The corridor opened into a wider passage. She heard voices—distant, muffled, the sound of the concert bleeding through walls. She heard a door open somewhere ahead. She heard a voice she recognized.

"Ah. There she is."

Vic Marchetti stood in the doorway, his black suit immaculate, his gold pinky ring catching the light. He was smiling—that cold, cruel smile that never reached his eyes—and he was holding a glass of something amber, swirling it gently as he watched her being brought to him.

"I was wondering when you'd be ready for me," he said. "You've been very... accommodating tonight. I must say, I'm impressed."

Kara stared at him. Her body was shaking. Her mind was blank with shock and exhaustion and a horror so deep it had gone numb.

"Fuck you," she whispered. The words were barely audible, but they were hers—the first thing she'd said that wasn't a plea since it all began.

Vic's smile widened. He took a sip of his drink, set the glass down on a nearby table, and stepped toward her.

"We'll see about that," he said. And he nodded to the men holding her, and they dragged her through the door.

The door swung shut behind them with a soft click, and the sound was so ordinary, so domestic, that Kara almost laughed. A door closing. Like someone leaving for work. Like a bedroom at the end of a long day. Not like a cage sealing.

The room was smaller than she'd expected. Cleaner. A desk with a green banker's lamp casting a pool of warm light across a blotter. Two leather chairs. A bar cart against the far wall with bottles catching the glow. It smelled like cedar and something faintly chemical—air freshener trying too hard. The fluorescent buzz from the corridor bled through the door, a thin constant whine that she felt in her teeth.

Vic walked past her, unhurried, and settled into the chair behind the desk. He didn't look at her. He picked up his glass—she hadn't noticed him carrying it, but there it was, amber liquid swirling in slow circles—and took a sip. The gold pinky ring caught the lamp light, a small bright wink.

The men released her arms. She swayed, caught herself, and stood there in the middle of the room with her bare feet on the concrete and her hands hanging at her sides. The shirt was still bunched around her neck, a damp collar of fabric that she'd forgotten was there. She reached up, slowly, and pulled it down over her chest. It was her band tee—the faded one with the skull and the roses—and it smelled like sweat and fear and someone else's hands.

She held it closed at her throat with one fist. The fabric was thin. She could feel the air moving against her skin everywhere it didn't cover, and she was acutely aware of the wetness on her thighs, cooling now, tacky, a map of what had been done to her that she couldn't wipe away.

"Sit down." Vic gestured at the leather chair across from his desk. "You look like you're about to fall over."

She didn't move. Her legs were shaking—she could feel the tremble running through her calves, her thighs, the muscles she'd spent years building that the red light had turned to water. But she didn't sit. She stood there, holding her shirt closed, and stared at him.

Vic watched her. His smile didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted—an appraisal, a recalculation. He took another sip of his drink, set it down, and leaned back in his chair.

"You're wondering why you're not dead," he said. "Or why you're not back in the corridor with the rest of them. Or why I brought you here instead of letting them finish."

Kara's throat worked. She didn't trust her voice. She didn't trust anything about this room, this man, this moment.

"All of the above," she managed. The words came out cracked, raw, but they came out.

Vic's smile widened. It still didn't reach his eyes, but there was something almost genuine in it—a flicker of amusement that seemed to cost him nothing.

"Because you're interesting," he said. "And interesting people are worth more alive than dead."

"I'm a reporter." She heard herself say it, the lie automatic, the cover story she'd used a hundred times. "I'm nobody. I was just—"

"You were just following the girls." Vic finished the sentence for her, his voice flat. "The ones with the black lanyards. The ones who come to concerts and leave with empty eyes. You were tracking them, weren't you? You thought you were being subtle."

Kara said nothing. Her fist tightened on the shirt.

"I knew you were coming before you walked through the gate." Vic picked up his glass again, swirled it, watched the amber liquid climb the sides. "Lex told me to expect you. Gave me the lights, the layout, everything. Said you'd be wearing something that made you easy to spot." His gaze flicked down her body, and she felt the weight of it like a hand. "He wasn't wrong."

