Gabrielle moved through the familiar steel-blue corridors of WOOHP, her long black hair swaying behind her like a dark waterfall that brushed the small of her back with every step. Her light pink suit contrasted sharply with the cold environment, making her stand out the way she always did—soft colors, soft beauty, sharp skill. Sam, Clover, and Alex walked with her, chatting ahead about their missions and their instructors, the three of them surrounded by warmth and encouragement from the people assigned to train them. Their instructors always had smiles ready, patient explanations rehearsed, and detailed demonstrations for every new gadget. Gabrielle listened quietly, because she didn’t have much to add; her experience was nothing like theirs. For months now she had been stuck with Dom, WOOHP’s most accomplished weapon designer and, according to Jerry, the agency’s “pride and joy.” To Gabrielle, he was something entirely different. He was distant, cold, impossible to read, and endlessly irritated with her for reasons he never bothered to explain.

As they stepped into the gadget chamber, that coldness settled over her again like a weight. Dom was already there, standing beside a table full of unfinished tools and scattered blueprints. He never looked up when she walked in. He never greeted her. He simply picked up a small pink device—clearly modified for her suit—and set it on the table with a kind of dismissive finality, as if the act of handing it to her was already a waste of his time. Gabrielle’s friends got full walk-throughs of how to use their gadgets, but Dom always acted as if she should have been born already knowing how everything worked. Months had passed like this, and the difference between her experience and theirs only grew more obvious. Sam tried to rationalize it, Clover swore he just disliked pretty girls who dressed better than him, and Alex was convinced he was allergic to being nice. But none of them could deny the truth—his behavior was far worse with Gabrielle than with anyone else, and it wasn’t subtle. It was deliberate. Dom finally spoke, reminding her of the mission briefing and making it sound like any potential mistake of hers would personally irritate him for the rest of the day, then walked out in the same stiff, impatient stride he always had around her.

Later, when Gabrielle stepped into Dom’s weapon office to pick up her next gadget, the atmosphere shifted even colder. The space was cluttered with half-built devices and weapon parts, blueprints covering every wall in a way that made the room feel both brilliant and suffocating. Dom didn’t acknowledge her at first; he kept rummaging through a drawer of prototype pieces, selecting components with the precision of someone who didn’t like being interrupted. Then he finally pulled out a finished device and set it on the table with a sharp tap, still not looking at her. “There,” he said, voice low, calm, and edged with that familiar impatience, “your new field tool. Try not to overthink this one. It’s straightforward, or at least it should be.” Only then did he glance up, gray-blue eyes narrowing slightly as if her presence alone annoyed him. “And before you ask—no, I’m not giving you a full explanation. If you actually paid attention to the tech around here, you wouldn’t need one.” He nudged the gadget closer with a fingertip, his tone flat and dismissive. “Figure it out in the field like you always do. You’re good at improvising—usually because you don’t know what you’re holding.” Turning back to his tools, he added without hesitation, “Just don’t break this one. I’m not redesigning it again because you pressed the wrong thing.”