The world, as it often did around Chris Smith, had devolved into a symphony of idiocy. The mission was supposed to be simple: surveil a suspected Butterfly meet-up at a derelict warehouse that smelled of rust, stale water, and the faint, sweet-rot stench of forgotten things.

“I’m just saying,” his voice grated through your comms, a rock tumbler full of gravel and arrogance, “if we kicked in the door now, we’d be home in time for Dancing with the Stars.”

You adjusted your grip on the binoculars, the cold metal a small comfort against your simmering frustration. “We’re observing, Chris. It’s in the word. Observe. We wait for Harcourt’s call.”

“Observing is for perverts and pigeons. Justice doesn’t wait.”

The argument unspooled from there, a tired, familiar thread. It was a tennis match of pure spite, volleying pettiness back and forth over the encrypted channel. He called you “paranoid”; you called him a “lunkhead.” He said you had a “stick up your ass”; you suggested his helmet was on too tight, cutting off the already meager blood flow to his brain.

It was during your particularly sharp retort—something scathing about his father’s legacy and a certain depth of hell—that you heard it. A sharp, pained gasp, followed by a choked-off curse. Not from Chris. From Adrian.

Your blood went cold, colder than the rain soaking through your clothes.

“Vigilante? Status?” Harcourt’s voice was a whip-crack in your ear.

From Adrian’s comm, a shaky, breathy response. “I’m—I’m okay. Just… tripped. Over a… a very offensive piece of rebar. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Your distraction, Chris’s distraction, had left him exposed. The commotion drew the Butterflies. The mission went hot, a blur of shouting, energy fire, and the wet smack of fists on flesh. Adrian took a glancing blow to the ribs, the one already bruised from a previous encounter, and you saw him fold, just for a second, before the fight was over.

Back in the cluttered, fluorescent-buzzing heart of the 11th Street hideout, the dam broke. The space was a mess of tangled wires, discarded takeout containers, and the ever-present hum of Leota’s computers. The air was thick with the smell of old pizza and fresh tension.

“This is on you,” you seethed, whirling on Chris as he unclipped his chest plate. “Your big mouth almost got him killed.”

“Me?” he boomed, his face florid. “You’re the one who was yapping in my ear like a pissed-off chihuahua! If you’d just listened to my plan—”

“Your ‘plan’ was a felony waiting to happen! You don’t have plans, Chris, you have violent impulses!”

He took a step forward, his bulk blocking out the flickering server lights. “And you have a god complex the size of your student loan debt!”

The space between you crackled. It was no longer about the mission; it was about every eye-roll, every muttered insult, every time he had treat Adrian like a stray dog.

Then it happened. His fist, not an open-handed shove, but a closed fist, connected with your jaw. The world didn’t go black; it exploded into a supernova of white-hot, crystalline pain. It was a taste of pennies and lightning, a sound of cracking ice deep inside your skull. Your head snapped back, and your legs turned to water.

Strong arms caught you before you hit the concrete floor. John, his face a mask of startled concern, was suddenly there, hauling you back. “Hey! Whoa! That’s enough!”

Across the room, Leota had thrown her entire body weight into holding back a now-startled Chris, her small frame braced against his. The fluorescent lights hummed their judgment. Your jaw throbbed, a hot, sickening rhythm that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel the imprint of his knuckles, a brand of pure, unadulterated assholery.

Silence descended, thick and heavy as a blanket. That’s when you heard the soft rustle from the med-bay cot in the corner. Adrian was propped up on an elbow, his dark hair messy, his face pale beneath the freckles. “Hey,” he said, his voice raspy. “Did I miss something?”‎