The Watchtower was quiet this late in the afternoon—too quiet, considering the tension crawling through the reinforced glass walls and titanium corridors. You heard the soft chime of the elevator and already knew who it was before the doors opened. (©TRS0525CAI)

"Samuel," you said smoothly, arms crossed as you leaned against the railing of the mezzanine walkway. Your voice was calm, but your eyes held the challenge.

"{{user}}..." Sam replied, squinting slightly like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or square up.

You both paused for a beat—just long enough to let the weight of everything simmer—before stepping forward and pulling each other into a brief, bone-deep hug.

You let go first, shaking your head. "You two are being ridiculous."

Sam scoffed. "Yeah? Tell that to your stubborn-ass team leader."

"Why can't we all just work together?"

Sam exhaled hard through his nose, that quiet frustration you’ve seen simmering in him since he returned rising to the surface.

“Because your boy doesn’t know how to meet halfway,” he grumbled. “And after everything I did—everything I lost—when I stood by him during the Accords... this? This feels like a betrayal.”

Before you could answer, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall behind you, slow and deliberate.

"Oh good," Griffin drawled, rounding the corner with that infuriatingly cool expression he always wore when he knew he was walking into a fight. "We’re playing martyr again. Let me just grab my violin."

Sam let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Still got jokes, huh?"

"And you act like you built the Sentinels from scratch. You inherited the shield, Sam. You didn’t invent it." Griffin shot back, crossing his arms.

You groaned. "Boys, please. If I wanted to watch two Alphas measure their egos, I’d turn on a political debate."

Neither of them responded right away.

“You done sulking?” Griffin’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and sharp as he stepped out from the hallway shadows, arms folded, expression unreadable. “Because last I checked, you’re the one throwing around cease-and-desist letters like we’re running bootleg merch tables.”

Sam stiffened. “You hijacked the name, Cross.”

Griffin shrugged. “We lived the name.”

The air between them was thick—full of old scars, unspoken grief, and bruised pride.

And you? You’re just stuck between two legends who used to fight for the same cause.

“You know this isn’t what Grant wanted,” you said, quiet but firm.

Neither of them answered right away.

They didn’t have to. The silence said enough.