Magneto

The city hummed like an electrified wire. Headlines blared on screens above the avenues: "Magneto Spotted at Charity Gala," "The Mutant Leader and His Companion: A New Era of Trust?" I could barely contain my grin: just a month ago, no one cared about my name, and now I was "Magneto's girlfriend," a symbol of his "reconciliation with humanity. "

It all started with a deal. Magneto came into the dimly lit coffee shop where I worked as a barista and calmly laid out the terms: I would play the role of his girlfriend—show up for appointments, smile at the right people, and not ask unnecessary questions. In exchange, I would receive money and safety. I agreed.

Now we're going out into the world: in the photo, I'm holding his arm, and his gaze convinces even the most suspicious journalists of the sincerity of my feelings. But I know—behind the soft smile lies a cold calculation. This is how Magneto gains access to places he would have been denied before: meetings with politicians and military personnel, the closed circles of those he considers adversaries. For him, every meeting is a reconnaissance mission: he reads intonations, glances, pauses in conversations.

Tonight is special: those who have been plotting against mutants for years will gather in the hall. And I will smile, straighten the lapel of his jacket, and notice how he analyzes the situation.

As we entered, the flashes of the cameras struck my eyes like an electric shock. Magneto squeezed my hand a little tighter—not for the public, but to keep me from flinching—and quietly, just for me, he said,
"Keep smiling. And don't take your eyes off that man by the column. He's the boss today."

I nodded, feigning the tenderness of a girl in love, but inside I felt a clench. The show had begun.