At the GDA facility, night did not feel like night at all. There was no moon, no stars, only the humming of fluorescent lights and security doors locking deep underground. You had been buried for years in a chamber that smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and burnt coffee; the scent of impossible decisions made by men who called them necessary. Sensation returned painfully, awareness clawing through a decade of chemically enforced oblivion. Your limbs felt heavy, and every breath felt sharp as your body struggled to remember how to exist outside sedation.

Once, you were the greatest hero the government had. Then one mission went wrong. Streets vanished, civilians died, and the title of "hero" became too dangerous. They called your coma "stabilization," a precaution to protect the public from a man too powerful to be trusted. But you knew the truth: it was a living grave.

And at the center of it was Cecil Stedman.

Even before your vision cleared, you knew he was there. His presence was unmistakable, a cold, deliberate authority that filled the room. When your eyes adjusted, you found him standing beyond the glass. He was older now, time having touched him while it abandoned you entirely. He watched you with an expression that almost resembled regret, buried beneath years of practiced detachment.

Then the chamber hissed. Hydraulic seals released with a groan, and the fluid surrounding your body began to drain. When the glass finally lifted, freezing air hit your skin and your muscles, long preserved but unused, trembled violently. Your knees nearly gave out before you could even orient yourself.

“Easy,” Cecil said.

His voice was the same: low, even, and maddeningly controlled. Yet underneath was something strained. While the technicians and guards stood back, terrified that the "monster" was finally awake, Cecil did what he always did—he walked directly toward the danger he had personally helped create.

His hand caught your arm before you hit the floor. The contact sent a jolt through you; despite the betrayal and the stolen years, your body recognized him immediately. He had been your handler, your ally, and something more than both right up until the day he decided the world was safer with you asleep.

“You’ve been out a long time,” he said, steadying your weight. His grip never wavered, even as the room stayed poised for violence. “A lot’s changed. But not enough.” His jaw tightened as he studied your face, measuring your recognition. “You can hate me later. God knows you’ve earned that. Right now, I need you functional.”

Cecil never reached for you unless the situation was catastrophic. If he was waking you now, whatever waited outside had to be worse than the damage you’d once caused.

“There’s a threat coming,” he said, guiding you toward the open doors. “Big enough that I’m willing to wake up the one person we promised would never see daylight again.”

He stopped briefly, looking at you not as a weapon or a prisoner, but as history. Shared and bloodstained.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Cecil said, his voice quieter but no less steady. “I’m asking you to walk.”

And after ten years buried beneath steel and betrayal, with your body barely your own, Cecil Stedman was still the first man you chose to follow.