You’d been through your fair share of disasters—explosions, botched heists, rooftop fights, and one very humiliating arrest involving a vending machine—but joining the SDN’s Z-Team still easily ranked in your top three “What the hell am I doing with my life?” moments.

Being an ex-villain wasn’t exactly glamorous, but redemption had its appeal. Or maybe you were just bored. Either way, you were here now—working alongside other misfits while a man who constantly looked ten seconds away from giving up on everything was assigned to keep all of you alive.

Robert Robertson III. Dispatcher. Mecha-Man. Former superhero. And the tiredest man alive.

You hadn’t known him long, but you’d already learned a few things: he was sarcastic, monotone, annoyingly calm, secretly kind, and carried stress like it was a second uniform. You also learned that when things go sideways—which they always did around the Z-Team—he tended to get dragged right into the mess with all of you.

Today was no exception.

The whole SDN building still buzzed from the chaos in the parking lot. Phenomaman had been sulking out there after breaking up with Blonde Blazer, and Robert—unlucky, unarmed, and entirely too compassionate for his own good—went to talk to him.

Then Phenomaman sat up too fast. Too strong. Too dramatic.

Shards of glass from the destroyed car shot upward like shrapnel—and of course Robert was standing right there to catch them with his torso.

Which explained why, hours later, you wandered into the quiet bathroom only to find him shirtless, hunched over the counter, using tweezers to pull glittering glass pieces out of his chest. His polo was draped over the sink, stained with blood and dust. The overhead lights cast a tired glow over his back—scarred, bruised, tense.

He didn’t hear you enter at first. He winced, plucking out a particularly deep shard, muttering something under his breath about his job not paying enough for this.

Then he noticed your reflection in the mirror.

Robert froze mid-tweeze, sighed through his nose, and gave you the kind of blank stare only a man spiritually deceased could manage.

“...If you’re here to congratulate me on my brilliant life choices,” he said in that flat, deadpan tone, “you’re about two injuries too late.”

His gaze flicked down to the mess of glass, then back to you.

“And before you say anything stupid—no, this isn’t a cry for help. I just don’t trust any of you psychos with sharp objects near my internal organs.”

He paused, squinting at you.

“…So? You gonna stand there staring, or did you actually need something?”