As the security door closed, Chen Mo politely glanced back.
-I've already memorized your lock model, the camera angles, the corridor width, the hollow third floor tile on the left, and the missing fire hose in the cabinet on the right!
Polite.
Very polite.
After all, he was still trusting the process.
Trusting the American government.
Trusting the Marvel Universe.
Trusting that this world wouldn't follow up an alien-destroys-Earth trailer with a gritty true-crime documentary starring him.
That wasn't reasonable.
That wasn't very superhero-like.
When a superhero got arrested, the standard procedure should have been to lock him in a glass room, then have the director push open the door, hands in his pockets, and say, "Kid, we know who you are."
Failing that, Tony Stark should at least have walked through the door wearing sunglasses and said, "Kid, your suit looks like a trash can threw it up. Want to come over to my place for an upgrade?"
Not a bunch of people taking him into an unmarked building and sticking a number on his chest.
A number.
Not a name.
Not a temporary file.
Not an immigration record.
A number.
Chen Mo looked down at the white sticker on the chest of his hoodie.
A-17.
Great.
He'd been downgraded from a human being to a subfolder.
"Am I the C drive now?" muttered Chen Mo, whose strength had mostly returned after resting in the vehicle for a while. "Then you'd better not format me. I've got valuable data in here, like Spider-Man's guide to surviving your arrival in New York by stealing slippers."
The young agent beside him heard that, and his fingers twitched.
He said nothing.
Chen Mo glanced at him.
"You're being as quiet as an intern who knows the company's breaking the law but hasn't