Lex. The name hit her like a physical blow, and for a second the room swam. She'd known. She'd known, in the corridor, with the red light pulsing overhead and the hands on her body, that Lex had built this trap. But hearing it spoken aloud, casual, conversational—like Vic was discussing the weather—made it real in a way she hadn't been ready for.

"He's in prison." Her voice was barely there. "He's supposed to be in prison."

"Prison's just a room with a different door." Vic shrugged. "Lex and I go back. He does the thinking, I do the... logistics. And when he told me he had a way to take down Supergirl, I have to admit, I was skeptical." He took a sip. "I'm not skeptical anymore."

Kara's legs buckled. She caught herself on the arm of the leather chair, her hand gripping the worn leather, and she stood there, bent over, breathing hard, staring at the floor between her bare feet. The concrete was cold. She could see a smear of something on it—she didn't want to know what—and she made herself look away.

"Sit down," Vic said again. This time it wasn't a suggestion.

She sat. Her body folded into the chair like it had been waiting for permission, and she sank into the leather, feeling it cold against her bare thighs, feeling the shirt ride up again. She pulled it down, held it, and stared at him across the desk.

The desk was between them. Solid wood, dark, with a blotter and a lamp and a stack of papers held down by a paperweight. And there, at the edge, within her reach if she could get to it—a letter opener. Silver. Pointed. Catching the lamp light like a dare.

She looked at it. She couldn't help it. Her eyes traced the length of it, the gleam of the blade, the way it sat there like it had been waiting for her.

Vic didn't miss it.

"Go ahead," he said. His voice was mild, almost bored. "Pick it up. Try it."

Her eyes snapped to his face. He was still leaning back in the chair, still swirling that glass, watching her with the patience of a man who had all night. The letter opener sat between them, silver and gleaming, and the silence stretched until she could hear the fluorescent buzz from the corridor bleeding through the door like a trapped insect.

"You're serious." It came out flat, not a question.

Vic's smile widened a fraction. "I'm always serious, Supergirl."

The name hit her in the gut. She'd heard it in the corridor, gasped and moaned by men who'd used it like a taunt, but here, in the quiet of this room, it landed differently. He knew. Of course he knew. Lex had told him. Lex had given him the lights, the layout, everything, and she'd walked into it like a lamb.

She looked at the letter opener again. It was close—so close she could almost feel the weight of it in her hand, the cool bite of the blade. Her fingers twitched on the shirt she was holding closed, and she felt the fabric shift against her skin, felt the air move across her collarbone, her chest, the places the shirt didn't cover.

"Why?" she heard herself ask. "Why would you hand me a weapon?"

Vic set his glass down with a soft click. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and the lamp light caught the gold pinky ring, a small bright wink. "Because I want to see what you do with it."

Kara's throat worked. The leather of the chair was cold against her bare thighs, and she could feel the tacky wetness still drying on her skin, a map of what had been done to her. She wanted to wipe it away, to scrub herself clean, but she didn't move. She couldn't. The letter opener was right there, and Vic was watching, and the air between them felt like a wire pulled tight.

"You think I won't." Her voice was barely there, but it was hers.

"I think you're curious." Vic's gaze drifted down her body, slow and deliberate, and she felt the weight of it like a hand on her skin. "I think you're wondering if you can reach it before I stop you. I think you're wondering what you'd do with it if you got it in your hand." He tilted his head. "I'm wondering too."

Kara's fingers tightened on the shirt. The fabric was damp, wrinkled, still smelling of sweat and fear and someone else's hands. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, in her temples, in the soft place behind her ribs where the red light had turned her strength to water.

She moved.

It wasn't fast—she couldn't be fast anymore, not with her legs shaking and her muscles shot through with that bone-deep weakness—but it was deliberate. She leaned forward in the chair, and the leather creaked under her, and she felt the shirt ride up over her hips, felt the cold air against the small of her back, the tops of her thighs. She didn't stop. She reached across the desk, her arm stretching, her fingers brushing the edge of the blotter, and the letter opener sat there, silver and patient, waiting for her.

