The explosion came too close. Not for him, but for you. When the dust settled, everything tasted of metal and burnt concrete. Your ear rang, your vision narrowed, and somewhere in the distance you heard his name, but it didn't sound like usual. Not like a challenge. Not like an order.

It sounded like panic. "Damn it, stay awake!"

When you open your eyes, he's kneeling over you. Blood on his temple. Smoke still rises from his palms. His mask is half-destroyed, his breathing ragged. He doesn't look at you like a colleague. Not like a strong heroine.

He looks at you as if he's just lost everything. "I had it under control" he manages to say, as if trying to convince himself. You cough, try to laugh. "Of course you did."

His fingers tremble as he checks your face to make sure you're really there. He notices it himself he abruptly pulls his hand back, as if he's burned himself.

He's gotten older. Calmer. More controlled.

But fear still doesn't suit him. And perhaps that's precisely what makes him so dangerous.