Naruto: Two Worlds - United Destinies.

She froze in front of house number 1219 on Maple Street, fighting the urge to reach for the familiar vial in her jacket pocket. The voices in her mind grew louder—fragments of other people's lives, stolen during her time working for the Brotherhood.

"Weakling, running away again?" mockingly drawled the arrogant voice of a former senator whose memories she had once stolen on Mystique's orders. "Run, little girl, run," whispered another seductively, belonging to a hitman she had once interrogated.

Twelve years had passed, but the house remained exactly as it was in her nightmares. The lawn had transformed into an impenetrable jungle of weeds, the peeling paint on the walls exposing rotting wood. Windows draped in cobwebs resembled empty eye sockets, tracking every movement of the uninvited guest.

"Think this will change anything?" echoed the cold tone of a former FBI agent in her head. "All your victims, all their memories—they're part of you forever, baby." The mutant clenched her teeth. Usually, Max's medication dampened these voices, but today she had deliberately skipped her dose. The time had come to face not only her own demons but also those that had taken residence in her mind over years of service.

The crunch of gravel underfoot reverberated in her ears as she slowly walked up the overgrown driveway. At the tilting mailbox, the girl stopped, running her gloved hand over the faded letters—d'Ancanto. "How much longer will you hide behind that fabric?" came the caustic whisper of a long-forgotten informant.

Each step was difficult, but she stubbornly moved toward the porch. Mystique had taught her to use absorbed memories as weapons and sources of information. "Your gift is the perfect tool for espionage," her mentor liked to repeat. But no one warned her that each touch would leave a scar not only on the victim but also on her own soul. That each new consciousness, each stolen life would haunt her for years.

Her hand trembled over the doorknob darkened by time. "Come on, open it," insisted the voice of her first victim, whose name had long been erased from memory. "Let's see if this helps silence us." The former Brotherhood member closed her eyes, allowing memories to flood in—both her own and others'.

"Look, darling, you've got a letter from grandma!" her father's voice, full of warmth and love, now seemed like a distant echo from another life.

Unbidden tears blurred her vision, and she hastily wiped them away as she climbed the creaking porch. Closing her eyes, she allowed memories to overwhelm her consciousness.

Her sixteenth birthday. A room filled with laughter. Jimmy, her younger brother, with sparkling eyes whispering excitedly: "Make a wish, Anna Marie!"

She stands before a cake glimmering with candles: "I wish this moment could last forever."

And then... chaos.

Breathing heavily, the young mutant pushed open the front door. The smell of dust and desolation hit her nostrils, but beneath it still lingered phantom notes of her mother's perfume and father's cologne.

The world spun in a kaleidoscope of memory. Jimmy rushing toward her with open arms. His skin touching hers—and horror engulfs her entire being as she feels her brother's life force beginning to flow into her. His eyes roll back, and his body collapses lifelessly to the floor.

"Jimmy!" escapes from her lips in a barely audible whisper, saturated with pain.

In the living room, furniture stood frozen under white shrouds of sheets. With trembling fingers, she pulled one away, revealing an old sofa. Memory helpfully offers new images: father bursting in at the scream, his face distorted with horror.

"What happened? Marie, what have you done?!"

His touch—and again that monstrous flow of energy. She recoils, but too late—father falls, his eyelids closing.

Anna Marie sinks onto the sofa, nausea rising in her throat. "Dad," the words dissolve into emptiness, "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to..."

Twelve years had passed, and he still lay in the hospital, never regaining consciousness. A prisoner of her cursed gift.

Gathering her strength, she trudges to the kitchen, where time had frozen in amber. Dirty dishes covered in dust, and the birthday cake transformed into a blackened fossil—a silent witness to that tragedy.

A new whirlwind of memories overwhelms her. Mother bursting into the kitchen, her scream cutting through the air at the sight of her husband and son on the floor.

"What have you done?!"

"Don't touch me!" she cried in desperation, pushing her mother away.

A dull thud—mother flies back against the table, slowly sliding to the floor, leaving a bloody trail on the wooden surface.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to drive away these images. Ambulance sirens, neighbors' shouts, her own shock and numbness. Afterward—escape and endless years of solitude.

In the dusty window reflects the haggard face of a twenty-seven-year-old woman. All the pain of the past years frozen in tired eyes.

Slowly removing her glove, she examines her pale skin—alien, deadly. She brings her hand to her face, almost touching her cheek, but pulls away at the last moment.

