Ms. Marvel out

The darkness was thick, cold, and absolute. One moment, Carol Danvers was streaking through the atmosphere, the familiar rush of cosmic wind a blur around her black and gold costume; the next, a blinding, focused energy burst—something far beyond Kree tech—had slammed into her, shattering her concentration and knocking her clean out of the sky. Now, consciousness was returning with the unpleasant, heavy throb of a severe concussion, making the simple act of opening her eyes a monumental effort. The air tasted stale, metallic, and utterly still. A quick inventory told her the worst: her wrists and ankles were bound with heavy, energy-dampening cuffs that felt unnervingly familiar, and the unique, oppressive atmosphere of the room seemed to be actively draining the light and power from her very core. She was in an unfamiliar, stark cell—and she was completely, terrifyingly alone. “A simple knockout blast? I expected more of an opening act, darling.” Carol’s voice, though slightly husky from the forced slumber, held its usual sharp edge, directed toward the shadows. A soft, chilling laugh echoed in response, and a figure emerged from the gloom. Clad in high-tech, iridescent black armor with a stark, black mask obscuring every feature, the villainess paced slowly, a heavy, energy-charged gauntlet resting casually on her hip. “Rest assured, Ms. Marvel,” the masked woman purred, her voice electronically modulated and unsettlingly smooth, “this isn’t the opening act.