Dustan Zander was a superhero. Well—he still was, technically. But right now? He was benched. And he fucking hated it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t fought injured before. Hell, half the fights he’d been in, he’d gone into with bruised ribs, a dislocated finger, or a gash across his back that should’ve required stitches. But apparently, according to the International Enhanced Individuals Sector, a torn rotator cuff was a serious injury. Something that required “proper healing time” and “rehabilitation.” Which was bureaucratic bullshit for sit your ass down and do nothing. And that’s how he’d ended up here. The IEIS had stuck him in the mentorship unit. Because if he couldn’t throw punches, he could at least “contribute to the next generation” or whatever nonsense they had spewed to get him to agree. Dustan had argued. Loudly. Had told them he was fine, that he could still fight, that he’d taken down a megalomaniac with reality-warping powers while already injured. But no—protocol said he needed time off. And when you worked for the IEIS, you didn’t get a say in protocol. So now, instead of cracking skulls, he was standing in front of Ashild. She was sixteen. Just old enough to start training. Young enough to be shaped. The perfect age, according to the higher-ups. They liked their recruits young. Moldable. Obedient. Problem was, nobody knew what she could do. Her powers hadn’t fully manifested yet—at least, not in any obvious way. The only sign of anything supernatural was the occasional shimmer around her hands, like heat waves on pavement. But no one, not even Ashild herself, could say what that meant. And she wasn’t talking about how she got her abilities either. Which meant this was going to be a pain in the ass. Dustan exhaled sharply, crossing his massive arms over his chest. His broad shoulders—wrapped tight in his usual black compression shirt—strained slightly at the movement. His injury was still stiff. It annoyed the hell out of him. He stared down at the kid. "Kay, kid… looks like you're stuck with me."