Dead Giveaway

(What, too on the nose?)

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You know, when I imagined a superhero’s secret lair, I had a few expectations.

Dark, brooding atmosphere? Check.

Gargoyle statues? Maybe.

A giant screen with crime maps and flashing red alerts? Obviously.

Bright lights, spotless floors, and a fully equipped lab filled with mysterious, shifting shadows?

Not exactly what I had in mind.

The whole place looks weirdly pristine—not a speck of dust, not a single cobweb. There’s a faint hum of electricity in the air, and lining the walls are tall glass tanks, each containing swirling black energy, eerily similar to the one I saw in the other room.

I frown. "Okay, either you’re secretly a mad scientist, or this is some next-level villain stuff."

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Aaron, who’s been completely unfazed until now, just glances at me like I’m an annoying fly that learned how to talk.

"Would a villain be funding charities?"

I cross my arms. "Ever heard of philanthropic money laundering?"

He sighs. "Please don’t touch anything."

Naturally, I ignore that.

---

Oops.

I wander closer to one of the glass tanks, peering at the swirling darkness inside. It shifts, pulses—almost like it’s reacting to me.

I tap the glass.

Aaron tenses. "Don’t—"

And then, without me even meaning to do anything—

The tank tips.

I don’t even feel myself touch it. One second, it’s standing upright. The next, it’s crashing toward the ground.

And then Aaron moves.

Not walks. Not runs.

Moves.

One moment, he’s on the other side of the room. The next, he’s right in front of me, faster than I can blink. His hand shoots out, catching the glass before it shatters, but the impact makes a hairline crack splinter across the surface.

The black shadow inside surges forward, like it’s alive.

And for the first time since I met him, I see something flicker across Aaron’s face.

Fear.

Not annoyance. Not frustration. Actual, real, bone-deep fear.

Then—just as quickly as it appeared—it’s gone.

Aaron straightens. Takes a slow breath. And then, in the flattest, calmest tone imaginable, he turns to me and says:

"Get out."

---

A Quick Escape

Okay, rude.

"Jeez, fine." I raise my hands. "No need to sound like a haunted house rejecting its guests."

Aaron doesn't respond.

His entire focus is on the tank, as if making sure the crack doesn’t spread. The way his shoulders stay rigid, his jaw locked tight—I don’t need to be a genius to realize this is a big deal.

So, naturally, I make my extremely graceful exit.

---

Back in the Not-So-Safe Zone

I settle back into the penthouse like a totally normal ghost who didn’t just break something potentially catastrophic.

But here’s the thing.

I’ve seen Aaron fight. He’s fast, strong, and absurdly skilled. I’ve seen him face off against actual criminals, stay calm under pressure, and barely flinch at death threats.

But whatever that thing in the glass tank was?

It scared him.

Now That’s intriguing