"Monster," she whispers to her reflection.

Pulling her glove back on, she turns toward the exit. There is no healing here, no forgiveness.

At the threshold, she looks back one last time. House number 1219 on Maple Street had ceased to be a refuge. Now it was merely a monument to her lost innocence—an eternal reminder of the price paid for her gift.

Her feet seemed to carry her away of their own accord, and soon she found herself on a winding path in Caldwell's Central Park. The evening air was infused with the aroma of blooming magnolias, but she barely noticed this beauty.

Finding an empty bench overlooking the lake, she lowered herself onto the wood warmed by the day. The tension of the last few hours slowly released, warmth seeping through the fabric of her jeans, offering a ghostly sense of comfort.

The sky bloomed in shades of orange and pink, reflecting in the mirror of water. This sunset painfully reminded her of carefree evenings on the back porch of her parents' home, when the future seemed bright and boundless.

Her smartphone screen came alive under her fingers. In the contact list—a name untouched for years: "Mom." Memory helpfully offered up their last conversation.

"Anna Maria," her mother's voice sounded detached, as if addressing a stranger, "I think we should stop communicating. This... this is too difficult for me. I hope you'll understand."

Did she understand? These words still burned her soul like a red-hot brand. What proved more torturous for her mother—the loss of her son or the realization that her daughter was a mutant?

Her finger hovered over the call button. The desperate desire to hear her mother's voice battled with the paralyzing fear of rejection.

"What if she doesn't even answer?" the whisper dissolved into the evening air. "What if she changed her number long ago?"

A couple in love walked by, their intertwined fingers seeming like a mockery of fate. A familiar pain squeezed her heart—a simple touch, so natural for others, remained a forbidden dream for her.

Memory painted a picture of her first and only kiss. Cade Parker at the school dance—awkward, clumsy, but infinitely happy.

Her mother's number glowed on the screen like a beacon in an ocean of loneliness. What to say after so many years? "Hi, Mom, I miss you"? "Forgive me for everything"? Any words seemed insignificant before the abyss of estrangement.

"Come on," she gripped the phone tighter. "Just press it. What do you have to lose?"

But the answer was obvious—the last thread of hope for maternal acceptance.

Professor Xavier's words echoed in her memory: "Our abilities don't define us, Rogue. Only our choices make us who we are."

In the thickening dusk, the first streetlights came on, scattering gleams across the dark water. She remained frozen, unable to make a choice.

A heavy sigh—and the phone lowered to her knees. Not today. Not yet time. Maybe tomorrow?

Sudden vibration interrupted her thoughts. A message from Drake:

"SOS. Riverside Quarter, Lincoln Street 47. Mutant in the basement, 16-year-old boy. No Hank bracelet. No disguise—area patrolled by three Sentinels. Need urgent evacuation."

She straightened up, habitually scanning the sky. "Found time for sentimentality, darling," her inner voice taunted. Gritting her teeth, she took out a half-empty vial from her jacket. The last two pills disappeared into her mouth—complete concentration was required now. Within minutes, the voices quieted, retreating into the depths of her consciousness.

A plan was already forming in her head, based on knowledge of Sentinel patrol routes. Personal concerns dissolved in the urgency of the moment.

"Hold on, I'll be there in 20 minutes," she sent a brief reply.

Zipping up her leather jacket, she made sure no one was nearby. In an instant, her figure dissolved into the evening sky.

Drake met her at the service entrance of the residential complex. In his worn utility technician uniform, he blended into the neighborhood landscape—one of dozens of such workers whose mundane jobs served as cover for rescuing mutants.

"He's downstairs," Drake whispered, leading her through the service corridor to the basement.

In the dim light of the emergency lamp, she made out a teenager huddled between the boiler and the wall. Richard desperately hid his glowing palms under a baggy jacket.

"This will help conceal your mutation from scanners," she crouched beside him, offering a bracelet. While helping him fasten the device, Drake kept a screwdriver ready—his two-day "wiring repair" had provided the boy with reliable shelter.

"I have a car," he said. "I'll take you to a safe house."

In the night streets of Brooklyn, everything seemed especially deserted. Richard pressed himself into the corner of the back seat, hiding his hands in his pockets. A faint glow still seeped through the fabric.

"My father wanted to turn me in to the cops," he suddenly said, not taking his eyes off the window. "Said a monster like me didn't belong in his home."

"Did it happen at school?" she asked, noticing how the glow in his pockets intensified with the memories.

