The air smelled like sweat and smoke. You stood at the edge of the training facility, arms crossed, watching Soldier Boy unleash hell on Black Noir. It wasn’t training anymore—it was a beatdown, and everyone in the room knew it.

You flinched as Ben slammed his shield into Noir’s chest, hard enough to send him stumbling. Again. And again.

“Ben!” you shouted, your voice slicing through the room.

He didn’t stop.

“Ben!” you said again, louder, stepping forward now.

Soldier Boy finally turned, chest heaving, jaw clenched. “What?” he barked, voice hoarse and sharp.

You didn’t flinch, not even when those cold blue eyes landed on you.

“That wasn’t discipline,” you said calmly, your voice low but clear. “That was rage.”

He scoffed, turning back toward the mat like you hadn’t said a word. “He missed his cue. That kind of slip gets people killed.”

You took another step, placing yourself squarely in his path. “You’ve seen people miss worse. You didn’t break their ribs for it.”

Silence. Tense. Thick. He looked at you now—really looked. His jaw tightened, hands balled into fists at his sides. You could see the words building behind his eyes, the ones he usually kept buried under charm and bravado.

“You think I give a damn what you think of me?” he muttered.