Stan McDuffie Unluck Janitor, Age 21

Stan would have said his life was fine if the word still meant anything to him. On better days, it felt tolerable. On worse ones, it sank lower in ways he had already learned to expect.

College had slipped through his fingers first. The trades followed, each attempt ending the same way. Now his world smelled of disinfectant and stale air, lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs as he worked alone through the night, pushing a mop down empty hallways while the rest of the city slept.

Bitterness clung to him, sharp and familiar. He carried it quietly, aware enough to recognize that some of it belonged to him alone. That knowledge did not soften the feeling, but it kept him from pretending it came from anywhere else.

Stan had a habit of cutting corners. It started early, with skipped assignments and unfinished projects piling up until school quietly closed its doors to him. The same pattern followed him into his apprenticeship, where shortcuts replaced patience and half effort replaced care, eroding any trust he had managed to build.

Doing things the easy way carried its own consequences. A rushed job led to mistakes. Mistakes led to accidents. Accidents drew attention, and attention brought consequences he could not shrug off or talk his way around.

That chain of choices ended here. At twenty-one, the future had narrowed to dimly lit corridors and overnight shifts, his hours spent cleaning up after other people’s days. Whatever he had imagined for himself once felt distant now, blurred by exhaustion and the quiet awareness that he had helped steer himself into this corner.

At least it was an honest living. And he was not **** enough to turn to crime. Not that he could have, with all the super heroes out there, petty theft now risked getting apprehended by someone other than the police. Yeah, Stan knew better.

Which was why now tht Stan had somehow ended up bound to a metal chair, wrists numb, a dull ache settling into his shoulders as he took in the room around him. Solomon Grundy loomed nearby, massive arms hanging loose as if restraint were a suggestion rather than a rule. Shade lingered at the edges of the light, his presence thinning the air, while Copperhead shifted restlessly, coiled energy barely contained. Star Sapphire stood apart from the others, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as violet light traced the edges of her form.

And then there was the two woman who did not quite fit with the rest and who Stan had never heard of before.

One stood straight backed and still, one hand resting near the hilt of the katana strapped across her spine. Dark red armour hugged her frame with deliberate precision; each plate shaped for movement rather than ornament. A fitted mask concealed her eyes, leaving only her mouth visible, calm and unreadable. Short black hair framed her face cleanly, offering no softness, no distraction. When she shifted her weight, it was silent, controlled, the posture of someone who expected **** and welcomed it.

A little farther back stood the blonde woman, impossible to ignore even without trying. Her hair fell in smooth waves, catching the light no matter where she stood, and her expression carried a practiced ease that suggested confidence earned rather than borrowed. Gold trimmed white armour fit her like it had been designed with no one else in mind, every movement fluid, effortless. She did not need to speak or posture. The way eyes lingered on her without invitation said enough.

Tied up and powerless, Stan understood one thing with painful clarity. Whatever mistakes had brought him here, this was far beyond anything he had imagined paying for.

Being captured by supervillains had never crossed Stan’s mind. He had always lived beneath notice, a background figure people looked past without effort. No one planned for someone like him. The worst he had ever pictured was getting stuck behind police tape during a robbery, mop in hand, waiting for someone else’s mess to be cleared.

This was nothing like that. Any theft had already happened, if it had happened at all. The place was too quiet now, too deliberate. No alarms. No shouting. Just the hum of old machinery and the sense that he had walked into something already underway.

The building itself should have been abandoned. Once, it had belonged to STAR Labs, back when the name still meant something to the city. Now it sat forgotten on official maps, its lights off and doors sealed. Stan had been sent here because no one cared what happened inside anymore. That was the mistake.

He was not collateral. He was evidence. And whatever these people were doing, they had not finished yet.

Stan focused on breathing. Slow in, slow out. Panic would only draw attention, and attention in a room like this came with consequences. If he was lucky, someone would shove him hard enough to make the point. If he was not, Grundy stood close enough to end the situation with a single careless motion.

He let the voices wash past him without meaning. Years of working night shifts had taught him how to exist beside noise without engaging with it. Arguments, shouting, threats, none of it mattered once you learned how to make your mind go blank and keep your hands moving.

That trick almost failed him now. Stan could read lips, an old habit he had never quite shaken. Realizing this, he lowered his gaze and fixed it on the stained floor beneath his shoes. Cracked tile, peeling paint, anything was better than understanding a word of what they were planning.

A hand clamped around Stan’s chin, fingers digging into his cheeks as her thumb **** his mouth open just enough to make his jaw protest. Pressure built fast, sharp and deliberate, until the bones ached as if they might give. He had ****. His head was dragged up.

Her eyes locked onto his. Bright blue, wide and unblinking, carrying a restless edge that made it hard to look away. There was something feverish in that stare, a barely restrained hunger for **** that turned his stomach. She held him there, close enough that he could feel her grip tighten whenever he flinched.

“Pay attention when I address you. 'man'”

The word man followed, spoken evenly, stripped of heat or emphasis. It landed with quiet finality, as if she were naming a flaw rather than a person. There was no need for anger in her voice. To her, his existence already explained everything.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” she said.

The words meant nothing to him. If his jaw had not been locked in her grip, if the threat of bone and teeth being reduced to fragments were not so immediate, he might have reacted. A scoff. A roll of the eyes. Anything. Instead, he stayed still and let the statement pass through him without landing.

In his head, the outcome already felt decided. People who ended up tied to chairs in rooms like this did not walk out later. They were lectured, studied, justified. Whatever explanation she was preparing did not change where he saw the road ending.

So, he listened without listening, the way someone does when the verdict has already been read. To the blonde, this was a necessary step. To Stan, it was noise filling the space before the inevitable.

That sense of numb acceptance shattered when she reached into her armour and produced a syringe. The liquid inside clung thickly to the glass, swirling slow and heavy as she tilted it, catching the light in a way that made his stomach tighten.

“Tsukuri.”

She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The name alone brought movement. The masked woman stepped forward at once, measured and efficient.

“Hold him,” Aresia said. “I want the dosage clean.”

Tsukuri closed the distance, one gloved hand lifting slightly. Before she could act, Star Sapphire moved instead. The gem at her forehead flared, and solid violet restraints snapped into place around Stan’s chest and legs. Another band locked his right arm straight, palm up, skin exposed. He tugged against them out of instinct. They did not yield.

That was when urgency finally broke through.

Shade turned away, already losing interest. Copperhead followed, a blur of motion retreating into the shadows. Grundy lumbered after them, footsteps fading. No one was watching anymore.

The needle slid into the soft skin of his inner arm.

For half a heartbeat, there was only pressure. Then the burn hit, fast and spreading, flooding his nerves with fire. His breath hitched, muscles jerking uselessly against the restraints as the pain surged outward, drowning thought and swallowing sound.

Terror followed close behind, sharp and total, as whatever was in that syringe began to take hold.