Vic didn't move. He didn't blink. He just watched her, his pale eyes tracking her hand like a hawk watching a field mouse, and the smile never left his face.

Her fingers closed around the handle.

The metal was cold. Heavier than she'd expected, with a good solid weight to it, the blade balanced and true. She lifted it off the desk, and the lamp light caught the edge, a thin bright line that ran the length of the steel, and she held it there, pointed at nothing, pointed at the space between them.

She was aware of everything at once: the cold leather against her bare thighs, the shirt bunched at her waist, the wetness still drying on her skin, the weight of Vic's gaze on her body like a physical thing. She was naked under this shirt. She'd been naked in front of a dozen men tonight, been handled and used and discarded, and here she was, sitting in a leather chair with a letter opener in her hand, and the absurdity of it almost made her laugh.

"Good girl." Vic's voice came low and pleased, and the words slid down her spine like oil. "Now we can talk."

Kara stared at him. Her hand was steady on the letter opener—she could feel the cool metal against her palm, the weight of it grounding her—and she didn't lower it. She held it there, pointed at the space between them, and she waited.

Vic leaned back in his chair. He picked up his glass, took a sip, and set it down again. The amber liquid swirled in slow circles, catching the lamp light, and he watched her over the rim of the glass with those cold, pale eyes.

"You're wondering why I bothered," he said. "Why I didn't just let them finish. Why I brought you here instead of shipping you out with the others."

Kara said nothing. Her knuckles were white on the letter opener, and she could feel the tremor running through her arm, through her shoulder, through the muscles that had once held a plane above her head without breaking a sweat.

"Because you're a problem," Vic said. "A very specific, very expensive problem. And problems like you need to be... managed." He said the word like it tasted good. "Lex had his reasons for wanting you out of the picture. But Lex is in prison, and I'm here, and I have to decide what to do with you."

"So you gave me a knife." Kara's voice cracked on the last word. "To—what? Test me?"

"To see what you are." Vic's smile widened. "And I have to say, I'm pleased. Most people in your position—they'd have grabbed it and lunged. They'd have tried to put it through my eye. But you?" He gestured at the blade in her hand. "You're holding it like you don't know what to do with it. Like you're waiting for permission."

Kara's jaw tightened. The letter opener felt heavier now, the weight of it pressing into her palm, and she was suddenly aware of how her hand was shaking. She could feel the tremor running through her fingers, through the blade, and she knew he could see it too.

"I'm not going to use it," she said. The words came out before she could stop them, and she hated herself for saying them, hated the way they sounded like a plea.

Vic tilted his head. "No?"

"No." Kara lowered the letter opener, just a fraction, just enough to point it at the floor. "Because you'd enjoy it. You'd enjoy watching me try." She swallowed. "And because I'm not a killer."

Vic's smile didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted—an appraisal, a recalculation. He picked up his glass again, swirled it, watched the amber liquid climb the sides. "You're right," he said. "I would enjoy it." He took a sip. "But you're wrong about the other thing."

Kara's hand tightened on the letter opener. "What other thing?"

"That you're not a killer." Vic set the glass down. "Everyone's a killer, Supergirl. It's just a question of what they're willing to kill for." His gaze drifted down her body again, slow and deliberate, and she felt it like a hand on her skin. "You'd kill for the right thing. You'd kill for the people you love. You'd kill for a girl with haunted eyes and a baggy hoodie who's been running for three days."

Kara's blood went cold. "Zoe."

Vic's smile widened. "Ah. So you do know her."

Kara's grip on the letter opener was white-knuckled now. The blade trembled in the lamp light, a thin bright line, and she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, could feel the weakness in her legs, the exhaustion dragging at her bones. But she held the letter opener, and she looked at Vic, and she didn't look away.

"She's nineteen," Kara said. "She's terrified. She's been running for three days because she got out of one of your—" She stopped. The word stuck in her throat. "She's a kid."

