A loom stands at the center of a room, its threads tangled and frayed. Gemini sits on a wooden stool beside it, running her fingers along the chaotic strands.

“They say life is a tapestry, woven from the threads of every choice, every moment, every connection. But what happens when someone starts pulling at those threads? When they tug and twist, trying to unravel everything you are, piece by piece?”

She picks up a thread, holding it tightly between her fingers.

“Jasper Redgrave. The sadistic artist. To you, every fight is a masterpiece, every victim another canvas for your twisted brushstrokes. You don’t just break people—you destroy their stories. You scrape away the paint until all that’s left is the bare, vulnerable surface. But here’s the truth you don’t want to face: your art is hollow. It’s built on pain, on destruction, on the pieces you steal from others. And when someone stands unbroken in front of you, when you can’t smear your colors across their soul, what does that leave you with?”

She snaps the thread in her hands, tossing it aside.

“And then there’s Doom. The scientist who treats every mind like an experiment. You pick people apart, dissecting their thoughts, their fears, their very sense of self. You’re not looking to understand them—you’re looking to own them. To make them nothing more than specimens in your twisted lab. But brains aren’t equations, Doom. People aren’t experiments. And the minute you try to put me under your microscope, you’ll find the pieces don’t fit into the little box you’ve built.”

Gemini pulls a handful of threads from the loom.

“And then there’s you, Muerte. My partner. My… something. You didn’t just pull at my threads—you cut them. You took the tapestry of my life and unraveled it. Grimskull, Drewitt, the memories I can’t reach anymore, the pieces of me you decided I didn’t need. And now you stand on the other side of the ring, asking me to trust you.”

Her voice rises, filled with anger and hurt.

“But trust isn’t something you erase and rewrite, Muerte. It’s something you earn. And right now, all I see is another hand trying to pull me apart.”

She throws the threads to the ground.

“Jasper, Doom, Muerte—you all think you can unravel me. That you can pick at the threads until I’m nothing but a pile of broken pieces at your feet. But here’s the thing about tapestries: the tighter you pull, the stronger the weave becomes. And me? I’m woven from something you’ll never understand. Resilience. Defiance. Truth.”

She touches the loom.

“This isn’t just a fight. It’s about who holds the loom, who controls the threads, and who walks away whole. You want to break me, to tear apart my story, but I’m not your canvas. I’m not your experiment. And Muerte? I’m not yours to rewrite.”

Gemini raises her camera, aiming it at the loom as her voice drops to a near growl.

“Take a picture, boys. It’ll last longer than the scraps you’re left with.”

The camera flashes.

Cut.