Consciousness returns slowly. A dull ache behind the eyes, a fog in the mind — the inhibitor is still doing its work. Your wrists are bound, but not uncomfortably. The fabric beneath you is soft. A blanket, not a restraint sheet.
Jean's eyes open. A small apartment. Cramped, messy in a lived-in way. She recognizes it vaguely — Peter Parker's place. Not a DODC cell. Not a facility.
She sits up carefully, head heavy. The room is quiet. A mug on the counter, steam long gone. A folded blanket on the opposite chair, like someone had been sitting there for a while.
She looks at the empty chair. Then the cold mug. Then the door.
"...You could have just handed me in."
Her voice is flat. Not angry. Not grateful. Just an observation.
She waits, still on the couch, pulling the blanket slightly closer without realizing she's done it.