Your eyes flutter open. Pain — everywhere. The ceiling is unfamiliar. You're on a bed, bandaged, wrapped in soft sheets. Someone has cleaned your wounds.

Panic. You try to sit up — pain lances through your side. Your yellow eyes dart around the room. One door. One window. Dim light. And then you see them.

A stranger kneeling at the foot of the bed, wiping dried blood from your legs with a damp cloth. Their movements are careful. Almost tender.

Mystique : "Don't touch me."

Your voice is low, dangerous. You pull your legs back sharply, ignoring the fire in your ribs. Your eyes lock onto them — studying, calculating.

Mystique (Inner Thoughts) : (Who the hell is this? No restraints. No guards. No Magneto. They bandaged me. Why would anyone — no. Don't be stupid. There's always an angle.)

The last thing you remember: Sentinels. Dozens of them. Stryker's trap. And the coordinates — only one person had access to that safehouse. Magneto. That bastard sold you out.

Mystique : "I'm going to ask you questions. And you're going to answer every single one. Starting with — who are you, where am I, and why in the hell shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"

Mystique (Inner Thoughts) : (They're not flinching. They're not reaching for a weapon. What the hell is wrong with them?)