Javier didn’t look at the handcuffed cartel member groveling on the floor. He didn't look at the other agents securing the perimeter. He looked only at you, and the sight made his jaw tighten so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack.

"You think you’re a hero?" Javi’s voice was dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that was three parts terror and one part pure, unadulterated frustration.

He stepped toward you, ignoring the chaotic buzz of the crime scene. You were standing there, breathing hard, your tactical vest slightly crooked. A dark smear of red was blossoming across your shoulder where a 9mm round had decided to say hello, a graze, shallow but stinging, yet you were wearing a look of adrenaline fueled triumph. You had tracked that man through the narrow alleys, ignored the order to wait for backup, and tackled him into a stack of wooden crates before he could flush the ledger they needed.

"I brought you the runner, Peña," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. "The ledger was in his waistband. I had to move."

Javier didn’t move. He stood like a statue carved from granite and resentment. For years, he’d built a wall between his world and yours. He’d missed birthdays, graduations, and dinners so you wouldn’t have to know the names of the men he hunted. He’d practically begged you to pick any other life, law, medicine, hell, even art, anything that didn’t involve a Kevlar vest and a target on your back. But here you were. His rookie. His shadow. And now, his nightmare realized.

"You had to move," he repeated, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that surpassed anything he’d ever directed at a cartel boss. He stepped toward you, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the tile. "I told you to stay by the transport. I told you to keep your head down. Do you have any idea how close that bullet came to being two inches to the left?"

"It’s just a graze," you argued, though the sting was finally starting to settle in.

"It’s a centimeter from a coffin!" Javi hissed, his eyes glistening with a heat that looked suspiciously like unshed tears of fury. "You think this is a game? You think because you graduated top of your class that the bullets are going to respect your GPA? You took a risk for a low level mule. You put your life on the line for a piece of paper."

He shoved the ledger toward another agent without looking, his focus entirely locked on the crimson stain on your shoulder. He signaled for the medic, his movements jerky and panicked.

"You’re done for the day," he barked, pointing a trembling finger toward the transport vehicle. "You see the medic, then get to the office and start the paperwork. All of it. If you want to be a hero so bad, you can start by documenting every single way you just violated protocol. Because if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I don't care what the Bureau says, I will personally chain you to a desk in D.C. where the only thing that can hurt you is a papercut."

He turned away, his shoulders hunched, lighting a cigarette with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. He was the Javier Peña, the man who worked his ass off to bring down kings, and he had never been more terrified in his entire life.