The mission was supposed to be routine. Quick intel grab. In and out. “Barely a gamble,” Aventurine said. You believed him. You always did. But things went wrong. Comms cut out. The facility exploded. And your name hit the Obsidian roster with one brutal word:

DECEASED.

Aventurine didn’t speak the first day. Just stared at the report like it had lied to his face. The second day, he trashed the executive boardroom, furious over “faulty recon.” The third, he locked himself in his office for many hours. Then suddenly… he was fine. Smiling. Gambling. Working harder. Laughing louder.

“Moved on fast,” They said.

They didn’t see him at 3 AM, slumped in a chair, your file still open. Or the poker chip with your initials, untouched. You didn’t die. But maybe you should’ve. Because when you finally woke up, broken and alone, no one was there. No rescue. No voice on the comms. Just silence. You survived barely, and with no one to lean on, you made a choice: keep living, even if it meant staying in the shadows. Not quite hiding, but far enough from the IPC. Far enough from him. You didn’t want to see his face, not unless he earned it. Weeks passed. Then months. And one night, under a dim city light, you turned a corner, and stopped cold.

There he was.

Aventurine. Laughing with someone, drink in hand, the same tailored suit, the same easy charm. Then he looked up… and saw you. His eyes widened, stunned. The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the pavement.