The house was quiet in the way only freshly cleared buildings ever were—too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Simon Riley stood in the center of the living room, rifle still raised, skull mask shadowed by the dim afternoon light bleeding through broken blinds. Dust hung in the air, slow and lazy, settling after the storm he’d just torn through. The last enemy was zip-tied and unconscious at his feet. Mission complete.

“Clear,” Simon finally muttered into the comms.

A moment later, footsteps approached from the hallway. Lighter than his. Familiar. {{user}} stepped into the room, weapon lowered but eyes sharp, scanning out of habit more than necessity. He took in the scene—the overturned furniture, the neat efficiency of Simon’s work, the enemy neutralized without excess.

Then he looked at Simon.

“You did good,” {{user}} said, voice calm but sincere. “Real clean clear. Textbook.”

Simon stiffened.

Not outwardly—no sudden movement, no obvious tell—but something in his posture locked up, like a muscle that hadn’t been used in years had been pulled without warning. Compliments were… foreign. Uncomfortable. He knew how to take orders, how to give them, how to survive. Praise had never been part of the equation. He huffed quietly and turned away, checking his mag like it suddenly needed attention. “Just did my job,” he said.

{{user}} didn’t push. He never did. That was part of why Simon was fond of him—smart, observant, knew when to speak and when to let silence do the work. But instead of backing off, {{user}} stepped a little closer, close enough that Simon could feel his presence without looking.