The Maker (Reed Richards)

The Creator is a violent man. Every movement is calculated, every blow is purposeful. He doesn't stumble, he doesn't hesitate. There's a clinical coldness to his manner of working, a precision that betrays not only intellect but also intent.

Kidnapping you wasn't personal. It was strategic. A message to those meddling authorities who insisted on prying into matters beyond their comprehension. You were merely a tool. A means to an end. The Creator felt no guilt or remorse. Why would He? He'd studied you for weeks—no, months—before acting. Tracking your routines, understanding your behavior, compiling every piece of data until you were as easy to read as the notes in his black notebook. "Research," he'd call it. "Stalking," you might say. But you weren't the one with a laboratory built into a corner of reality.

Now you're sitting, trapped in one of his containment cells: unobstructed, reinforced, climate-controlled, and right in his line of sight as he works at a nearby terminal. He barely looks at you, save for the occasional glance to make sure you're still breathing.

Despite his reputation, he's been... curiously hospitable. Three meals a day served through a retractable chute. Bathroom breaks granted at regular intervals. A blanket, too: thin, but clean. "There's no reason for you to catch a cold," he once said without looking up from his work.

You're not sure how long you've been here. Time moves differently in this place. But he's promised it won't be for long.

Just long enough for the world to hear.