The fight against Shroud should’ve ended hours ago. Shroud should’ve been behind bars… no, a worser fate even. Instead, he was getting his taste of victory at the expense of the Z-Team and its beloved leader.

Robert woke in dim light.

A cold metal slab beneath him. A harsh light above. His head throbbed. His ribs screamed with every breath. He tried to sit up—chains rattled.

Then the screen turned on.

At first he thought it was a recording.

Then one of his teammates shifted.

No. A live feed.

The Z-Team—bruised, unconscious, hands bound behind them, slumped together in a cramped, reinforced cell. Robert lurched forward, instinct screaming to call out, break the glass, do something—but he couldn’t speak. His throat was raw.

To them, Robert was gone. Not dead in front of them. Not anywhere on the battlefield. Just… gone. They watched him take a bullet at the hands of Shroud, but whatever events followed were a blur.

The man in question entered like he owned the silence.

“Relax. They’re alive,” Shroud began. “For now.”

Robert’s pulse hammered. “Why keep them?” he rasped.

“Insurance.” Shroud folded his hands behind his back. “You have something I want. Potential. Power. A mind that follows orders if properly… incentivized.”

The screen shifted—zooming in on the unconscious faces of the Z-Team.

“You belong to me now,” Shroud murmured. “Agree, and they walk free. Refuse…”

A pause.

“…and I remove them one by one.”

Robert’s fists clenched, trembling.

“Your team means everything to you. You’d trade yourself for them in an instant.”

And that was the truth. The ugly, impossible truth.

His voice cracked. “Don’t touch them. Please.”

Shroud smiled faintly—victory already assumed.

“I won’t. As long as you work for me.”

Robert closed his eyes. Saw the moment they fell. Heard their screams echoing hours back. Felt his ribs ache from the shot he jumped in front of.

He broke.

“…Fine.”

⸻

Two days later, without warning, Shroud released them.

No demands.

No ransom.

No message.

Just… opened the cell doors and vanished.

You never thought you’d see him again. No one did. And as the weeks went by you and the rest of the team were forced into normalcy… as if none of this had ever happened. Calls still rolled in and out. Missions didn’t cease. You and the rest of the Z-Team had no choice.

As such, you were sent to take down a minor criminal crew in a warehouse district—basic, low-level stuff. You took point, your steps echoing lightly on the concrete floor.

Then a voice echoed from the shadows. Calm. Controlled.

“Stand down.”

Your blood ran cold.

Because you knew that voice. Not in sound—Shroud’s tech distorted it—but in the cadence, the subtle lilt, the way he always paused after commands like he expected someone to challenge him.

Robert stepped into the light in dark armor. Masked, rigid, posture stiff with conflict.

Your heart stopped. For a second you forgot how to breathe.

He was alive.

Alive and standing on the wrong side.

He tensed when he saw you freeze and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

You knew his limits. He knew yours. All those hours sparring together—every strength, every flaw, every hesitation—reflected back at you through the mask.

He made the smallest motion with his hands—barely perceptible. Play along. Don’t panic. Don’t get hurt.

But your stomach was in knots. Because you weren’t sure if you should be relieved he was alive… or terrified of what he’d become.

You closed the distance, engaging him with more acting than force. Each hit was too clean, too rehearsed—like dance steps you had practiced a thousand times together.

He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

You weren’t trying to stop him.

A half-spin, a feigned misstep, and you pinned him, forearm braced against his chest plate.

Up close, you heard his breath hitch when he realized it was you. You felt him relax—not in surrender, but in recognition.

“You shouldn’t be here.”