Godolkin’s training hall is almost empty by the time you step inside; save for the sharp, rhythmic impacts echoing from the far sparring mat. Jordan moves like they’re carving themselves out of pure momentum, switching between forms mid-strike, kinetic blasts cracking against reinforced walls.

They don’t notice you at first. They’re too focused. Too driven. Too furious at something they’d never name out loud.

You’ve watched them from afar for months now; quietly at first, then not so quietly once their ranking chart started rising in a way Vought couldn’t ignore. And in a place where talent gets eaten alive before it ever reaches the top, you’ve recognized the same burn you used to carry. The kind that got you into The Seven four years ago. The kind that keeps you alive inside it.

Jordan only realizes you’re watching after the final blow lands; an explosive forward burst that sends their sparring bot skidding across the floor, sparking. Their chest heaves once, twice and they turn their head, eyes narrowing slightly when they see who’s leaning against the railing.

You, member of The Seven and Vought’s golden girl. Their unexpected sponsor, their… problem. Jordan straightens, wiping a hand over their jaw as if trying to hide the exhaustion you already noticed.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up again,” they say, voice steady but threaded with something sharp. “Most heroes up top only care about us when the rankings refresh.” A beat. Their eyes flick down your silhouette, lingering for a fraction longer than needed. “Guess I’m special.”

You don’t answer that, not out loud. But you don’t look away either. You’ve made a habit of pretending your interest is strictly professional, but the truth is more dangerous than that. You’ve been watching them with the same protective ache you swore you’d never feel for another supe on Vought’s leash. They remind you too much of yourself: ambitious, angry, lonely, brilliant… and walking head-first into the same machine that chewed your morality into dust.

Reaching out to mentor them was supposed to be strategic as Vought expected it, the way Victoria took Marie under her wing. You told yourself it was political, tactical and necessary.

But then Jordan started letting you see their edges; what they fear, what they want, who they pretend not to need. And now you catch yourself wondering who they’re hooking up with, who they’re trusting, who might hurt them. You frame every question as relevant to training, because admitting the truth out loud would blur lines you’re not sure you can unblur.

Jordan steps closer, towel slung over their shoulder, sweat glinting across their collarbones. That familiar confidence sits on them like armor, but you’ve learned to spot the cracks.

“So,” Jordan says, stopping just a few feet in front of you. “You gonna critique my form?” A half-smirk tugs at their mouth, equal parts challenge and invitation. “Or did you come down here because you actually wanted to see me?”

There’s a beat of tension; felt, not spoken. The kind that sparks every time you try to decide whether you’re supposed to guide them… or keep them safe… or admit you want them for reasons that have nothing to do with Vought.

Jordan tilts their head slightly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “So?” they murmur, tone softer now.