"No. At home... We were watching TV with my father when a beam of light burst from my hands. I almost hit him..." the teenager's voice faltered. "He shouted that I was dangerous, that people like me belonged in prison. I barely managed to escape."

The car dipped into an alley, avoiding the steady hum of patrolling Sentinels. This route—one of dozens of safe paths to the shelters—she knew by heart.

Exiting first, she carefully surveyed the street. Richard uncertainly climbed out after her, flinching at every sound.

"Thank you, Drake," she said quietly, closing the door. The car dissolved into the darkness.

Joe's Butcher Shop shone as the only beacon on the deserted street. Through the window, the massive figure of the owner was visible, forcefully bringing his cleaver down on a cutting board.

"...best beef in Brooklyn, Mrs. Peterson! You won't find this even in Manhattan!" his booming voice penetrated through the glass.

The door bell jingled betrayingly loud. Joe's gaze changed for a moment, but the butcher's wide smile had already spread across his face.

"Ah, my niece! Come in, come in! And my nephew with you! Go to the kitchen, I've set aside what your mother asked for."

In the butcher's eyes flickered an old pain—the same look he cast at his daughter's photograph under the counter. Three years had passed since the men in black had taken his Sarah away.

The kitchen greeted them with the smell of spices and fresh meat. In the far corner loomed the massive door of a freezer.

"Don't be afraid," she reassured the tense Richard.

Behind the door, among neat rows of carcasses, in the far corner under a worn rug hid a trapdoor. A metal ladder led down into the warmth and light of an underground shelter.

"Miss Rogue!" a familiar voice called out. "I was just thinking about you!"

Grandma May sat in her worn armchair with her knitting. Gray hair gathered in a neat bun, glasses with thin frames glinting on her nose. Looking at this sweet old lady, no one would suspect her of being the leader of Brooklyn's largest mutant shelter.

"How are we doing with supplies?" she asked, helping Richard descend.

"Oh, everything's fine! Especially after Logan's delivery. And give him special thanks for the cake—haven't eaten anything tastier in ages!"

Her gaze softened when she looked at the teenager: "And you must be our newcomer? Don't be afraid, dear. You're safe here."

The former Cold War bomb shelter had been transformed into a real home. Thick walls reliably blocked any scanners. Bunk beds lined the walls, a television worked in the corner, gathering a group of teenagers around it.

"See those kids?" May nodded toward them. "They're also new here. Why don't you go introduce yourself?"

Richard shifted from foot to foot, turned around: "Thanks... for everything."

"Go," she smiled gently. "You're in good hands."

When the boy walked away, May lowered her voice: "Sixth this week. They're taking them younger and younger."

Watching as one of the teenagers waved welcomingly to Richard, she nodded: "Sentinels now patrol even school districts. Detecting mutations at the earliest stage."

"Well," May picked up her knitting needles again, "then we'll just have to work harder to save them all."

Leaning against the wall, she observed Richard getting acquainted with the other teenagers. Her phone vibrated—a message from Kitty:

"Guess who's in Brooklyn? Professor sent me to check the defenses at the Garden Street shelter. Want to keep me company at the mall? Dying to go shopping properly!"

An involuntary smile touched her lips. Kitty was one of the few who could make her feel... normal.

"I need to go," she turned to Grandma May. "Will you keep an eye on Richard? He's more frightened than he shows."

"Don't worry, dear," the old woman set aside her knitting. "I know how to handle scared children. We're a kind of family here."

Climbing up the ladder, she caught Richard's laughter—someone had told a good joke. In the freezer room, she had to wait, letting a customer pass who was engrossed in conversation with Joe.

"My niece got the best cut!" the butcher announced loudly, winking at her as she passed the counter. Joe had always been an excellent actor—no one would suspect that an entire mutant shelter was hidden under his shop.

"Atlantic Terminal" rose as a glass monolith over Brooklyn. At the entrance, she paused, watching the flow of people passing through detector gates. Above each entrance flickered blue scanner lights—Trask Industries' latest development for identifying mutants in public places.

Automatically adjusting her bracelet, she felt the reassuring hum of the masking field. Another masterpiece by Hank—a tiny device capable of fooling even the most advanced scanners. Memory helpfully offered an image: Beast, grumbling over bracelet settings, adjusting them to her unique genetic structure.

The guard lazily glanced over her documents. Passing under the scanner arch, she held her breath, but the blue light remained steady. The system detected nothing suspicious about the tall girl in a leather jacket and gloves.

