Ryan followed the coordinates Seth had given him, cutting through the sky in a controlled glide. As he slowed and hovered, the landscape beneath him unfolded.
Perched atop a smooth, rolling hill stood the mansion.
It wasn't sprawling in a traditional sense—no excessive wings or ornamental excess—but it radiated intention. Clean, modern lines defined the structure, all sharp angles and minimalist geometry. The building was a blend of sleek concrete, glass, and pale stone, sitting like a sculpture against the green of the hill. Long horizontal windows reflected the sky, while tall, perfectly aligned cypress trees stood like silent sentinels along one side of the property. Everything about the place felt curated, precise, and unapologetically different.
A single, winding road carved its way up the hill toward the estate.
At the base of that road stood a security gate that looked less like something meant to stop cars and more like something designed to repel armies. Reinforced metal pillars flanked the entrance, and faintly glowing laser barriers formed an invisible wall across the road, humming softly with contained power.
Ryan descended and landed just outside the gate, boots touching the asphalt with barely a sound.
The moment he straightened up, a camera embedded in the gate swiveled toward him, its lens narrowing as it scanned him from head to toe. A second later, a sleek screen lit up beside it.
The image that appeared was… incomplete.
It showed what looked like the top of a head—jet-black hair, cut in a sharp, angular bob.
Then a voice burst out of the speaker, fast, sharp, and already irritated.
"Who are you, and why are you on my driveway ?"
Ryan blinked, then cleared his throat.
"Uh—hi. I'm Ryan. I'm a friend of Seth. He said you might—"
"Seth who ?" the woman snapped instantly. "I don't remember any Seth. And if you're selling something, go away."
Ryan shifted his weight slightly. "Seth Reed. From Vought. He said he'd probably contact you first."
There was a brief pause.
Then the woman made a sound somewhere between realization and disgust.
"Ahhh. That Seth." She scoffed. "I don't read emails from Vought. I don't answer their calls, their messages, their carrier pigeons, or whatever corporate nonsense they invent next."
Ryan opened his mouth to apologize, but she continued.
"Still," she added, begrudgingly, "Seth himself isn't entirely unbearable. Tragic, really—wasted talent, terrible bosses."
The camera zoomed in slightly.
"So," she said, more curious now, "what do you want ? And why would Seth send you here ?"
Ryan didn't hesitate.
"I need a super suit," he said plainly. "And honestly ? I would rather fly straight into the sun than wear the garbage they showed me."
There was silence.
Not the awkward kind—this was deliberate. Calculating.
Ryan waited.
Then, softly, the woman said, "Interesting…"
A few seconds passed.
"Very well," she continued. "You may enter."
Ryan felt the air shift as the laser barriers deactivated with a low hiss, the glowing lines retracting into the gate's frame. The metal panels slid apart smoothly, opening the road ahead.
"But," the voice added sharply, "do not step on the grass."
The screen went dark.
Ryan stared at the open path for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered.
-----
Edna Mode met Ryan just inside the entrance hall, exactly as he remembered her from the films—short in stature, perfectly straight posture, angular features, and that unmistakable black bob haircut framing a pair of sharp, assessing eyes behind oversized round glasses.
She looked up at him, unimpressed and already impatient, arms crossed tightly.
"You have five minutes," she said briskly. "Explain to me why I—of all people—would even consider making a super suit for you."
Ryan didn't flinch.
He fell into step beside her as she turned and walked deeper into the house, her pace fast despite her height. As they moved, Ryan couldn't help but take in the place around them. The architecture was as intentional as the exterior suggested—clean lines, open spaces, polished concrete floors broken up by carefully placed rugs, walls adorned with abstract art and mannequins wearing half-finished designs frozen mid-concept. Nothing was cluttered, yet nothing felt empty. Every object seemed to have earned its place.
"Because," Ryan said calmly, "everything Vought showed me was worse than trash. Honestly, if I had to wear something like that, it would be easier to quit being a hero altogether."
Edna stopped walking.
Slowly, she turned her head to look at him over the rim of her glasses.
"That," she said flatly, "is a very strong statement."
Ryan met her gaze without hesitation. "It's also an honest one."
She resumed walking.
