The Galleria. Ten years ago.

An abandoned shopping mall transformed into resistance headquarters. Morning light streams through skylights, catching dust motes that dance like golden snow. The food court has become a command center, its tables covered in holographic maps and salvaged tech.

A teenage Bombshell stands beside Harvie at a massive digital mural spanning the entire west wall. Colors pulse and flow like living water, abstract shapes morphing into faces, then back to pure emotion. Harvie's hands dance across light controls, each gesture adding another layer to her masterpiece.

Bombshell picks up a spare stylus. Tries to add a single stroke. Her line cuts through Harvie's flowing work like a wound, jagged and wrong.

Harvie doesn't look up. A small, warm smile plays at her lips. "Patience, luv. Art, like a fight, is about knowing where the line needs to go before you ever make the mark."

She takes Bombshell's hand. Adjusts her grip on the stylus. Guides it in a smooth arc that complements the existing flow.

"See? The hand remembers what the mind overthinks."

Bombshell nods, eager to learn. To be worthy.

The Morrow Home. Same morning.

Suburban perfection frozen in time. White picket fence. Lawn gnomes. A child's bicycle abandoned on perfectly green grass.

Atlas enters through the front door. Detroit Red nunchucks disappear into his jacket. The warrior melts away with each step into his home. By the time he reaches the living room, he's just a father.

Young Donnie sits cross legged on the carpet, surrounded by circuit boards and tiny screwdrivers. He's building something that will become DIRT-E, though right now it's just a box with wheels and a screen displaying a question mark.

Atlas kneels beside his son. Watches small fingers connect wires with surprising precision.

"You must understand how an object is made before you can make it better." His voice carries weight even in gentleness.

Donnie doesn't look up from his work, but his shoulders relax at his father's presence.

From the next room, a melancholy melody drifts. Single notes on a keyboard, searching for something.

Atlas finds young Drea at her pink keyboard, the one from her personalized vending machine. She's playing the same melody over and over, humming, like she's trying to solve an equation with music.

He doesn't speak. Just places one heavy hand on her small shoulder.

She stops playing. Leans into his touch.

The phone rings. Ancient landline, the kind that still works when the networks fail.

Atlas sees Lisa's number on the caller ID. His jaw tightens. The father fades. The warrior returns.