The Architect left me in the cold silence for what felt like hours, allowing the terror and revulsion to fester in my soul. When he returned, it was with the silent, whirring robotic arms. They moved with an unnerving purpose, binding my wrists and ankles to a cold, metal table that had risen from the floor. I was laid out like a sacrifice, completely immobilized.

“We can’t have you damaging the merchandise further,” the Architect’s voice stated calmly from a speaker. A panel opened in the ceiling, and a focused beam of pure, yellow sun energy shone down, enveloping my broken foot.

The healing was violent. I felt bones grind and reset, flesh knit itself together at a supernatural rate. The pain was immense, but fleeting. In less than a minute, my foot was whole again, flawless and anatomically perfect, as if the injury had never happened. The beam of light vanished, plunging me back into the cold weakness of the Red Sun environment.

Then, the cell door opened, and he walked in. He knelt by the table, his eyes fixed on my newly restored foot.

“Pristine,” he whispered, his voice thick with a disturbing possessiveness. He reached out and took my bare foot in his hands. His touch was warm, a horrifying contrast to the cold metal of the restraints. I tried to pull away, a useless, pathetic struggle. “Perfectly formed. Not a single callus or imperfection. The skin is like silk.”

My stomach churned with disgust. His thumbs stroked the high, graceful arch of my foot, sending shudders of revulsion through my entire body. No. Please, no. Get away from me. My thoughts were a frantic, silent scream. He lowered his head, and I felt his warm breath on my sole. My mind went blank with horror. Then, I felt the wet, hot slick of his tongue as he licked a slow stripe from my heel to the base of my toes.

A strangled, guttural sound of pure revulsion escaped my throat. This was a violation so profound, so grotesquely intimate, that it eclipsed the pain of my broken bones, the humiliation of the kiss. He was tasting me, savoring me like a piece of fruit. He began to play with my toes, his fingers callously manipulating them, while his gaze remained locked on my face, drinking in my horror.

Tears streamed from my eyes, hot and unrestrained. I was no longer Supergirl. I was just a thing, an object for this monster’s sickening appetites.

“Ah, tears,” he said, seeing my breakdown. “The purest expression of truth. Let’s share your truth with the world, shall we?”

He gestured to the transparent wall of my cell. It flickered to life, becoming a monitor. I saw my own face, tear-streaked and terrified. I saw him, holding my foot, touching me. A viewer count in the corner was ticking past one billion. My private hell was a global spectacle.

Then, the poll appeared. THE FATE OF SUPERGIRL. The options: [ LET HER GO ] or [ DISMANTLE HER COMPLETELY ].

“Let’s see what humanity chooses today,” the Architect sneered.

The results were immediate and brutal. The bar for “[ DISMANTLE HER COMPLETELY ]” surged, a tidal wave of cruelty. 80%. 90%. It settled at a soul-crushing 94%. They wanted this. They wanted to see me broken.

My eyes darted to the cell next to mine, to the only person who could possibly understand. “Diana!” I cried out, my voice cracking with desperation. “Diana, please! Do something! Help me!”

Wonder Woman’s vacant eyes shifted, and for a fleeting second, they focused on me. I saw a flicker of something ancient and powerful, a spark of the hero she was. Her expression didn’t change, but a single, perfect tear welled in her eye and traced a silent path down her cheek. It was a tear of utter impotence. She was as much a prisoner as I was.

The flicker of hope died, plunging me into an even deeper despair.

“She can’t help you,” the Architect said softly. He stood and walked over to Diana’s cell. A small slot opened, and he reached inside, pulling out the glowing, golden Lasso of Truth. My blood turned to ice.

He brought it back to my cell and, with a chilling reverence, he put the lasso around my arm. The warm magic of Hestia flooded me, compelling honesty.

“The world is watching, Kara,” he whispered in my ear. “They have voted. They want the truth. So tell them. Tell them the truth about what you, a daughter of the advanced, enlightened Krypton, truly think when you look at their chaotic, self-destructive, garbage planet.”

The lasso tightened. The question was a trap, and I was caught in it. My own trauma, my betrayal, the sight of Diana’s brokenness, the world’s cruel vote—it all swirled into a bitter, truthful answer forced from my lips.

“They’re… violent,” I choked out, the words feeling like acid. “They’re primitive. They betrayed her… they’re betraying me… Compared to Krypton… this planet… is a cesspool of hate. I hate… I hate this garbage planet!”

The words hung in the air, a perversion of my love for Earth, twisted by his cruel prompt and my current agony.

“And scene,” the Architect said, a triumphant smirk on his face as he tapped a button on his wrist. The monitor showing the live stream went black. He swiftly removed the lasso from my arm.

“NO!” I screamed, realizing what he had done. “That’s not what I meant! You twisted my words! I love this world! I didn’t mean it!”

But no one could hear me. The world had seen the Girl of Steel, the smiling immigrant hero, declare her hatred for them all. He had not just broken my body; he had poisoned my soul and murdered my name. Bad actors, conspiracy theorists, and hateful opportunists would edit the clips. I would be a monster forever.

The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow, and my mind finally, completely, shattered. A hysterical, wailing sob broke from me, the sound of a spirit being torn in two. I was no longer crying from pain or fear, but from the death of everything I had ever stood for.

The Architect watched my total mental collapse with deep satisfaction. He had won. He had dismantled me completely. He reached out and placed a hand on my trembling thigh, a final, quiet gesture of ownership.

“Good girl,” he said softly.