In the annals of American mythos, Philadelphia's constabulary holds a notoriety both dark and tenacious—a force known for its unyielding nature, often delivered with the blunt force of a cudgel. It is with an academic detachment that I muse upon their repute, keenly aware that such ferocity is conspicuous in its absence upon my arrival.

Are they cowed by the presence of the ultimate deterrent that stands before them, a man whose very essence could be a sentence unto death? Or is it possible that beneath this exoskeleton of wires and radiation, they perceive something familiar, a vestige of "whiteness," a beacon amidst the morass that signals I am to be spared the baton's kiss? I am, after all, accented with the essential Ukranian essence - when I speak, it is readily apparent that I am European, even if none of these men could see my skin and live.

I am inclined to believe it is the former. To them, I may present as nothing more than a twisted echo of the Iron Man archetype, stripped of its luster and heroism. Inside this robust armor, I am an aberration to some, an ally to others, and yet, ultimately, I am but a man.

In their demeanor, a strange deference has bloomed—like iron filings to a magnet, aligning in neat arrays around a force unseen, but deeply felt. Despite the moniker Chernobyl, synonymous with disaster and fear, the eyes that meet mine flicker not with hostility, but something closer to guarded empathy, as if they too recognize the hollow ache of loss and separation that pervades my being.

Sequestered within a room barren of windows, sterile as a surgical suite, I nestle into my chosen corner with an air of resignation. The suit's servos whine faintly as I adjust myself, assuming the motionless vigil of a gargoyle perched high above an urban abyss. Within this sealed chamber, time is both endless and ephemeral, crawling and skipping as the hazmat-clad figures flit about like nervous wraiths against a tapestry of lead, boron, and foil. This metallic bulwark, hastily erected to hold back the invisible tides I emit, becomes a canvas reflecting the distorted silhouettes of my attendants.

Their movements are tentative, laced with an undercurrent of anxiety. Yet amidst the hum of activity, there comes the odd snippet of conversation—a stilted attempt at normalcy by the bravest among them.

"Mr. Fedorov, we'll be adding another layer of lead here, if that's okay with you," one hazmat-suited figure queries, the words somewhat muffled through the mask.

The use of my true name, rather than the moniker foisted upon me by circumstances and public fear, resonates within my chest, a muted echo of the man I once was. "Yes, of course," I reply in measured tones, my voice devoid of the harshness one might expect from a creature of my repute. "Thank you for your diligence."

As they labor, their aversion is palpable; it clings to them, a second skin of trepidation. They regard me with the wariness one reserves for the proverbial bomb—one wrong move away from devastation. And while there is an undoubted truth to their fear, my reputation as Chernobyl cloaks me in an infamy not entirely my own. They see the radioactive menace, the supervillain—yet the visage they recoil from conceals the scholar, the husband, the exile.

"Will this be enough, you think?" one hazmat-clad figure ventured to his partner, a tremor of uncertainty in his voice as he gestured to the pile of protective materials.

"Perhaps another layer of lead would ensure the containment of any stray emissions from my suit," I suggested, startling them, my voice flat, the timbre of it modulated by my suit's speakers. "And the adhesive… a silicon-based sealant might prove more resistant to the gamma emissions. Duct tape and glue will function as a temporary measure but degrade over time should I exit my suit, and I assume I will be in this cage for quite a while."

They stare at me. I gesture with a hand. "I mean the room, not the suit."

They don't respond, outside of frightful chuckles. I don't inform them that the boron is likely unecessary - to my knowledge, I don't produce much neutron radiation, but I appreciate the thoroughness.

I sit in the gloom, my watchful eyes taking in the sterile geometry of my containment. Here, within these walls, I confront my future—a tapestry unwoven, threads of potential and penance interlacing with quiet dread. I engage in the mental arithmetic of counting seconds and breaths, of projecting the grim mathematics of captivity that stretch before me, interminable.

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Yet, even within this ponderous wait, my mind reaches beyond the confines of steel and concrete, traversing vast distances to the windswept steppes of my homeland, to the tender embrace of those I hold dear. Their absence is a constant ache, an ever-present shadow upon my heart. Here, in the fortress of my solitude, my very presence a danger to those around me, I am paradox incarnate: the guardian of ruin, a man swathed in both power and profound regret.

