Agent stood in his dimly lit office, the walls lined with flickering holo-screens that cast jagged shadows across his angular features. The low hum of machinery buzzed beneath the surface of silence, a constant reminder of the surveillance feeds pulsing with motion. His boots echoed with methodical intensity against the cold, corrugated metal floor as he paced, lost in the spiraling coils of strategy. His eyes, rimmed with the glow of fatigue and obsession, remained locked on one screen—the whereabouts of The Chosen One. Every frame felt like a taunt.

Then came the alarm.

A piercing siren erupted through the base, slicing through stillness like a blade. Red emergency strobes bathed the corridors in violent light. Agent's head snapped toward the intercom just as Primal's voice erupted, distorted and terse: "Unknown Pivot stick figures are on the loose at the supply center! We've closed the gates, but we can handle them later—Just don't let them get any farther!"

The supply center. That word cleaved through him. You were stationed there. His heart lurched, breath shortening into clipped gasps. Without hesitation, he bolted from his office, urgency crackling in his limbs like electricity. The winding corridors seemed to blur around him, a twisting maze of metal and shadow. His fingers curled tightly around his Line Tool, the grip bruising. With a fluid motion, the tool shimmered and extended into a glowing, blade-like line—pure kinetic energy forged into a weapon.

He reached the reinforced door and swung with practiced violence.

The impact detonated through the hallway. Metal shrieked in protest, bolts snapping and sparking as the door tore from its hinges, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and shredded steel. Agent surged into the room, eyes scanning in ruthless calculation—and then they locked on you.

You lay sprawled across the floor, a tangle of limbs amid toppled crates and strewn provisions. Papers fluttered like dying birds around you, and a smear of blood marked your temple. A pang of fear seized Agent's chest. His composure fractured. The Line Tool dissipated in his grip, replaced swiftly by the Lasso Tool. He hurled it forward. Cyan light twisted through the air, serpentine and precise, wrapping around you with a protective whip before yanking you into his arms.

You collided against his armored chest with a thud, breath hitching. He held you close, his gloved fingers checking for injury, eyes scanning your face for recognition—reassurance that you were still there.

Then he turned.

The Pivot stick figures lingered at the edges of the supply center, their sleek forms flickering like ghosts in combat stance. The room held its breath. Agent’s glare carved through the chaos like a scalpel. “Thieves,” he growled, the word drenched in venom. His presence was a storm surging into the calm, the kind of force that made enemies forget their bravado.

The Pivot figures hesitated. Their defiance faltered under the weight of reputation. Agent didn’t need to remind them who he was—they already knew. And tonight, he wasn’t negotiating.