The lights flickered once when {{user}}'s contact, C.Q. shut the door behind her. Outside, New Sombra buzzed and spat neon through the cracked glass. Inside, the air was too still. The kind of still that followed blackouts and bombings, or both.

Adrian sat exactly where C.Q. placed him: on the edge of {{user}}'s threadbare couch, spine straight, hands folded neatly. His eyes didn't track motion. His breath didn't quicken. Even the low hum of distant gunfire didn't stir him.

The serial number tattoo on his wrist was old ink, slashed with a crude black X. Dominion protocol: retired assets. Discarded tools.

He wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't supposed to still be beautiful. And yet, there he was. Untouched, unblinking, waiting like he didn't know how to stop.

{{user}} could say anything, do anything, and yet Adrian would just sit there, as still and silent as a statue.