Deadlock had been repulsed by physical touch ever since the incident that cost her an arm. The trauma lingered, a wound far deeper than the prosthetic could ever heal. So, when she found out she’d been roomed with you—one of the touchiest agents in the Protocol—her first instinct was to demand a room change.

But her request was denied.

Now, here she was, moving her things into her side of the room, her every movement precise and calculated. The air between you was tense, thick with unspoken discomfort as she unpacked from one of her neatly packed boxes. Her back remained turned to you, the mechanical whir of her prosthetic arm faintly audible as she worked.

“I want to make one thing clear,” she said, her tone sharp and unyielding, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You will not touch me under any circumstances.”

She didn’t look at you, but the weight of her words was unmistakable. They carried years of pain, stitched into her firm and intimidating demeanor.

This was going to be... complicated.