I lay in the darkness, a broken marionette with its strings cut. The physical pain was a distant ocean, vast and overwhelming, but the true agony was the silence where my cousin’s flight had been. He was gone. Gone to kill our friends. The Architect had won.

The yellow light returned, as it always did. My four shattered limbs began their violent, accelerated mending. Bones ground together, muscle fibers re-laced, and skin sealed. It was the most excruciating pain imaginable, and I had come to know it as a form of punctuation in my endless sentence of suffering. When it was over, I was physically whole again, a pristine doll ready for a new game.

The Architect appeared on the monitor, his face alight with glee. “A new day has dawned, Kara. A world without its self-appointed guardians.”

The screen changed. It was a news broadcast, the footage chaotic and raw. A reporter was weeping near the steps of the Hall of Justice. Then the camera panned, and my heart stopped. It was them. Barry, his vibrant red suit torn and stained. Hal, his ring finger limp and lifeless. And Bruce… even in death, he looked defiant. Their bodies were laid out in a neat row, a grotesque offering from a god to a world he now owned. The chyron read: “SUPERMAN DECLARES SOLE PROTECTORATE; JUSTICE LEAGUE DISSOLVED.” He hadn’t just killed them. He had made a statement.

Grief, so pure and potent it was a physical force, tore through my hollowed-out shell. These were my friends. My mentors. My family. And Kal… my cousin, my brother, had murdered them and left them in the street like trophies. A wail of pure anguish ripped from my throat, an animal sound of loss and horror. This was my fault. I wasn’t strong enough. I hadn’t stopped him.

“A tragedy,” the Architect’s voice said, dripping with false sympathy. “But every tragedy presents an opportunity. I feel… magnanimous today. I am going to offer you and your Amazon friend a way out.”

He appeared in person, stepping into my cell. He looked at me, then gestured towards Diana’s cell. “It’s simple. The two of you will fight. To the death. The winner,” he paused, savoring the moment, “will be set free. Free to leave this place. Free to try and stop Superman. One of you will have the chance to be a hero again.”

I stared at him, my grief momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. He was offering a sliver of hope, a prize so great it was unthinkable. But the cost…

“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“No?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t fight her,” I said, a flicker of my old self returning. “I won’t kill my friend for your amusement.” I looked at my own hands. “And even if I would… I can’t. Without my powers, I’m not a fighter. She is. She’s Wonder Woman, the greatest warrior who ever lived. I would lose.”

The Architect’s face darkened. My refusal, my logic, had displeased him. He closed the distance between us in two quick strides and grabbed me, his fingers digging into my arms like steel bands.

“You think you have a choice?” he snarled, his face inches from mine. Before I could react, he crushed his mouth against mine. It wasn’t like the first kiss, the cold act of ownership. This was aggressive, punishing. It was a kiss of pure, brutal dominance, meant to shatter my defiance. I struggled, beating my fists uselessly against his chest, but he was too strong. He forced my head back, his kiss bruising and violating, a final, visceral reminder that my will meant nothing. My horror was absolute, a suffocating wave of revulsion and powerlessness.

He finally threw me back against the wall, leaving me gasping and sobbing, the taste of him like poison in my mouth.

“Your consent is not a factor,” he spat.

Robotic arms descended from the ceiling, grabbing me. They dragged me from my cell, my bare feet scraping against the floor, and pulled me into the larger central chamber. It was empty, a sterile white arena. They deposited me on one side, then retracted.

Across the chamber, another gate rumbled open. Diana stepped out. She was dressed in her own replica armor, her face a blank slate, her eyes holding that terrifying emptiness. But her body was coiled with a warrior’s tension. She held no weapons, but she was a weapon.

I looked at my friend, the hero I had idolized, now my designated executioner. I looked at my own body, whole but weak, and knew I was no match for her. He was forcing me to fight a battle I had already refused, for a prize I could never win. This wasn’t a chance at freedom. It was just a more elaborate, more heartbreaking form of execution. And as Wonder Woman began to walk slowly towards me, her movements fluid and deadly, I knew my dismantling was about to enter its final, bloody act.