Operation: OnlyHeroes

If the lobby was impressive, the rest of Ascendants Tower is something else entirely.

"Orientation's quick," Ms. Bishop says as we step out of the conference room. "You'll meet the team eventually, but for now... ground rules."

Her heels click in sharp rhythm against the glass floor. I trail behind like a lost puppy, clutching the NDA folder like it's going to protect me from whatever I just saw back there.

Grant—All-Star, actual living legend—had just grinned at me like we were sharing a secret. A secret that involved friction burns? And now the guy in red—Trailblazer—just sprinted in and out like he was late to his own funeral.

Focus, Toby. This is fine. Normal first-day jitters.

We walk down a hallway that looks like the inside of the Amazon app if Amazon sold hero worship. Digital banners flash headlines like:

[ASCENDANTS SAVE SUBWAY TRAIN FROM DERAILMENT

ALL-STAR: "HEROISM MEANS SACRIFICE"]

Ms. Bishop taps her tablet as we pass a set of massive glass doors. Inside, I glimpse what looks like a war room—holographic maps, glowing red zones, assistants running like it's the apocalypse.

"Crisis Command," she says. "You'll forward anything major to them."

I nod, pretending I understand.

The next door opens as we pass. And I freeze.

It's dim inside. Velvet curtains drawn. A long table with candles—actual candles—burning low. A woman in black silk gloves lounges in a chair, legs crossed, sipping wine like the world can wait its turn. Her hair is midnight. Her smile? Sharp enough to hurt.

For half a second, our eyes meet. And the shadows around her seem to... move. Like they're breathing. Next thing, she started licking her lips.

Ms. Bishop steps in front of me before I can blink. "Eyes forward, Williams." The door slides shut.

"Who—?" I start.

"You'll read the dossiers." Her voice is all ice. "Until then, assume everyone here is busier than you, stronger than you, and far less patient than me. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah."

We keep walking. Past a gym that looks more like a gladiator arena. Past a glass-walled lounge where two people—are those wings?—are arguing over what sounds like... movie night?

The elevator dings open, and there he is again.

Trailblazer. Still in that red skin-tight suit, half unzipped now like he just ran through a heatwave. One hand clutches a protein shake, the other scrolls his phone at light speed. When he sees me, his grin lights up like we've been friends for years.

"Yo, fresh meat!" He steps in, leans casually against the mirrored wall. "Made it through the interrogation?"

"I—uh—yeah."

He slurps his shake, then gives me the kind of look you only see before bad ideas. "Congrats. Serious question though..." He tilts his head. "Marvel or DC?"

"Huh?"

"Pick one. Marvel or DC."

"Uh... Marvel, I guess."

He grins wider, like I passed some sacred test. "Good answer. Welcome to the Avengers Funhouse." He takes another sip, smirk curling. "Hope you brought edibles, 'cause you're gonna need some."

"Excuse me?"

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes. He checks it, grins wider, and mutters something about "after-party cooldown." Then he's gone in a blink, leaving the elevator doors trembling.

I stare after him. "What... does he mean by cooldown?"

Ms. Bishop doesn't look up from her tablet. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

Great. Fantastic.

The elevator doors open to the intern bullpen—thank God, normal desks, computers, people typing like actual office drones. I take a deep breath. Finally, something that makes sense.

"This is you," she says, pointing to a tiny desk wedged between two filing cabinets. "Orientation packet's on the drive. Memorize the Ascendants' media profiles. First impressions matter."

"Uh, sure." I drop into the chair. The desk wobbles like it's about to quit.

Ms. Bishop taps her tablet one last time, then gives me a look sharp enough to pin me to the wall. "And Williams?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you think this job is?" She leans in, voice low. "It's worse."

And then she's gone.

I stare at the empty desk, the NDA in my lap, and the email that started all this.

Discreet. Organized. Unflappable under pressure.

How hard can it be, right?

Somewhere down the hall, I hear laughter. Loud. Followed by a crash. Then what sounds suspiciously like moaning—cut off by a door slamming shut.

I press my hands over my face.

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