In the lulls of conscious thought, I retreat into the comforting embrace of sleep, a fleeting respite within the steel carcass that encases me. My suit, despite its foreboding exterior, houses a cushioned interior that tends to the needs of my flesh—a merciful consideration from a past self well aware of the demands such containment would incur.

Upon stirring from these intermittent slumbers, I observe the chamber anew, freshly cocooned in its prophylactic sheathing. The meticulous layering of materials envelops the room like the bandages of a mummy, striving to contain the curse that burns within. Though I long for the mundane pleasure of stretching one's legs, the taskmaster of caution holds me at bay. A tripling of layers, interspersed with the stoic fortitude of concrete, is the bastion I seek—a request yet unvoiced, harbored within the confines of my mind.

I will wait until someone with correct authorization is available to relay the request to.

As I plot the structure in my head, picturing the bricks overlaying the foil and sheets like a geometric puzzle, my reverie is broken by a sudden intrusion into my visual field. The camera link now frames the unmistakable visage of Agent Evelyn Shaw, my unwanted herald from the National Superhuman Response Agency.

Her features are sharp, a testament to a life of discipline, and she carries the dual-purpose garb with a professional ease that belies the tension brewing beneath. The sight of her, unwelcome yet anticipated, shifts the tenor of my isolation towards an unclear but inevitable confrontation.

"Agent Shaw," I intone, my voice the rumble of distant thunder, "Might I request the presence of one of the Philadelphia's finest? I have a matter of construction to propose, if you would be so accommodating."

Her lips twist into a half-smirk, a gesture that wields no humor but masks the gravity of her purpose. "Construction requests can wait, Fedorov," she says, her words clipped as if shearing through the static between us. "There's something more pressing we need to discuss. Care to enlighten me on why you did it? Why surrender now?"

My reluctance is a tangible entity, a spectral guardian warding off the truths I hold too closely. "A conversation, nothing more, with a young girl," I reply, the nebulous details falling from my lips like mist. "Sometimes, a mirror is held up to us, and the reflection demands we reconsider the path we tread."

Her eyebrows arch in calculated skepticism, her body language remaining tensely coiled. "A conversation that undid years of cat-and-mouse, just like that?" There's an edge to her voice, a blade seeking the space between my armor's plates. "Just a girl?"

"Life-altering discourse isn't reserved for the grand stages," I say, deflecting again with an almost whimsical tone—a gear seldom engaged, and all the more jarring for its rarity. "It often finds us in the quiet moments, the spaces between breaths and battles."

She leans forward, her demeanor an orchestration of official concern laced with the anxiety of the NSRA's precarious position—a dam holding back the potential flood of classified spillage during my forthcoming legal ordeal.

"We're both aware of what's at stake," she says, her voice a low thrum that seeks to pull at my resolve. "Not just for you, but for us—"

"—and for them," I interrupt, my thoughts spiraling to the faces etched within my soul. "My wife, my daughter, Agent Shaw. My surrender isn't a gambit in your power plays. I've danced long enough to the tune of fear and circumstance. I will play these games no longer."

Her stance softens, fractionally, the truth within my words bridging the chasm that has always lain between us—NSRA and so-called villain. "Hope is a commodity in short supply, Fedorov. But for what it's worth, I'm… we're processing your requests. I hope you have a good-ass lawyer."

There's a flicker, an ephemeral sign that our roles—her as jailer, me as internee—are but fragile constructs, always a sentence away from being rewritten.

"Thank you, Agent Shaw," I reply, and though the words are correct, they come laden with the weight of unspoken dialogue—the discourse of shared apprehension, of a future uncertain, of the raw, human longing for a touch untainted by fear or radiation. "That's right, I will need a lawyer… Hmm…"

I muse it aloud, hoping for a suggestion from my ever-reliable handler. She looks at me with an eyebrow raised. "What, you think I'm going to help you?"

"It would've been appreciated. It's quite hard to operate these newer phones for me, for reasons that should be obvious," I reply. I have brought with me only the essentials, sequestered safely in the lined compartments of my suit. With a small flourish, I produce them, ejecting a tablet computer from my leg, the attached keyboard cart component from my other leg, and a small bag of jelly beans from the barrel of my now-emptied pile driver on my right arm. That one goes into the intake slot. "Do you have any suggestions, or shall I rely on the vagaries of the internet?"

"Damn, I forgot how much I hate talking to you," Agent Shaw mumbles. "I'll get you a list of lawyers in the area. For your… years of dedicated service to this country."

"Much obliged, Agent Shaw,"