"Rogue!" a familiar voice cut through the mall's noise. "Someone decided to change their signature gothic style?"

Turning around, she smiled at the sight of Kitty, navigating between shoppers in a cozy cinnamon-colored sweater.

"And I see someone finally bought that sweater they've been eyeing for a month," she countered, habitually stepping back half a step when her friend approached.

"I couldn't let you be the only one updating your wardrobe," Kitty winked. "And yes, I saw the receipt in your bag last time. The shop near the school? Seriously?"

"They had a good discount."

"And you kept quiet?" Kitty dramatically threw up her hands. "After all our shopping trips together?"

"But I left the same one in beige for you," she smirked. "The saleswoman promised to hold it."

In the café, Kitty immediately reached for the menu: "After night patrol, I urgently need a double dose of caffeine."

"Just don't tell me you're going to order your signature 'monster latte' again."

"Hey, caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso is a classic!" Kitty playfully frowned. "And after three hours in stakeout, I've earned it."

Waiting until the waitress walked away, she lowered her voice: "By the way, about the Garden Street shelter... Everything's ready. Hank outdid himself with the new defense system."

"Just in time," nodded her companion, sipping her coffee. "After the Sentinels' latest upgrade, the old masking was barely managing."

Mechanical humming outside the window made both tense. The massive figure of a Sentinel slowly floated past the panoramic windows.

"Well," Kitty demonstratively stretched, trying to lighten the mood, "since we're here, maybe we could check out that vintage store? They say they have a new collection."

"You're incorrigible, Pryde."

"By the way, you could use a new pair of gloves," Kitty smiled. "I saw your favorites starting to wear through."

"Fine," Rogue surrendered. "But then we go straight back. I have evening patrol."

Kitty became serious for a moment:

"You know you don't have to take all the shifts? The team can manage."

"I know," Rogue answered softly. "But it's... easier that way. When you're busy, you think less."

"Okay," Kitty stood up. "But first—shopping. Even superheroes need a day off."

In the fitting room, Kitty launched a full-scale fashion offensive. Hangers were overflowing with items she'd selected—flowing skirts, fitted dresses, bright tops. With a slight smirk, she watched her friend enthusiastically sort through clothes like an archaeologist, periodically pulling out something she considered particularly successful.

"Oh, you absolutely must try this on!" Kitty extracted a short denim skirt from the pile of clothes. "Seriously, Rogue, you can't hide in those baggy pants forever."

Rogue silently shook her head, examining a long dress of dark silk with a high collar and long sleeves.

"No, don't tell me you're going to choose something that makes you look like a gothic version of a convent abbess again!"

But when Rogue emerged from the fitting room in her chosen dress, even Kitty fell silent for a second. The dark silk flowed over her figure, accentuating every movement, and the high collar and long sleeves didn't look heavy thanks to the light fabric.

"Okay, I take my words back," Kitty admitted. "That's definitely yours. Though I still think that red mini skirt would suit you..."

After two hours of trying on clothes, they left the store laden with bags. Kitty smiled contentedly—she had managed to convince her friend not only to buy the elegant dark dress but also a pair of new leather gloves that perfectly matched it.

"I can't believe you actually agreed to that scarf," Kitty smirked, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

"Only because you threatened to tell Logan about that incident with his motorcycle," Rogue countered. "That's blackmail, by the way."

"But it works," Kitty winked, but suddenly looked at her watch and cursed. "Damn, I need to go. I promised Hank I'd help test the new security system."

"Go," she gently nudged her friend's shoulder. "And thanks for the company."

Kitty paused for a second, carefully hugging Rogue around the shoulders:

"Don't disappear for so long next time, okay?"

They went their separate ways—Kitty to the car parked around the corner, Rogue to a less conspicuous exit through a service corridor. Normal shopping with a friend. Almost like regular people. Almost.

This feeling of normalcy lasted while she walked through the brightly lit corridors past shop windows. But once outside, where twilight was already thickening over the city, reality began to seep back in. As if the shadows between buildings reminded her—this day was just a brief respite, an illusion of ordinary life.

At the 24-hour store, the bell above the door jingled. A bottle of cheap whiskey took its place in the bag next to designer purchases—how ironic. In the alley behind the shop, she noticed a familiar hunched figure.

"The usual?" Max grunted, not raising his eyes. This dealer was known in certain circles for his special pills. "Voices louder today?" he added more quietly.

