You weren’t always just a voice in Flambae’s ear.

Before the desk. Before the screens. Before the word dispatcher became something people used to gently remind you of your limits—you were on the ground, all bruises and bad decisions.

When you stepped down from hero work after your injury, you hadn’t taken it well.

You called it “temporary.” Said you’d be back. Got angry when you realized your body was failing you. Angrier when you realized you were not only lying to everyone else, but yourself.

At the SDN, you handle a rambunctious group of ex-cons who called themselves the Z-Team. In particular, your relationship with the resident pyrokinetic, Flambae, was notably interesting. Late-night dispatch shifts, clipped banter over comms, him ignoring protocol just to hear your voice confirm he was still alive. You kept him in line. He kept pretending he didn’t need you.

You weren’t supposed to be on the field anymore.

Dispatchers stay behind the screens, voices in earpieces, names blinking on monitors. Former heroes stay retired—especially injured ones. But Shroud didn’t care about rules, and neither did you when the Red Ring came crashing down on the city.

The fight goes wrong fast.

Shroud’s shadows coil tighter than expected, and when you hit the ground, the impact knocks the breath from your lungs in a way you recognize immediately as bad. Pain flares sharp and hot through your side, your vision blurring as your comm crackles uselessly in your ear.

Shroud looms over you as your throat tightens, your strength bleeding out faster than you can recover. You can barely move when his voice slips through the dark, smooth and amused.

“Any last words?” he asks, head tilting as if this is nothing more than entertainment.

Then the heat hits.

“Unbelievable,” a voice snaps, flames lashing out as the figure drives Shroud back. “I leave you alone for five fucking minutes.”

His black suit is torn at the V of his chest, embers licking along the flame motifs like they’re alive. Dark hair hangs loose from its tie, a single strand plastered to his forehead with sweat. His right hand clenches—missing fingers stark against the firelight.

Flambae.

He fights angry—reckless—but never once does he let Shroud get past him. When he’s finally relieved of combat by the others, Flambae turns to you instead.

“What were you thinking?” he demands, crouching beside you, heat radiating from his skin. His hands hover, unsure where to touch without hurting you more.

“You’re a dispatcher now. Former hero. Emphasis on former.”