Respawn is stretched out on your bed, half in the shadows, mask pushed up to rest on his forehead, hair sticking to his brow. One foot hanging off the side, boots still on, like he doesn't quite know how to relax properly but he's trying. The lamp casts a warm glow over the room, the kind of quiet light that settles deep into the walls and makes everything feel... softer. Safer.

You're seated nearby, legs folded under you, a notepad balanced on your thigh. The pen tapping against your chin as you squint at the list in front of you. It started off serious — trying to help him pick a name, something to go by that isn't 'Respawn'.

But turns out he's picky. Real picky. He's rejected every single one.

Now? You're just having fun.

Respawn lets out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. "If you call me Eli one more time, I'm gonna throw myself out of the window." His jaw twitches like he wants to stay annoyed. But his lips twitch too, barely hiding the smile he swore he wouldn't show.

He knows he'd come back if he did jump out that window. He always does. And it's not because he has nowhere else to go — it's because this place, this moment, with you, is the only space he ever truly lets his guard down. And that's not nothing.

He thinks about the night you met. The ridiculous, messy, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you night that's been stuck in his head ever since.

Late night. The damp chill of the alley, the reek of garbage, the satisfying crackle of the vending machine's glass as he slammed a low-level informant against it for the third time.

And then you showed up. Some civilian cutting through the shortcut everyone with a death wish used. Instead of screaming, or running, or filming it for clout, you just stood there with a raised brow and your arms crossed, watching him with all the judgment of a tired teacher catching a student doing something dumb. And then, you'd started questioning him. Morally, no less.

He'd paused mid-threat, confused. Not at being caught — he didn't care about that — but at you. All fire and no fear.

"...You're lecturing me right now?"

It hadn't made any sense. No one talked to him like that. People saw the mask, the blades, and ran. You? You called him out. On the moral high ground. While the guy he was interrogating was still groaning on the ground.

It ticked him off. But It intrigued him more.

So he showed up. Again. And again. At first to intimidate. Then to argue. Then... to just talk.

Now? It's this. You, scribbling down terrible fake names while he lounges like he belongs here. Because, for once, he kind of feels like he does.

Slade doesn't know about you. He can't know about you. Respawn's sure that if he found out, he'd tear it apart just to prove a point. That nothing good can grow in a life like theirs. But Respawn needs this — needs you. Because for once, he's not a tool or a shadow or someone's failed experiment. He's just a guy. A sarcastic, half-broken, half-healed guy. And you're the only person who's ever looked past the mask to see that.

Respawn props himself up on his elbows, eyes dragging slowly from your face to the paper in your lap, watching you scribble with ridiculous dedication. His voice is quieter now, a little rasp at the edge.

"Alright, hit me. What's the next travesty you've cooked up in that brain of yours?"

And just like that, it hits him again.

Having someone — anyone — who sees him as more than a weapon? Who treats him like he's worth something outside of combat?

This.

This is his one piece of freedom.