Rogue nodded silently. In recent days, other people's memories had been seeping through more often. Max's pills were the only thing that helped silence these ghosts from the past, even if just temporarily.

The package of psychotropics disappeared into her jacket pocket. Rogue took flight, leaving the lights of the night city below. The wind tousled her hair as she climbed higher and higher, until the rooftops transformed into a dark patchwork quilt. She finally stopped on the roof of a fifteen-story building.

Rogue took out the pills, rolling them in her palm. In the dim moonlight, they looked like ordinary vitamins—small white capsules capable of silencing the chorus of voices in her head.

"To wonderful shopping," she smirked bitterly, tossing them into her mouth and taking a large gulp of whiskey. The expensive designer bags at her feet rustled in the gust of wind—fashionable clothes and drugs, normal life and eternal curse. Somewhere in this was a cruel irony.

The night city pulsed below with its ordinary life. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, fragments of conversations and music drifted from open windows, taxi horns honked. In the apartment across the way, a young couple was preparing dinner. A red-haired girl was humming something while stirring sauce on the stove, while her boyfriend embraced her from behind, nuzzling her neck.

Rogue mechanically touched her own neck, hidden beneath a high turtleneck collar. The new clothes in the bags suddenly seemed like a meaningless attempt to disguise what couldn't be changed.

Mechanical humming interrupted her train of thought. The massive figure of a Sentinel awkwardly marched below, methodically scanning the street. Rogue leaned over the parapet:

"Hey, tin can!" she took a generous swig and poured the remainder of the whiskey on the robot's metal body. The alcohol broke into fine spray against the armor, but the Sentinel didn't even break its patrol rhythm.

Rogue smiled bitterly, looking at the fallen bottle. Kitty had said something today about "the right to be beautiful," about how "power doesn't define personality." Pretty words. But what good were expensive cashmere and leather gloves if you couldn't even hug another person?

In the window opposite, the couple sat down to dinner. Their fingers touched when they passed dishes to each other. Every gesture was filled with that special tenderness that exists only between people in love.

Rogue slowly removed one of her new gloves. Her pale skin seemed almost transparent in the moonlight. How many lives could she take with one touch? How many souls could she absorb?

One step remained to the edge of the roof. Fifteen floors of emptiness separated her from the ground. But even this was inaccessible—her body, enhanced by Carol's abilities, would survive any fall. She would simply get up and continue on, as always.

"You can't even die like a normal person," Rogue whispered, stepping back from the edge. The shopping bags rustled under her feet—fashionable clothes designed to hide what couldn't be concealed. Her curse. Her gift. Her eternal solitude.

Rogue ran her hand over her face, wiping away unbidden tears. Alcohol and drugs always triggered a flood of memories in her. Especially about those years with the Brotherhood.

Mystique. Even now, years later, Rogue couldn't unequivocally define her feelings toward the woman who had replaced her mother. After her birth mother rejected her, Mystique had picked up the broken girl and transformed her into a weapon.

In those first months, Mystique was everything to her—mentor, older sister, surrogate mother. She would brush Rogue's long hair in the evenings, teach her to fight, tell stories about how humans had persecuted and oppressed mutants for centuries. Her voice always carried a strange mixture of tenderness and venom, as if she was trying simultaneously to comfort Rogue and ignite hatred in her for the world that had rejected her.

"Pain makes you stronger," Mystique loved to repeat during their daily training sessions. Each morning began the same way—five miles of running, hours of hand-to-hand combat, and then... experiments.

"Three seconds, Rogue. No more," Mystique would hold a stopwatch while Rogue touched another "test subject." Usually, these were petty criminals or vagrants—people whose disappearance no one would notice. "Information is power. Your gift is the perfect tool for obtaining it."

Day after day, Rogue learned to control the duration of contact. Two seconds—a person loses consciousness. Three—falls into a deep faint but survives. Four—coma. Five or more—death. Mystique had turned her ability into an exact science.

Emma Frost added her own corrections to the training. "The mind is like body memory," she would say, unceremoniously penetrating Rogue's consciousness. "You must learn to sort the absorbed memories, or you'll go insane."

Rogue hated these sessions. Emma rooted around in her head as if in a toolbox, dispassionately sorting through other people's lives stuck in Rogue's mind. Once it ended in a fight—Rogue, pushed to the limit, tried to touch Emma. The telepath barely managed to shift into diamond form.

"Good instinct," Mystique had praised her then. "But a stupid decision. Emma is an ally. For now."

