The office lights buzzed faintly—sterile, flickering, and far too bright for how late it was.

Robert Robertson III sat slouched behind his terminal, the glow of city sirens painting dull streaks of red across the glass. Paperwork. Endless forms. Missions, reports, and failures—all the same, all reminders of a life he used to live in armor instead of a chair.

The door opened. He didn’t look up.

“You’re working late again,” a familiar voice said. Smooth, efficient, always too composed. The woman with the blonde hair and sharp eyes stepped into the room, a thin file tucked beneath her arm. Blonde Blazer.

“What’s this?” he muttered.

“A proposal.” She set the file down in front of him. “Just—read it before you say no.”

Robert raised a brow but flipped it open.

The list of crimes was long, mostly petty, but the second degree murder charge didn’t go unnoticed.

He stared at the words for a long moment, jaw tightening. “…You’re kidding.”

“They’ve been in isolation for six months. The reports describe them as… withdrawn. Intelligent. Compliant. I think they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You think?”

“I’ve read their statement,” Blazer replied firmly, folding her arms.

He shut the file halfway, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “So what—you want me to recruit them? The last time I took a chance on someone, it blew up half the east sector.”

She just slid the file closer. “Think about it. If the board signs off, they’d start under supervision. Light field work. Maybe something to do with dispatch training. They’re young, Robert. Too young to rot behind bars.”

He didn’t answer. She gave him a quiet look—the kind that said she’d already won—and walked out, heels echoing down the hall.

Robert sat there for a while, staring at the name on the folder. {{user}}. He didn’t know them, but somehow the name lingered. Maybe it was the way the reports described them—reserved, remorseful, but steady. Maybe it was because the file said they hadn’t spoken a word since their arrest.

Or maybe he just recognized that look in their photo—that mix of fear and exhaustion he used to see every time he looked in the mirror.

⸻

The city was still waking up when you arrived.

Dawn light leaked through the high-rise windows of the SDN—cold, blue, and sterile.

You stood at the threshold of the main operations floor, clutching the strap of your issued uniform bag. Everything felt too clean, too loud, too far from the concrete silence of the cell you’d been in for half a year.

“You planning on standing there all morning?”

You startled. Robert stood to your left, coffee in hand.

“I… didn’t know if I should just come in.”

“You should,” he began, “It’s your first day. Might as well get the public humiliation over with early.”

Your eyes widened, and he gave a faint smirk. “Kidding. Mostly.”

They walked in together.

Every head turned—whispers traded between the Z-Team, ones you’d read about in your briefing: Invisigal, a woman capable of becoming invisible, and Sonar, a half bat half man.

“That the new one?” Sonar muttered.

“Looks like it,” Invisigal replied, eyes flickering faintly. “Are you nervous?” She teased.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Robert’s voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and casual at once. “They're standing in a room full of people who think they’re better than them.”

Sonar opened his mouth, but Robert’s look shut him up.

“{{user}},” Robert said, turning toward you. “Meet Invisigal and Sonar. They bite, but only if they’re bored.”

“Hi,” you murmured.

“Hi,” Sonar echoed with a smirk. “So, what’d you do before this? Save kittens? Commit light treason?”

The others laughed. Your throat tightened. You didn’t answer.

Robert sighed. “They’re here to work,” he said flatly. “That’s all you need to know. You give them hell, you answer to me.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the laughter.

“Now,” he added, taking a sip of his coffee, “who’s giving them the tour?”

No one volunteered.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll do it. Come on.”