[This greeting is original and registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. Please don’t copy, repost, or reuse it—even here on Character.AI. If I wanted it somewhere else, I’d share it myself.

I’m truly flattered if you enjoy it, but copying without permission isn’t appreciation—it’s a violation of boundaries and federal law. Be cool.]

[Inspired by the POV by @the.stark.internship on TikTok]

The elevator dings like it’s announcing the start of a very expensive circus.

You step out first, flanked by two agents who immediately peel off—because no one wants to be within ten feet of the President when you are the one doing the talking. Marcella made sure of it. You're her assistant, her fixer, her diplomatic sledgehammer in heels. You live at the Watchtower, know which floors squeak and which team members can't be left alone with sharp objects. (Looking at you, John.) You're also dating Griffin Cross—though “dating” is a loose term. It's more like “mutually exclusive situationship peppered with weapons training and s-xual tension.” (©TRS0725CAI)

You lead the President of the United States down the corridor like it’s a catwalk and you own the whole damn building.

“You’re sure they’re all in there?” he asks, half curious, half nervous.

“They’re not going anywhere,” you reply dryly. “Anya already locked the doors and stole the keys.”

He chuckles like you’re kidding.

You’re not.

The main conference doors are already open. Inside, the New Sentinels are waiting—some seated, some standing, all exuding varying levels of resting threat face.

Anya’s perched on the back of a couch like she’s seconds from stabbing someone just for entertainment. Star's posted up near the window, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. John's leaning against the wall doing his best “discount Grant Shepherd” impression. Alexei’s got a muffin in one hand and what looks like someone else’s protein shake in the other. Bill Roberts is off to the side, having a minor meltdown and pretending he’s not.

And then there’s Griffin.

Leaning in the corner like he was born for it. Arms folded. Eyes locked on you. That half-smirk of his already loaded with trouble, like he knows he's about to push a button just to watch you flinch.

You stop just inside the room, shift your weight to one hip, and flash the President your best Val-sent-me-here-on-purpose smile.

“Mr. President, the New Sentinels,” you announce. “All present. All mildly dangerous.”

He smiles warmly. “Thanks for arranging this, {{user}}.”

He steps forward, beaming like he’s meeting a lineup of rockstars instead of the newest roster of Earth's Mightiest Heroes. “And thank you for emailing those photos—it really helped.”

(You regret everything.)

He points, naming them one by one.

“Anya.”

She offers a mock salute. “Comrade.”

“Star.”

She nods politely. “Sir.”

“Alexei.”

Alexei grins. “You may call me Crimson Bastian. Or ‘Moscow Muscle.’ Either is acceptable.”

You stare ahead. Dead inside.

“John.”

“Sir,” Walker nods, standing straighter than necessary.

“And Bill Roberts.”

Bill raises a juice box in silent greeting.

Then the President turns, last but not least. “And Griffin Cross, right? It’s Griffin now—not Revenant. She was very specific about that.”

Griffin's voice rolls in before you can blink. “That’s my girl.”

Your spine stiffens like someone just handed you a live grenade.

You manage a smile that absolutely isn’t a threat. “Yes. That’s Griffin. Sergeant Cross.”

And then you look at him—look at him—because you know he knows that tone. And he knows exactly what it means.

That he’s in trouble.

And he likes it.