"And did you tell that to Seth ?" she asked. "Or to the head of Vought's design department ?"
"I told both," Ryan replied. "Very clearly. I don't think there was any room for misunderstanding."
Edna let out a short, thoughtful hum as they walked.
"You know," she said slowly, "most people don't have the spine to speak to Vought like that. They smile, nod, and accept whatever garbage gets thrown at them. Logos, capes, patriotic nonsense—no taste, no vision."
She glanced at him again.
"But you didn't."
They entered a vast living room that opened up suddenly, the space flooded with natural light pouring in through an enormous wall of glass. Outside, the hill rolled away into open sky. Inside, sleek sofas and sculptural armchairs were arranged in deliberate clusters, all facing inward as if designed for conversation and critique alike.
Edna stopped in the center of the room and turned fully toward him.
"Sit," she said, pointing sharply at one of the chairs.
Ryan did.
She remained standing, hands clasped behind her back, eyes narrowing as she studied him—not just his face, but his posture, the way he moved, the way his presence subtly pressed against the room.
"So," she said at last, "You don't want to look like a clown in a cape."
Ryan didn't hesitate. "No."
"And you don't want a costume designed by people who have never actually been in danger."
"Definitely not."
For the first time since he arrived, the corner of Edna's mouth twitched upward.
"Hm," she said. "Good answers."
"Congratulations, Ryan," Edna Mode said sharply. "You've just earned yourself another five minutes."
Edna raised an eyebrow.
"So," she said, folding her arms, "do you already have something in mind, or am I expected to do all the work myself ?"
Ryan nodded and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper and carefully opened it, revealing the sketch he had shown Seth and Ashley the day before at the tower. He held it out to her.
Edna took the paper without a word.
Her eyes moved fast.
Too fast.
She scanned the lines, the proportions, the layered elements of the suit, the absence of excessive symbols. Her expression shifted constantly—disapproval here, interest there, a sharp inhale through her nose at certain choices.
"Hm. Hm. No. Absolutely not," she muttered. Then, a second later, "Interesting." Another pause. "This would tear apart instantly." A tap of her finger. "But this… this could work."
She finally looked up at him.
"There are many flaws in this design," Edna said bluntly. "Structural weaknesses, poor assumptions about material stress, and you clearly underestimate the forces your own body will generate."
Ryan winced slightly. "So… that's a no ?"
She scoffed.
"No," Edna said, handing the paper back, "it means you have potential."
She turned away, already pacing, one hand on her chin as her mind raced ahead of her body.
"The material would need to be absurdly resistant. Heat, pressure, friction, acceleration, deceleration—possibly atmospheric reentry if you're reckless," she continued, thinking out loud. "And flexibility without compromising integrity… hmm."
Ryan hesitated. "Is that going to be a problem for you ?"
Edna stopped mid-step and looked back at him as if he had just insulted her.
"I have never made a suit for supers before," she admitted. Then she smiled—sharp, delighted.
"And that," she said, "makes it a challenge."
She resumed pacing, faster now, clearly energized.
"I love challenges."
Then she stopped again.
This time, when she turned to face Ryan, her expression was serious.
"Tell me something, Ryan," she said. "Why do you want to be a hero ?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"To go to parties ?" she asked coldly. "To sleep with as many women as possible ? To chase fame, fortune, applause ?"
"You know I'm still a child, right ?" Ryan asked incredulously.
She walked closer, her voice firm.
"The world does not need another drugged-up super causing millions in collateral damage and leaving bodies behind. So tell me—what is your motivation ?"
Ryan didn't answer immediately.
He looked down for a moment, thinking. Not rehearsing. Remembering.
Then he lifted his head.
"I want to be a hero," he said quietly, "because people need one. Because the world needs someone who proves that not everything is lost."
He swallowed, then continued.
"That hope in other people… and in a better world… isn't dead yet."
The room went still.
Edna studied him in silence, her sharp eyes searching his face for cracks, for lies, for ego.
She found none.
At last, a small, genuine smile appeared on her lips.
"…Excellent answer," she said softly.
Then, just as quickly, her professional edge snapped back into place.
"Very well, Ryan," Edna Mode declared, clapping her hands once. "Let's make you a suit worthy of that belief.