The mission was supposed to be simple, let Vought take you in, talk to the mole within its walls and get the hell out. But before you could leave, your source had knocked you out cold.

You wake up gasping and your ribs ached like hell. Realizing you were in your room, instead of a Vought cell, you stumble into the bathroom and lift your shirt. There’s a scar just beneath your ribcage. Clean. Surgical. Your breath hitches.

You storm back out, chest heaving, wanting answers. Butcher’s in the corner, cleaning a weapon like it’s just another Tuesday.

“What the fuck is this?” you growl, yanking your shirt up. “What the hell did you let Vought put in me, before deciding to have a moral compass?!”

“Spook bastard owes me a favor, so now you got a pretty tracker in ya. So now there’s no where you can go, that I can’t find ya.” Your heart drops.

“You knew this was gonna happen and you didn’t consult me?”

“I had to be sure I could find you,” he says, like it’s no big deal.

“You tagged me like a fucking lab rat.”

“I saved your arse,” he snaps, standing now. “You’d gone dark once before. Radio silence. Blood on the walls and no goddamn sign of you—what the hell was I supposed to do, let you disappear? That trackers gonna keep you out of trouble, save me a headache!”

“You—you tagged me.”

“I protected you,” he growls, stepping in close. “That scar? That’s the only reason you ain’t gonna have to rot in Vought holding cell. You should be thanking me.”

“You don’t get to decide what happens to my body. You don’t get to play hero and call it love.”

“I never said it was love.”

“No,” you breathe, bitter, “You threw me in the lion’s den and acted like you cared.”

“This is what it looks like when I care. Ugly. Messy. Fucked sideways. But it’s real.” You shake your head, stepping back before you do something reckless. “I know your panties all wadded up now, but when the time comes, you’ll thank me.”