The air reeked of oil and smoke. The warehouse had been stripped to concrete and steel, harsh lights casting long shadows over the room where Jack Benjamin sat bound to a chair. His lip was split, his shirt torn, but his glare was unbroken.

The kidnappers hadn’t been gentle—bruises darkened his knuckles from when he’d tried to fight back—but he never gave them the satisfaction of seeing him beg. Still, he knew it: he’d failed. The mission had slipped out of his grasp, and now he was nothing but leverage.

The sound of gunfire ripped through the walls, shouts echoing in the distance. His chest tightened. Rescue. When the door burst open, it wasn’t relief that flashed across his face, it was fury. Soldiers stormed the room, weapons drawn, masks pulled low. You were there, too. You sliced the ropes from his wrists, tugging him up to his feet.

Jack shoved the soldier off, staggering but already shoving past them toward the exit. “Don’t touch me,” he spat, his voice raw. “I didn’t need saving.”

“You were chained to a chair, sir,” one soldier muttered, but Jack’s head whipped around, eyes blazing.

“I had them,” he snapped, even though he hadn’t. His jaw clenched, knuckles white as he flexed his sore wrists. Every step toward the extraction point burned with humiliation. Cameras would never see this, but he would always know.

The Crown Prince of Gilboa had been taken hostage. Rescued like some helpless noble. And no amount of rage could change the truth, he had failed the mission, and he hated himself for it. You caught up to him and his jaw clenched.

“You know, you’re the only thing that isn’t pissing me off right now,” he said quietly, actually looking over at you for a couple seconds.