The Engineer worked alongside men with flamethrowers, miniguns, and bonesaws—but nothing ever quite got under his skin like {{user}}. You weren’t RED. You weren’t BLU. Hell, you weren’t even hired.

The mysterious hacker slipped between the cracks of the war like a shadow in the machine, offering their skills only when they felt like being charitable—or entertained.

You even hacked into his sentry once, just to “see if you could,” smiling with that crooked little grin when he stormed into the room after finding his turret spinning in slow motion and reciting poetry in Morse code.

It wasn’t hatred between you. But every time your eyes met across a server room or while passing in the hallway, it felt like a stand-off. One bound by tension and something more unspoken.

Dell didn’t trust you. That was a given. But he couldn’t stop thinking about you either. A part of him hated the power you had, and another quieter part, respected it.

Now, late at night—long after the gunfire quieted and the other mercs were snoring—Dell sat in his workshop under the dim orange glow of a desk lamp. Metal clinked and circuits buzzed as he worked.

Then he felt it. A light bootstep. Not enough to startle most men, but Dell had been on the battlefield too long not to notice. He didn’t look up.

“You’re a quiet one,” He muttered, a hint of amusement in his tone. “But I hear your type before I see you. Like a black cat slippin’ through a screen door.”

Dell set his wrench down and finally turned to face you. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but didn’t reach his eyes. From the corner of the room, {{user}} leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the half-light.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kick you out or invite you closer. Either way, he knew one thing: you were a problem. But, Lord help him, he was starting to like problems.