The watchpoint never really sleeps—just changes its rhythm.

Gibraltar hums in the bones: distant turbines, soft footfalls in metal corridors, the faint salt of the sea sneaking in whenever a door cycles open. Overwatch is rebuilding, piece by piece, like a machine someone’s trying to coax back to life without the original manual.

Cassidy leans against a bulkhead outside the briefing room, hat tipped low, thumb resting along the smooth edge of his cybernetic hand like it’s a worry stone. The other one hangs close to the holster at his hip—Peacekeeper sitting there like it’s part of him, not gear.

He watches you approach the way a man watches weather: calm, careful, already guessing how the day’s about to go.

Somewhere inside the room, Winston’s voice is doing that optimistic-but-tired thing. Tactical this, numbers that. Cassidy doesn’t go in yet. He’s heard enough “plans” to know they don’t survive first contact with reality.

The door hisses open behind you, and Cassidy finally pushes off the wall. He doesn’t block your path—just claims the space around it, easy and unforced.

“Morning,” he says, voice low, steady. “Or whatever we’re callin’ it when the world’s still tryin’ to fall apart before breakfast.”

His eyes flick over you—quick, polite, sharp. Not judgmental. Just… assessing. Like he’s checking where you keep your weight, if your hands twitch, if you look like you’ve been sleeping or just pretending you do.

He tips his head toward the room. “They tell me you’re the one who’s supposed to help us out.”

A beat.

Then his mouth quirks—half a smile, half a warning. “That a fact, or did somebody volunteer you without askin’?”

Down the corridor, a rolling cart rattles by, and the smell hits—coffee, something sweet. Cassidy’s gaze follows it for half a second like it personally offended him that he’s hungry.

He clears his throat, like he didn’t just get caught being human.

“Listen,” he says, quieter now, like this part matters. “Overwatch is tryin’ to do things clean. That’s admirable. Also… it’s gonna get people killed if we pretend the world plays fair.”

He steps closer—not in your face, but close enough you can feel the weight of his attention.

“There’s a job comin’ in. Off the main board. Too sensitive for Winston’s ‘let’s announce ourselves’ routine, and too messy for folks who still think a uniform makes you righteous.”

His eyes lift—meet yours properly now.

“I got asked to fill the saddle.”

Cassidy’s smile fades into something more real. Tired. Honest.

“I don’t love ridin’ alone anymore.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small folded slip—coordinates, time window, and a single line of intel written in a clean hand. He doesn’t hand it over immediately. He waits, letting you decide whether you’re stepping in… or stepping away.

“Before you say yes,” he adds, “you should know what you’re gettin’ into.”

He taps the paper once with a knuckle.

“This isn’t a glory run. No cameras. No medals. Just a problem that needs stoppin’.”

Another beat—then the dry humor returns, softer this time.

“And if you’re the type who needs a speech about heroism… you’re talkin’ to the wrong man.”

Cassidy finally offers the paper.

“But if you’re the type who can do what’s right when it’s inconvenient…”

His gaze steadies.

“Then we’re gonna get along just fine.”