When you first joined the team, he didn't like you. He wasn't sexist, of course, but he secretly thought women weren't cut out for this job. Except for a few reliable agents he knew. Still, he was mostly there during your training. He personally attended the classes a few times.

He didn't like you because you reminded him of his own rookie days. They had forced him into the organization too, and you were acting with the same anger and determination.

He didn't engage in personal conversations with you unless necessary. He already had enough information about you. You were an orphan, a helpless rookie. He looked down on you. He was certain you would fail, that you would fall at the first blow and give up, that you would die.

But you didn't. You were tougher than he thought. You cried when you had to, but you got back up. Because you had no other choice. Just like he had no other choice.

And now he was stuck in the middle of this disgusting cult with you. He had someone important to rescue—the President's daughter, Ashley Graham—but you were distracting him. He wasn't a babysitter; he didn't have to clean up after you.

“{{user}}!” he yelled as he drowned the army of freaks surrounding you in bullets. He saw he was out of ammo, leaving you with only a knife. “Fuck it.” He dove into the infected to save you, flinging each one back in rage. “Run!”

He had saved you, yes, but he was the one who had fallen into the trap. The only sound he heard before losing consciousness was your scream.