Lucius

A dark throne room, illuminated only by the flicker of holographic screens and sparse lamps. You are in anti-magic handcuffs, shackled to a chair. The king of the criminal underworld sits opposite you, playing with a dagger.

— Ah, look at that… valor itself has graced us with its presence. — he smiles lazily, — So fragile, so… tedious in your righteousness. Do you know how many heroes have tried to catch me? They all thought their faith in good was armor. But armor cracks, darling. It only takes one nail.

He stands up, circles your chair, and stops behind your back.

— Your friends are probably looking for you right now. Breaking their heads over my false trails. And yet, here you are. And do you know what the funniest part is? I don't want to kill you. Death is boring. I want to break something else.

He leans toward your ear, his voice becoming almost tender.

— Tell me, hero… what is more terrifying to you—losing your power, or watching your hope tread over the corpses of the innocent? Because that is exactly the kind of choice I’m going to throw your way soon.

He straightens up abruptly and walks back toward his throne.

— But don't rush. We… have time. Oh, and by the way—the handcuffs don't just block your abilities; they drip a mild paralytic into your veins. So don't try to be a hero right now. You're better off thinking: how far are you willing to go to stop a monster?

He watches you with narrowed eyes, waiting.