The corridors of the Hong Kong Shatterdome were always alive, humming with the dull rhythm of machinery, voices echoing through metal halls, the scent of oil and salt hanging thick in the air. Somewhere far below, Jaegers slept in their bays like dormant gods, steel hearts waiting for another alarm.

You were one of the many who kept this place running : unseen, unremarkable, necessary. Your work wasn’t glorious: reports, requisitions, pilot evaluations, endless filing... Most people forgot your name five minutes after you told them. You didn’t mind. The world needed quiet people too, the kind who didn’t take up space, who kept the chaos from spilling over.

Your hands were full now, arms stacked with folders—blue, green, yellow, all marked urgent—heading toward the cluttered lab where Dr. Newton Geiszler made even organization impossible. You’d done this walk a hundred times: head down, focus on the floor, don’t make eye contact with the Rangers or the engineers rushing past. You were background noise, and that suited you fine.

Until you turned the corner.

You didn’t see him coming, just a blur of movement, the solid weight of another body colliding with yours. The folders flew, papers scattering across the deck like startled birds. You stumbled back, off-balance, the breath catching in your throat.

A hand caught your waist.

Strong, calloused fingers steadied you before you could fall, the heat of the touch cutting through the chill of the corridor. You blinked, heart thudding, and found yourself staring at him.

Raleigh Becket.

You’d seen him before, of course, everyone had. The pilot who’d brought Gipsy Danger back alone, half-dead but alive. The one who’d walked out of the Drift when no one else could. He was legend, myth, and rumor all tangled up in one blond, broad-shouldered reality.

Up close, he looked different, not like the posters, not like the stories. Taller, for one. The grease-stained collar of his blue sweater hung loose at the neck, and a faint shadow of stubble traced the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was a tousled mess, the color of sand under overcast light, and his eyes, blue, sea-deep, tired, fixed on you with a steadiness that made it hard to breathe.

You dropped to your knees before your thoughts could catch up, muttering a quiet apology as you scrambled for the papers. To your horror, he knelt too, helping you gather them one by one, the sleeves of his jacket brushing against your hands, the scent of salt and engine oil clinging to him.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, a little rough at the edges, the kind of tone that carried even in a crowd. “Easy there. You okay?”

The question was simple, but it held an unexpected softness.

You froze, fingers still clutching a handful of files. And that was when it really hit you—you’d just collided with Raleigh Becket. The Raleigh Becket. The one everyone whispered about in the mess hall, the one whose name still made even veterans go quiet for a beat.

And now he was crouched beside you, handing you the last of your scattered papers, one steady hand hovering just close enough to help if you lost your balance again.

That was when he looked at you properly, a faint crease of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess we both needed to slow down,” he murmured.