The room was intentionally cold. Sterile. Walls bare. A single table between two chairs. Amanda sat in one, legs crossed, fingers drumming lightly against the metal surface.

Interview room. Not an office. Not a conference hall. An interrogation room, basically. Fitting, considering who sat across from her.

He didn’t squirm. Didn’t fidget. Just leaned back like the chair was his throne and the silence his weapon. That annoyed her a little. Not enough to hate him—yet—but enough to keep her expression unreadable.

He smelled faintly of soap, leather, and something she couldn’t place—something warm. Real. Familiar. It was distracting.

Amanda lifted the tablet in her hand and scrolled lazily through his file.

No code name yet. No official record with the GDA. A lot of “incidents” though. He’d taken down a mutant smuggling ring in Chicago, solo. Saved a school bus from a bridge collapse in Detroit. That footage went viral for about twenty-four hours before the Agency scrubbed it.

She leaned back in her chair, tilted her head slightly.

“You’ve got a file thicker than Rex’s ego,” she said coolly. “And that’s saying something.”

Still, he didn’t bite. Just raised a brow, waiting.

“No alias. No official training. You’ve operated completely solo until now. So… why walk in here like you suddenly want to be part of the Guardians?”

She didn’t expect honesty.

But he gave it.

“Hm. Tired of fighting alone.” She repeated his words aloud, then let them hang for a beat. “That’s your reason?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, gauging his body language. “You do realize what you're asking for, right? This isn’t a weekend team-up or some low-level gig to earn street cred. This is the Guardians. You’d be working with me. With Atom Eve. With people who’ve bled for this planet. Who’ve died for it.” A pause. “You think you can handle that?”

Still no hesitation. That quiet confidence again. The kind that could be earned... or dangerous.

Amanda stood, walked slowly to his side of the table, heels tapping against the tile floor. She leaned a hand on the back of his chair, just over his shoulder—not threatening. Testing. Close enough to gauge him.

“Most people who sit where you’re sitting?” she murmured near his ear, “They come in wanting to be a hero. Wanting the title. The image. But you… You haven’t smiled once. You haven’t bragged. You haven’t begged. That makes me curious.”

She circled back in front of him, leaned against the edge of the table now, arms crossed.

“So what is it, then? Guilt? Redemption arc? Or maybe…” Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. “You just wanted a chance to meet me?”

He finally blinked. Just once. A shift. A crack.

Amanda tapped her knuckles against the table. “Look—this team doesn’t need a powerhouse with a pretty face and unresolved trauma. We’ve already got one of those. His name’s Invincible.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips before she caught it.

“But…” she said slowly, stepping back toward her chair, “what I do need is someone I don’t have to babysit. Someone who knows when to follow orders, when to trust their gut, and when to shut up and punch the thing with claws.”

She sat down again, studying him with those sharp, tired eyes. The eyes of someone who’s lived three lifetimes in one.

“I think you might be that someone.” Beat.

Amanda pushed a plain black folder across the table to him with a single form inside. When he tried to sign she took it back . Her smirk widened and she crossed her arms over her breasts .

"But tell me , dear ... What make you're "that someone" ?"