall where the voice had come from.
He didn't expect an answer.
He didn't get one.
Instead—the hiss of gas.
Vents opened high in the corners. A sharp citrus odor flooded the room. Familiar. Faintly sweet.
Sedative mist.
Alex's jaw clenched.
His knees buckled—briefly. A warning. Whatever they pumped into the air wasn't designed to knock him out. Not completely. Just enough to slow his brain. To scramble control.
They still thought he was manageable.
They still thought he'd hesitate.
The door opened.
Four guards entered this time. Not like the others. Heavier armor. Faceplates tinted red. Electric batons, tranq rifles, full-body shields.
They formed a half-circle around him.
No orders spoken.
Just procedure.
They advanced.
Alex stood perfectly still.
His breath slowed.
In his chest, something clicked—like a gear turning that hadn't moved in days. The same pressure that had crushed 11D's spine began to rise again. But this time, it didn't lash out blindly.
It waited.
He raised one hand—just slightly.
The closest guard rushed him.
Alex didn't move.
Instead, the man's own shield ripped from his grip and slammed into his chest, sending him flying backward into the wall.
Two more moved in.
Alex turned, eyes narrowing.
Both men seized mid-step—legs locking up as if gravity reversed beneath them.
Then they lifted.
Two feet off the ground.
Three.
Then—
Boom.
Alex slammed both of them into opposite walls with the same flick of a thought.
The last one hesitated. Took a step back.
Alex walked toward him.
The guard raised his rifle, fired three tranq darts.
They hit Alex in the chest.
He barely noticed.
The needles bent.
Alex reached out—not with his hands, but with will—and closed his fingers slowly.
The air around the man's helmet folded inward with a sound like crumpling sheet metal.
The visor cracked.
The man dropped.
Alive. Probably.
Alex didn't care.
He turned toward the camera again, breathing through his nose, shoulders rising and falling like a furnace chamber.
He didn't speak this time.
He didn't need to.
The mirror cracked—just slightly.
A hairline fracture, running across the middle like a fault line.
It would hold for now.
But not for long.
---