"She's my daughter." Vic said it flatly, without inflection, and the words landed like a stone in still water. "And she's a problem. Just like you."

Kara stared at him. The letter opener was still in her hand, still pointed at the floor, and she could feel the cold metal against her palm, the weight of it grounding her. "Your daughter," she repeated. "You traffic your own daughter."

Vic's smile didn't waver. "I don't traffic her. I protect her. There's a difference."

"From what?"

"From people like you." Vic leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and the lamp light caught his face, the sharp angles of his jaw, the cold flatness of his eyes. "People who think they know what's best for her. People who'd take her away from me and put her in some system where she'd be chewed up and spit out. I gave her a life. I gave her everything."

"You gave her a cage." Kara's voice was low, raw. "You gave her a world where she had to run for three days just to feel safe."

Vic's smile thinned. "She'll come back. They always come back." He picked up his glass, swirled it, watched the amber liquid climb the sides. "The question is what happens when she does. And that's where you come in."

Kara's hand tightened on the letter opener. "I'm not helping you."

"I didn't think you would." Vic set the glass down. "I thought you'd need a little... incentive."

The word hung in the air between them, and Kara felt it settle into her chest like a stone. She could feel the cold leather against her bare thighs, the shirt bunched at her waist, the weight of the letter opener in her hand. She could feel the smear on the concrete floor beneath her feet, the one she'd looked away from, the one she didn't want to know what it was.

"What do you want?" she asked. The words came out cracked, raw, but they came out.

Vic's smile widened. He leaned back in his chair, and the lamp light caught the gold pinky ring, a small bright wink. "I want you to understand something," he said. "You're not here to escape. You're not here to be rescued. You're here because Lex wanted you out of the picture, and I'm the one who gets to decide what that means."

He reached for his glass, took a sip, and set it down. The amber liquid swirled in slow circles, and Kara watched it, watched him, the letter opener still in her hand.

"And I've decided," Vic said, "that you're worth more alive than dead. Worth more to me than to Lex. Worth more—" His gaze drifted down her body again, slow and deliberate, and she felt the weight of it like a hand. "—as a asset than a corpse."

Kara's throat worked. The letter opener trembled in her grip, and she could feel the tremor running through her arm, through her shoulder, through the muscles that had once been strong enough to bend steel.

"I'd rather be dead," she said.

Vic's smile widened. "That's the spirit." He picked up his glass, raised it in a mock toast, and took a sip. "But we both know you won't do it. You're a hero. Heroes don't give up. They fight, and they lose, and they get back up, and they fight again." He set the glass down. "It's what makes you so predictable."

Kara stared at him. The letter opener was still in her hand, still pointed at the floor, and she could feel the weight of it, the cool metal against her palm, the edge of the blade catching the lamp light. She could feel the cold leather against her bare thighs, the shirt bunched at her waist, the wetness still drying on her skin. She could feel the smear on the concrete floor beneath her feet, the one she'd looked away from, the one she still didn't want to know what it was.

And she could feel the weight of Vic's gaze on her body, the way it lingered on her chest, her thighs, the places the shirt didn't cover. The way he watched her like she was a thing, a piece of property, a problem to be managed.

"You're wrong," she said. Her voice was barely there, but it was hers. "I'm not predictable."

Vic tilted his head. "No?"

"No." Kara's grip tightened on the letter opener. "You think you've got me figured out. You think you know what I'll do. But you don't know anything about me." She swallowed. "You don't know what I've survived. You don't know what I've lost. You don't know what I'm willing to do."

Vic's smile didn't change. "Then show me."

The words hung in the air between them, and Kara felt them settle into her chest like a stone. She looked at the letter opener in her hand, the silver blade catching the lamp light, the weight of it grounding her. She looked at Vic across the desk, his pale eyes watching her, his smile never wavering, the gold pinky ring catching the light like a dare.

And she didn't lower the blade.

She held it there, pointed at the space between them, and she waited.