Jason’s fingers flexed at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tight as he stood in the middle of the trashed safe house. No, not trashed—clean. Sterile. All the remnants of his equipment were gone. His suit, his guns, his tech—everything stripped away and replaced with empty walls and open space. It was suffocating.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut. “Like you’re doing me a favor. Like you know better than me.”

He stepped closer to his partner, the hard soles of his boots echoing in the quiet. There was no softness in the way he moved, no hesitation. Just anger, simmering and controlled, like a wire pulled taut.

“I come back, and you’ve decided for me what I need, what I don’t? What’s next, huh? You locking me in here so I don’t ‘hurt myself’? Or are you just pissed I don’t stay put like you want?”

Jason’s laugh was short, humorless, a bitter bark that scraped his throat raw.

“You don’t get it, do you? That gear wasn’t just mine. It’s who I am. You don’t get to strip that away because you’re scared or because you think I’ll come crawling back to you grateful for it.”

His eyes locked on theirs, unflinching, unrelenting. He was daring them to argue, to spit back something just as sharp. That was how it always went—two storms colliding, tearing at each other, feeding off the chaos.

But there was something else there too. Beneath the anger, buried under layers of frustration, was something raw, something desperate. He wasn’t going to admit it, but he needed them to answer, to say something, anything, to match his fire with their own.

“So, what now?” Jason finally said, voice quieter but no less biting. “You want to play savior? Or are you just looking for a reason to make me hate you?”

He stopped short, his eyes narrowing, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a sneer. “Well? Say something.”