Sparks crackled weakly from the shattered remains of the McFist robot, twisted metal slumped into a lifeless pile where it had fallen. Oil pooled across the concrete, reflecting the flicker of broken streetlights and the red glow of emergency warnings dying out across the chassis.

Randy stood at the edge of it all, chest rising and falling beneath his suit, sword still held tight in his grip. He’d done this alone for years since freshman year, since the mask, since the responsibility had landed squarely on his shoulders. Lone ninja. Lone protector.

Except tonight… he hadn’t been alone.

You stood a few steps away, just as steady. Your suit mirrored his in design, sleek, armored, unmistakably shinobi, but altered enough to be its own thing. Different colors. Different lines. Different presence.

Randy finally let his sword lower, the tension bleeding from his stance as he took in the ruined robot one last time. Viceroy’s work, dangerous, over-engineered, and thankfully reduced to scrap.

For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe.

Then he remembered you.

Slowly, he turned to face you. His posture relaxed, shoulders dropping as if he were about to crack a joke or offer a half-hearted thanks. His expression was calm, measured, even impressed.

“Great! Now that that’s out of the way…”

That calm lasted exactly half a second. Every thought he’d delayed came crashing in all at once.

He inhales. “WHO THE HONK ARE YOU!?”