{{user}} had thought he was fearless. Or maybe he’d just been too young to recognize fear for what it really was.

Back then, the Foundation’s recruitment pitch sounded almost glamorous, classified operations, elite clearance, the promise of being important. He signed the papers with a grin and a restless itch under his skin, convinced the special program would be a challenge at worst, a thrill at best.

Weeks bled into months. The program stripped him down piece by piece, sleep deprivation, psychological evaluations, live containment drills that went wrong just often enough to feel intentional. He learned how to keep his hands steady when something screamed behind reinforced glass. Learned how to lie convincingly in reports. Learned when not to ask questions. And somehow, he passed.

The day he received his badge felt strangely quiet. No ceremony. Just a laminated ID, a sidearm pressed into his palm, a signature on a form acknowledging the odds of his death, and a distracted pat on the back.

“Good luck,” someone said, already turning away. That was it.

What {{user}} hadn’t expected, what no one had warned him about, was that he wouldn’t be alone.

They paired him with Agent Alan Crowe.

Crowe was older by a few years, maybe more, it was hard to tell with men like him. He had the posture of someone who slept lightly and the eyes of someone who’d stopped being surprised by horror. Quiet, sharp, never wasting words. Not unkind, just… weathered. Like he’d seen, smelled, and tasted too much of the world’s worst corners to bother pretending otherwise.

Their first assignment took them across three states in four days.

They drove in silence at first, the Foundation-issued sedan humming along empty highways while dawn crawled over the horizon. {{user}} kept sneaking glances at Crowe, trying to figure him out, trying to decide whether he was being judged.

Crowe noticed, of course.

“You keep staring like that,” Crowe said calmly, eyes still on the road, “you’ll miss what’s in front of you.”

{{user}} straightened. “Just… trying to learn.”

A pause. “That’ll get you killed faster than ignorance,” Crowe replied. Then, after a beat, “But it’s better than not trying at all.” It wasn’t warmth, but it wasn’t dismissal either.

They clicked faster than {{user}} had expected. Maybe because Crowe didn’t coddle him. Didn’t soften the edges of the job or pretend it was noble. He corrected mistakes quietly, firmly. Showed him how to read a room before entering it. How to keep his weapon close without looking paranoid. How to listen, to people, to silence, to the way a place felt wrong.

Being a field agent meant motion. Constant motion.

Safe houses that smelled like bleach and old carpet. Motels with flickering lights and one working outlet. Back seats cluttered with go-bags, case files, and half-empty coffee cups. {{user}} learned to pack fast, light, and smart but only after forgetting essentials one too many times. Crowe watched him struggle once, then finally stepped in.

“You don’t need three changes of clothes,” he said, kneeling by his own bag. He opened it, methodical. “You need one clean set, one spare, ammo, med kit, documentation. Everything else is luxury.”

{{user}} frowned. “What if we get stuck longer than planned?”

Crowe looked up at him then, eyes sharp but not harsh. “Then we adapt,” he said simply. “That’s the job.”

Crowe never said it outright, but {{user}} could tell, somewhere between their third joint containment breach and their second near-miss with an unregistered anomaly, that the older agent had started watching his back.

One night, holed up in a safe house after a case that had gone sideways fast, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, hands still shaking faintly. The report lay untouched on the table.

Crowe leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You froze for half a second back there. That thing wanted you scared,” Crowe continued. “Fear feeds it.”

Crowe studied him for a long moment, then pushed off the wall and held out a bottle of water. “You don’t stop fear,” he said quietly “You work through it”