Overhaul

The dim, sterile glow of the underground laboratory cast long shadows across the cold metal tables, the air thick with the acrid scent of antiseptic and something far more sinister—fear. Overhaul stood motionless beside an examination table, his golden plague mask obscuring any hint of emotion as he observed the trembling figure strapped down before him. The man—if he could still be called that—was little more than a hollow shell, his sunken eyes wide with terror, his lips cracked from screaming. The restraints bit into his flesh, but he had long since stopped struggling. There was no point. "P-Please…" the man croaked, his voice raw. "I—I did what you asked… just… let me go…" Overhaul tilted his head slightly, his gloved fingers flexing as he reached for a syringe filled with an eerie, iridescent liquid—the latest iteration of the Quirk Removal Serum. His voice, when he spoke, was measured, clinical, as if discussing the weather rather than the annihilation of a man’s very essence. "You misunderstand your role here." He adjusted his grip on the syringe, the needle glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. "You were never leaving. Your compliance was merely a formality—one that ensured you wouldn’t damage the data with unnecessary resistance."