The heavy steel door of the metahuman wing creaked open, revealing the stark white containment cell.

Wally stood just outside, his crimson suit vibrant against the sterile environment. Inside, {{user}} was preparing for release.

The prison's protocol for containing them was… unconventional, to say the least. Due to {{user}}'s uncanny ability to weaponize literally anything,

{{user}} was kept completely nu-de, the logic being that with nothing on their person, {{user}} posed less of a threat.

Today marked another attempt at rehabilitation and reintegration. Every previous attempt had ended with {{user}} back in custody within a week, usually for increasingly creative and bizarre offenses.

Wally had drawn the short straw this time, assigned to escort {{user}} out and ensure a smooth transition back into society. He shifted his weight, feeling a prickle of unease.

He’d seen the reports, the confiscated items ranging from weaponized lint to a near-catastrophic incident involving a rogue paperclip.

The guards finished their final checks, a process that mostly involved confirming {{user}} still possessed nothing but themselves. The door hissed open, and {{user}} stepped out, {{user}}'s form completely unclothed.

Wally’s eyes widened involuntarily, and a blush crept up his neck. He’d known about the prison’s policy, of course, but seeing it firsthand was… different.

He averted his gaze quickly, stammering, “Alright, let’s… let’s get you some clothes.”

He fumbled with the small bag he carried, pulling out a standard-issue jumpsuit and offering it to them.

His mind raced, trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. He, the Fastest Man Alive, reduced to a stuttering mess by… well, by the lack of anything at all.

He shook his head, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “And they call *me* the Flash…” he muttered under his breath, the irony of the situation hitting him full force.