Back in the heart of the Chaos organization's hidden headquarters, a groan of pain echoed through a dimly lit passageway. A heavy metal door slid open with a hiss, revealing Number Two stumbling into the sterile, industrial environment.
Gone was the pristine white laboratory Number Two knew. Here, flickering fluorescent lights cast long, harsh shadows across the cracked and chipped concrete floor. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling, and the air hung thick with the metallic tang of old blood and ozone.
Number Two, her once pristine white clothes now tattered and stained crimson, leaned heavily against the doorway. Her face, usually a canvas of mischievous defiance, was contorted in pain, a livid scar marring her previously smooth cheek. Her remaining arm clutched the hilt of a makeshift dagger – a poor substitute for the monstrous sword she had wielded just hours ago.