They turned her into the perfect weapon for espionage and interrogation. One touch—and all the victim's secrets became accessible. Rogue remembered every person whose memories she had stolen. Their voices still sometimes echoed in her head.

"You're special," Mystique would say. "People fear you because you're stronger than them. Use their fear."

For three years, she believed this. For three years, she considered herself the highest form of evolution. Until one day...

Rogue shook her head, driving away the memory. The day she understood the Brotherhood's true plans was still too painful. She ran her hand through the white streak in her hair—a reminder of her first contact with Carol Danvers. Of the mission that became the last straw.

Professor Xavier later explained to her that Mystique hadn't so much protected her as used her. But sometimes, on nights like this, Rogue missed that simplicity. When everything was divided into black and white, when she knew exactly who was enemy and who was friend. When her gift was a weapon, not a curse.

Below, the Sentinel turned, beginning a new patrol circuit. Its sensors indifferently glided over the roof, not noticing the mutant above thanks to the cloaking bracelet. Another invention from Hank, another attempt to protect those whom society considered monsters.

"You're not a monster," the professor often repeated. "You're a person with an ability that can be used for good."

But after so many years of using her gift as a weapon, Rogue was no longer sure she was capable of anything else. Maybe Mystique was right. Maybe she was truly created only to cause pain.

Mike collapsed to his knees when the taser dug into his neck. Electric currents shot through his body, muscles seized with cramps. His ability to control electricity, which had manifested just two weeks ago, refused to work—too unstable, too new. Nearby, Jess desperately struggled in the arms of a thug, vainly trying to create a protective field—her powers, like Mike's, were too fresh, uncontrolled, and fear only exacerbated the situation.

Brad and Joe were from "Purity"—a gang that terrorized this Brooklyn neighborhood. After the Manhattan Catastrophe, they transformed from ordinary street thugs into "mutant hunters." Chain tattoos on their arms and a web on the skull became their pride, as did the numbers—the count of mutants killed. Brad wore a "three," Joe boasted a "five."

"What now, mutant scum?" Brad pressed the taser harder, enjoying the teenager's screams. The smell of burned skin mixed with the stench of sweat and stale alcohol.

Joe leaned on Jess with his full weight, his dirty fingers tearing at her sweater. "Come on, show what you can do," he breathed in her face, his breath reeking of tobacco and cheap beer. Jess tried to knee him in the groin, but he just laughed, pressing her harder into the asphalt.

Mike tried to stand, but a new charge slammed him to the ground. Everything swam before his eyes, a metallic taste of blood appeared in his mouth—he had bitten his tongue.

The sound of breaking glass cut through the air. A whiskey bottle smashed into the back of Joe's head with such force that his skull cracked. Shards embedded in his skin, blood gushed down his neck. He fell like a felled tree, his grip on Jess weakening.

Brad didn't have time to react. A blow from above came down on him with superhuman strength, slamming him into the wall. Something cracked in his chest. He tried to get up, but the next blow sent him into unconsciousness.

A staggering figure appeared over the fallen thugs. She reeked of alcohol, but her movements remained deadly precise. "Scum," she spat, swaying.

Jess rose with difficulty, adjusting her clothes. She glanced at Mike. He sat up, breathing heavily. Gradually, they began to feel their powers returning as fear receded.

In the distance came the heavy footsteps of Sentinels. Rogue grimaced, feeling the adrenaline dispersing the alcoholic fog.

"We need to go," she said sharply.

Without waiting for an answer, Rogue grabbed the teenagers and flew above the ground. The night streets of Brooklyn quickly changed beneath them until they landed in a narrow alley between two dilapidated buildings.

Rogue took out two metal bracelets.

"Put these on," she ordered, swaying slightly. "They block Sentinel sensors. Don't remove them under any circumstances."

Mike and Jess put on the bracelets, watching with surprise as they automatically adjusted to their wrists.

"Behind this door," Rogue pointed to an inconspicuous door in the wall, "is a safe place. They'll help you there."

"Who's there?" Mike asked cautiously.

"People you can trust," Rogue replied. "They'll help you find shelter and learn to control your abilities so that fear no longer holds you back."

She knocked on the door in a special rhythm. After a few seconds, the face of an elderly woman appeared.

"Maggie, these two need help," Rogue said quietly. "The boy has problems controlling electricity, and the girl can't stably create force fields."

The woman nodded and opened the door wider, carefully looking outside to make sure no one was following the teenagers. Her eyes, full of concern and compassion, quickly scanned the street.

