The heavy cell door slid shut with a sound of absolute finality, sealing me in my transparent prison. My breath came in ragged, painful gasps. The fire in my broken foot was a roaring inferno, a constant, sickening reminder of my own fragility. My eyes were locked on the cell next to mine. On Diana.

She was exactly as he’d shown me on the monitor, yet somehow infinitely more horrifying in person. There were no visible wounds on her. Her skin was flawless, her iconic armor pristine, her powerful limbs showing no sign of injury. She looked like a goddess on display in a museum. But her eyes… her eyes were voids. They were staring into nothing, completely devoid of the fire and compassion I knew lived in her. She was a perfectly healed body wrapped around a soul that had been murdered. I was looking at my future.

A soft hiss announced the opening of my own cell door. My head snapped around, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was him. The Architect. He stepped inside, no hologram this time, but a physical man dressed in a severe, dark suit. He moved with a liquid grace, an unnerving calm that spoke of absolute control. The air grew cold, heavy with his presence.

“Much better,” he said, his gaze sweeping over me, making my skin crawl. “Theatricality has its place, but for a proper appraisal, one requires proximity.”

I scrambled backwards, my broken foot dragging uselessly, until my back hit the cold, hard wall. I was cornered. “Stay away from me,” I whispered, the words trembling, all my earlier defiance incinerated by pain and terror.

He ignored me, his eyes fixated on my shoulders. “Let’s begin by removing these cumbersome accessories.”

His hands, cool and dry, reached for the clasps that held my cape. I flinched violently, a choked sob escaping my lips. He was unphased. With two precise clicks, the heavy red fabric fell away from my body, pooling on the floor behind me like a shroud of shed hope. The loss of its familiar weight made me feel naked, exposed.

“And this,” he said, his fingers moving to the latch of my skirt at my waist. “An unnecessary flourish.”

He unfastened it, and the red skirt joined the cape on the floor. I was left in only the blue, high-cut leotard and my ruined red briefs, the iconic ‘S’ on my chest now feeling like a target. I wrapped my arms around myself, a futile attempt to ward off his predatory gaze. This was so much worse than the fight. The pain from my foot was a wildfire, but this humiliation was a creeping frost, freezing my very soul.

“There now,” he murmured, stepping closer. He knelt before me, bringing his face level with mine. “Let’s have a look at my prize.”

He reached out, and a finger, cold as steel, traced the line of my jaw. I trembled uncontrollably, tears welling in my eyes. He wasn’t looking at me like a person. He was looking at me like an object, a thing he had acquired.

“Remarkable,” he whispered, his eyes cataloging every detail. “The skin is flawless, save for the… recent damage.” He gestured vaguely toward my face. “Such a youthful complexion. There’s a luminescence to it, a cellular vibrancy that speaks to your solar-powered nature. You are quite literally glowing with life.” His hand moved to my shoulder, his thumb stroking the curve of my deltoid. “The muscle tone is exquisite. Not the hardened physique of a lifetime warrior like your neighbor,” he nodded toward Diana’s cell, “but the lithe, powerful grace of a natural predator. Untrained, perhaps, but brimming with raw potential. You are a truly beautiful creature, Kara Zor-El.”

Every word was a violation, a clinical dissection of my being that left me feeling stripped bare to the bone. I wasn’t a warrior. I wasn’t Diana. I didn’t have her stoic fury, her millennia of training to build a fortress in my mind. I was just a girl, far from home, and I was terrified. The tears I had been fighting began to fall freely, hot tracks of shame on my cold skin.

He saw the fear in my eyes, and he smiled. It was the smile of a man who had proven a theory. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “This is the look I wanted to see. Not defiance. Pure, honest terror. It’s so much more authentic.”

He lifted my chin with his finger, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes were empty of all emotion except a chilling, possessive satisfaction. He was going to brand me, to mark me as his property in a way no physical blow could.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.

A wave of revulsion so powerful it made me gag surged through my body. The kiss was not passionate or violent; it was cold, sterile, an act of finality. It was the seal on a contract I never signed, the pressing of a claim. It was the ultimate expression of his power and my complete lack of it. I was frozen, trapped, a statue being defiled by its creator.

When he pulled back, he left the ghost of his touch on my lips, a contamination that I knew would never wash away. I was shaking, shattered, my mind a maelstrom of horror and disgust.

He stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. “Now you understand,” he said softly. “Rest. We will begin preparing you for your public debut soon.”

He turned and walked out of the cell, the door hissing shut behind him, leaving me alone with the ghost of his touch, the throbbing agony in my foot, and the silent, terrifying spectacle of the perfectly healed, perfectly broken woman in the cell next to mine. The defiant Supergirl was gone. All that was left was a terrified girl named Kara, who had just learned what true powerlessness felt like.