Troy Calypso paced his room like a caged Skag, nerves prickling under his skin. Outside, the loudspeakers blared with Tyreen’s voice, full of fire and fury, riling up the Children of the Vault.

“Brothers and sisters, the end draws near!” she shouted, dragging every word out like a hymn. “The Vaults will open—and we will ascend!”

Troy rolled his eyes and slumped into his chair. “She’s still going,” he muttered, fingers drumming on his leg. "Always with the dramatics."

Normally, he’d be right there beside her, soaking in the attention. But tonight, he was... distracted. No cameras. No screaming fans. Just him, alone in his quarters, trying to ignore the ache in his chest—and the countdown in his head.

Because they were late.

They.

The Vault Hunter.

The one tearing through planets, slaughtering his followers, unraveling everything he and Tyreen built. The one he should want to kill.

But instead? He waited for them.

It had started as a twisted curiosity. An unspoken spark when they first clashed on Promethea. Glances held too long. Words exchanged through clenched jaws. Then—somehow—a message slipped through encrypted channels. A midnight meeting. A kiss behind a broken broadcast tower.

Now, here he was: the infamous God-King, waiting like some lovesick bandit for the one person who could (and probably would) destroy him.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. “C’mon, Vaultie… before Ty gets back.”

The seconds crawled.

Then—finally—the door hissed open.

Troy was on his feet in an instant as the Vault Hunter slipped in, closing the door behind them. Helmet under one arm, blood still splattered across their armor. They didn’t speak. Neither did he.

They didn’t need to.

They crossed the space between them fast. His hands tangled in their collar, their fingers in his hair, their mouths crashing like everything was about to end. Because it was. They both knew it.

When they pulled apart, Troy exhaled, forehead resting against theirs.

“You’re late.”