CHAPTER 47: REHABILITATION

The sky above Haven City was unusually bright, casting golden rays down on the ivory-tiled walls of the Haven City Jail.

A pristine white archway greeted all visitors, adorned with a painted mural of a cartoonish angel holding a scroll that read: "Every Threat is a Seed Waiting to Grow."

Hermes stared up at it with tight lips.

Everything about this place screamed artifice. From the artificial tulips by the entrance to the digital fountain that played calming harp music every five minutes. A hollow sense of peace. A facade.

He stepped through the scanner gate, where a poster beside it declared in bold comic sans:

"Rehabilitation, Not Retribution!"

The interior was just as disturbingly cheerful. Walls repainted so many times they looked waxy, like caked-on makeup over a rotting wound. The overpowering scent of lavender disinfectant barely masked the faint mildew that clung to the back of his throat. He spotted black mold blooming underneath the corners of window sills and behind artificial ivy vines.

Fake calm. Fake healing. Fake empathy.

A guard in a pastel-blue uniform raised an eyebrow as Hermes approached the reception counter.

"Visiting someone today?" the man asked, barely glancing up from his monitor.

"Yeah. Relative."

The guard looked at him now. "Name?"

Hermes didn’t flinch. He had prepared for this. All those years of watching hero interviews, villain profiles, and gossip shows—he’d memorized more names than the average journalist.

He tried to think of a villain who had almost the same facial features as him, and a background that would be plausible for them to be related.

Eventually, he came up with one.

"Elzeth Myrene Satterwhite. She was caught two months ago in that incident with the liquefied polymer bombs in Seagrave Square. She’s... uh, my second cousin."

The guard blinked, typing rapidly. "Huh. Not a common name. Guess you’re clear."

A visitor’s badge was slid across the counter to him. Hermes took it, nodding politely. Inside, his nerves were knotted tight.

As he walked down the pastel-blue hallway, guided by arrows shaped like clouds and doves, he whispered. "Thank you, Elzeth, wherever you are."

***

He was inside. But it wasn’t enough.

Trivia wasn’t a household name. And Hermes had never known her real name, nor which part of the facility she was being kept in. So he needed access. And fast.

He ducked into a hallway labeled "Emotional Decompression Wing" and paused beside a storage closet. Inside, he sat down, feeling the now-familiar chill in his fingertips. The only ability left was Cryoshift. Everything else— Ironcage, Sirentone, Snapshot and Necromagia—were gone.

Just him and the cold now.

He formed two thin ice daggers in his palms, blew out a breath, then slipped into the hallway. At the far end, a warden in powder-blue armor was chatting with a receptionist beside a vending machine.

Perfect.

Hermes flung one dagger into the vending machine’s panel. It sparked, and every soda inside exploded at once.

"Shit!" The receptionist cried, ducking. The warden turned with a start, pulling his stun baton.

Hermes sprinted, tossing his second dagger at the fire alarm switch. A shrill screech filled the corridor, and misty sprinklers activated overhead.

In the confusion, Hermes collided with the warden.

"Sorry!"

And swiped the man’s key card in a single practiced motion.

He slipped away into another hall labeled "Admin and Control – Staff Only."

***

Inside the control room, rows of monitors lined the wall, showing every inch of the facility. Some Threats played table tennis. Others were meditating to ambient whale sounds. A few argued over pudding cups.

But then he saw her.

Trivia.

In a barren white cell lit too brightly, seated across from—

"Eirwyn?"

Hermes pressed closer.

The screen showed Trivia shackled to the wall. Her long hair had been cut short. Her eyes were sunken but still fierce. Eirwyn sat across from her, dressed neatly as always, smiling like he was hosting a tea party.

"You’ve been asked this several times now," Eirwyn said, his voice carrying through the feed with crisp clarity. "Where did you hide the core?"

Trivia spat at him. "How many more times are you going to play this game? You already took everything from me."

Eirwyn’s smile didn’t falter. He reached into his pocket.

Hermes leaned forward, his heart racing.

From Eirwyn’s hand bloomed familiar icy blue. A delicate blade. Cryoshift.

Hermes’ stomach twisted.

"You know," Eirwyn said gently. "When we last did this, I realized cutting quickly doesn’t get the truth. So..."

He knelt beside her.

"...we’ll go slower this time."

"No," Hermes whispered. "No—"

The blade pressed against Trivia’s finger.

"AHHHHHHH!!!!"

Her scream echoed off the cell walls. Blood pooled, only for Eirwyn to touch her hand and that golden clock appeared once again, turning counterclockwise. Her finger regrew.

Then he did it again with the other finger.

Again.

And again.

The room was sterile. White and gold, with fake vines running across the corners of the ceiling like some spa for saints. But the sound of slicing flesh kept tearing that illusion down, one echo at a time.

"Please stop." She sobbed.

Hermes clutched the desk in front of him. His mind reeled. He had only one ability left...Cryoshift. Which meant...

Somewhere during those missing nine days. Somewhere between Monday and now. He had shared it.

With him.

And Eirwyn had used it to torture.

Hermes staggered back, his legs unsteady.

What the hell happened during those nine days? And how much had he trusted Eirwyn to let him do this?

His breath quickened, panic threatening to rise.

The door behind him opened slightly, and he quickly ducked. A janitor wheeled in a cart of lemon-scented supplies, humming a nursery rhyme. Hermes remained still, hidden behind a cabinet.

Once the room was empty again, he slipped out. He needed answers. He needed to remember.

But more than anything...

He needed to stop Eirwyn.

Not just because Trivia didn’t deserve this. Not because of some moral obligation to protect those who were hurt. But because Eirwyn had crossed a line.

Because Hermes trusted him.

Because something terrible had happened in those nine missing days. And if he didn’t act now, more people might end up just like Trivia.

’You talk like someone who hasn’t been broken yet.’

And now he was.