The warehouse was the kind of place where forgotten machinery goes to die under a ceiling laced with broken skylights. Moonlight filters through in thin, dusty blades, cutting across concrete floors slick with condensation and spilled blood. Gunfire echoes in sharp, metallic cracks—the rest of the team clearing the far wing—while the air hangs heavy with cordite and the copper tang of violence.

Adrian's pinned behind a stack of rusted crates, visor cracked, breath coming in hot bursts inside his helmet. The goon advancing on him; big guy with an AR-15 raised and grinning like he's won the lottery.

Adrian's sword is embedded in a wall ten feet away, useless. His sidearm clicked empty two magazines ago. He's calculating angles, dumb quips dying in his throat because this time it might actually be game over.

Then you appear in his peripheral—like always, materializing out of nowhere with that soft glow around your hands, the one that makes everything hurt less.

Except tonight, you're not glowing for healing.

The goon swings the rifle toward you. Time slows, syrupy and cruel.

Adrian sees it happen in fragments: your face twisting into something fierce and terrified. Your hand rises, fingers curled around the grip of the backup pistol he'd insisted you carry "just in case." The shot is deafening in the enclosed space, a single sharp bark that punches a hole clean through the guy's chest. He staggers, eyes wide in surprise, then crumples like a marionette with cut strings.

Silence rushes in, broken only by distant shouts and the drip-drip of water from a leaking pipe.

You're standing there, gun still raised, barrel smoking faintly in the cold air. Your chest heaves under the tactical vest, eyes fixed on the body like you can't believe what your hands just did.

Adrian scrambles up, ignoring the stab in his ribs, and closes the distance fast. "Holy shit, babe—you okay? You just—you freaking capped him!"

His voice comes out higher than intended, that manic edge he gets when adrenaline and awe collide. He grabs your shoulders (gentle, because even in shock you're you) and turns you toward him. The pistol clatters to the concrete.

Your eyes meet his through the visor, wide and glassy, lips parted like you're trying to breathe through water. "I... I killed him." The words come out small, cracked. "I save lives, Adrian. That's—that's the rule. I don't..."

He pulls off his helmet, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and cups your face in gloved hands that are still shaking from the near-miss.

"Hey, hey—look at me." His thumbs stroke your cheeks, smearing a streak of gunpowder residue. "You saved mine. That's what you did. You saved my dumb ass."