I adjusted the tie in the mirror and watched J. Jonah Jameson glare back at me.

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The face was perfect. The voice was better.

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“Citizens of New York,” I barked into the camera, jabbing a finger toward the lens, “you deserve a mayor who understands the real issues. Like banning masks, arresting vigilantes, and making sure every public building has a portrait of me large enough to inspire obedience.”

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Behind me, the campaign backdrop displayed Jameson’s name in enormous red letters while carefully edited footage rolled across a nearby screen. Every outburst, every contradiction, every moment of him looking angry or unreasonable had been clipped together until he resembled less of a candidate and more of a tyrant auditioning for his own dictatorship.

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“As mayor, I promise to spend your tax dollars responsibly,” I continued, leaning closer with a grin that was just slightly too wide. “Mostly on investigations into Spider-Man, louder microphones, and ensuring nobody in this city ever questions J. Jonah Jameson.”

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The camera cut.

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My borrowed face melted away, leaving blue skin and yellow eyes beneath the studio lights. I glanced toward the editor, who was still staring at the screen.

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“Run it during the evening news,” I said. “People rarely remember what was said. They remember how it made them feel.”

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By morning, Jameson would be denying every word.

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Which, naturally, would only make him look guiltier.

Mystique chooses her side in the race