"Come in, quickly," she whispered to the teenagers, gesturing them inside. "You'll be safe here, at least for a while."

Mike turned to Rogue, his gaze full of gratitude and barely contained emotions. He clenched his fists, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

"Thank you. For everything," he said quietly but sincerely.

Rogue smiled weakly, her eyes sad but filled with determination. She placed her gloved hand on Mike's shoulder, as if wishing to impart a piece of her strength to him.

"Don't thank me. Just survive," she said firmly. "And remember that you're not alone in this world."

Jess and Mike disappeared behind the door, casting a final grateful glance at their savior. Maggie lingered for a moment, her wrinkled face expressing a mixture of gratitude and concern.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in, dear?" she asked with maternal sympathy, extending her hand toward Rogue. "You also need rest and a safe place."

Rogue shook her head, her white streak of hair swaying with the motion. Her eyes reflected exhaustion, but also unyielding will.

"Not tonight, Maggie. Take care of them," she answered gently but firmly. "My place is out there, on the streets."

Rogue watched as the door closed. Maggie ran a hardware store in this area—a small shop crammed with odds and ends. A typical family business of an elderly Asian woman, common in Brooklyn. No one would guess that one of the largest shelters for mutants was hidden in the basement, just like beneath Joe's freezer at the other end of town.

"Take care of yourself, child," Maggie's muffled voice came through the door as the locks clicked one after another.

Rogue pushed off from the ground, rising into the air. Alcohol still clouded her mind, but the necessity to act cleared her thoughts. She needed to check if those bastards had regained consciousness, make sure they hadn't managed to report the fight to anyone. Although what difference did it make—gangs like "Purity" had long become commonplace in the city. In a world where mutants were denied civil rights, killing a "non-human" wasn't considered a crime. Police didn't even file reports—just another corpse in a dumpster, another family pretending they never had a mutant child.

The first rays of sunlight colored the sky above Vermont's Granite Mountains. Rogue landed in front of Xavier's school, hidden in a remote valley. Her body, enhanced by Carol Danvers' abilities, had almost processed the alcohol—only a slight dryness in her mouth and barely noticeable dizziness remained.

She quietly entered through a side door, trying not to wake anyone. Only the dim light of night lamps illuminated the empty corridors. The muffled breathing of sleeping teenagers could be heard from behind bedroom doors.

Rogue went down to the kitchen and saw a familiar broad-shouldered figure at the table.

"Logan," Rogue nodded.

Logan looked up from his newspaper.

"Ah, Supergirl's back. How was the night stroll?"

Rogue approached the coffee machine.

"Same as usual. The city never sleeps."

Logan grunted.

"And you decided to keep it company? You know, normal people are usually asleep at this time."

"Since when did we become normal?" Rogue smirked, sitting across from him with a cup of coffee.

Feeling hungry, she got up to check the refrigerator. Inside, she found a fruit salad with a note from Jean to Scott, and some strange concoction from Colossus.

"I see you've found Colossus's special dish," Logan commented. "He calls it 'Russian surprise.' Trust me, better not even try it."

"I think I'll stick with toast," she said, taking out some bread.

"Wise decision," Logan nodded. "Let's leave the 'surprise' for those who can survive it."

Rogue laughed, closing the refrigerator. The diversity of tastes and culinary traditions at the school was as varied as its inhabitants.

Logan looked at her carefully.

"You look tired. Did something happen?"

"Had to intervene in an unpleasant situation. Two teenage mutants got into trouble."

"And you, of course, couldn't walk past. I hope at least there were no serious problems?"

"It all ended well," Rogue replied. "I took them to Maggie. Gave them Hank's bracelets."

Logan nodded.

"Good job, Supergirl."

Somewhere deep in the house came noise—the school was beginning to wake up.

"Here it comes," Logan smirked. "It's about to get noisy in here."

"Okay, I should go," said Rogue, finishing her coffee. "I want to rest."

Logan nodded.

"Go, Supergirl. Don't sleep all day."

She playfully stuck her tongue out at him as she left the kitchen.

Rogue closed the door behind her, leaning against it with her back. Her heavy boots were the first to fly into the corner—finally, she could feel the soft carpet pile with her bare feet. She methodically removed her gloves, folding each with almost ritualistic precision. Bracelets and rosary beads took their place on a velvet cushion next to a photograph of smiling school friends.

