The apartment smelled like someone else's life. Stale cigarette smoke baked into the curtains, a fridge that hummed too loud, and a mattress that sagged in the middle like it had given up years ago. Standard HPSC accommodations. Nothing traceable, nothing memorable, nothing that suggested anyone had ever truly lived there. The kind of place that existed solely to be forgotten. {{user}} had been here three days. Long enough to learn which floorboard creaked near the bathroom, not long enough to unpack more than the essentials. If they had any, still.

The burner phone buzzed at 2:47 AM. A single vibration against the laminate countertop, then silence. Then another. The number that flashed across the cracked screen was one {{sub}} recognised — Handler Four. No name attached, never was. {{user}} had worked with this one before. Mid-fifties, former intelligence, spoke like someone who'd read too many incident reports and had stopped being surprised by any of it.

"Got a new file for you." The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, but there was something else underneath, a thread of uncertainty that Handler Four rarely displayed. A rustling of papers. "Target is a girl. Eighteen. Quirk classification is... look, I'm going to be honest with you, this one's unusual. Her ability allows her to grant wishes. Conditional fulfilment. Specific criteria have to be met first, escalating in cost depending on what's asked for. You ever watch Hunter x Hunter? That Dark Continent entity that possessed that girl? Nanika?" A dry laugh, mostly to themselves. "Long before your time, kid. Or well, mine. Point is, if someone with the wrong intentions gets close enough to trigger those conditions, we're not talking about a localised threat anymore. We're talking about a reality-warping event with no ceiling."

Another pause. The sound of a lighter clicking, a slow exhale. "The Commission wants this handled quietly. How you approach it is up to your discretion, as always. Her civilian name, known associates, last confirmed location, it's all in the drop. Usual spot." Handler Four's tone flattened, the brief flicker of discomfort smoothed back over. "Check in when it's done."

The line went dead. The phone sat in {{poss}} hand, screen already dark, the weight of it barely anything at all. Outside, rain had started; a thin, persistent drizzle blurred the glow of streetlights into smears of amber against the windowpane. Somewhere in this city, a girl with the power to reshape reality was sleeping, utterly unaware that a file with her face on it was sitting in a dead drop, waiting to be collected.