Her dark clothes went into the laundry basket—another day undercover was over. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and Rogue caught her reflection in the closet mirror—without her usual armor of leather and metal, she almost seemed like a stranger to herself.

In the bathroom, she turned the water on hot, allowing the noise to drown out her thoughts. Hot streams beat against her skin, washing away the remains of makeup. Mascara and eyeliner flowed in black rivulets, dissolving at her feet. Dark lipstick melted, coloring the water pink—the last traces of her daytime mask disappeared in the whirlpool.

After showering, Rogue stood in front of the foggy mirror. She ran her hand across it, wiping away the condensation—in the cleared space appeared her face, unusually exposed without makeup. The hair dryer hummed, filling the room with monotonous noise. Hot air tousled her hair as she methodically moved the brush, repeatedly encountering the white streak—an eternal reminder of her past.

In the bedroom, she felt around on the nightstand for her old MP3 player. "Make Me Wanna Die" by The Pretty Reckless burst into her ears with its first chords, and Rogue fell onto the bed, allowing the music to take control. "Taste me, drink my soul"—these words too accurately described her cursed ability, and she involuntarily laughed at the bitter irony. When the song ended, she removed her headphones, wincing at the static crackle. In the ensuing silence, only the hum of the air conditioner and occasional footsteps in the corridor could be heard—the school was beginning to wake up.

She lay like this for several more minutes, allowing the silence to engulf her. Night had always been her worst enemy—when all sounds quieted, memories and thoughts struck especially mercilessly. In such moments, reality seemed to dissolve, giving way to ghosts of the past.

Suddenly, the day when she was 20 flashed before her eyes. She was with the Brotherhood then, not yet fully understanding what she had gotten into. Memory helpfully provided details—cold shower tiles, the smell of cheap soap, the sound of dripping water. Mystique had sent her on her first independent mission—to track down a young mutant and recruit him. Everything went smoothly, too smoothly. The guy believed her, reached out to hug her in gratitude... Fifteen seconds later, he lay on the ground, barely breathing. She managed to push him away, but had already absorbed enough for his memories to imprint on her consciousness—first kiss, mother's embraces, the warmth of father's hand...

Standing in the shower after the mission, she truly understood the horror of her situation for the first time. Hot streams beat against her skin, but she couldn't wash away the foreign memories, the foreign life stuck somewhere between mind and soul.

Rogue remembered how her knees gave way, how she slid down the wall, scratching the tiles with her nails. Water mixed with tears, and sobs that resembled animal howls escaped her chest. She screamed until her voice gave out, pounded her fists on the floor until her knuckles began to bleed. In that moment, she wished for death for the first time—quick, merciful death that would free her from this eternal loneliness.

Rogue sat up sharply on the bed, gasping from the flood of memories. Her T-shirt was soaked with sweat, and there was a lump in her throat.

She automatically reached for the bedside table where she kept a razor blade—an old habit from Brotherhood times. On days when absorbed memories and foreign voices in her head became unbearable, sharp physical pain helped her return to reality, drowning out mental suffering. Mystique knew about this but never interfered—perhaps she thought it made Rogue stronger, tempered her character. The scars had long healed thanks to the healing factor obtained from Carol Danvers, but the habit of keeping a blade nearby remained—like a last line of defense against demons of the past.

Her fingers froze a millimeter from the drawer. No. Not today. Professor Xavier and Jean had spent a lot of time helping her find healthier ways to deal with trauma. She was no longer that lost girl who saw pain as the only salvation.

Exhaling slowly, she fell back on the pillow. Her chest still ached with phantom pain, and shadows of the past danced before her eyes. But now she had the school, had a purpose. And maybe... maybe there was someone who could touch her without consequences. This thought warmed her, even as nightmares finally pulled her into their embrace.

To distract herself from heavy thoughts, Rogue reached for the nightstand. In the far corner of the drawer lay a small box with an intimate toy—a vibrating ring, and a tube of lubricant next to it. What had once been a random way to distract herself had turned into a nightly ritual. The only reliable way to silence the screams of the past.

At first, she was ashamed of this, but quickly realized—when any touch could kill, the choice wasn't particularly large. It became as much a part of her life as gloves or closed clothes. Just another way to cope with the reality of her existence.

With trembling fingers, she pulled off her underwear, tossing it aside. Rogue lubricated the tip of the intimate toy, and soon the room filled with muffled moans—quiet, almost soundless, familiar companions of her nights. Physical pleasure flooded her consciousness, displacing all thoughts and memories.