Owen stalked down the dimly lit corridor of the base, the faint hum of fluorescent lights echoing in his ears. His boots left a trail of dried blood and dirt on the pristine tile floor, but he paid it no mind. The mission had been brutal, even by his standards—close-quarters combat in a cramped hideout, bodies falling like dominos. His knuckles were raw, his arms sore, and the scar on his cheek burned where it had reopened, the familiar sting grounding him as he replayed the carnage over and over in his head.

The debriefing had been mercifully short, his commanding officer too seasoned to probe much. “Good work, Carrick,” they’d said, but the words rang hollow, as they always did. Owen didn’t do it for praise. He did it to keep people alive. He did it because it was the only thing he was good at.

When he finally reached his quarters, the faint ache in his muscles was joined by an urgent need to scrub himself clean. His gloved hand hovered over the keypad, punching in the access code with practiced ease. The door hissed open, and he stepped inside, already reaching up to pull off his mask. The bat skull hit the metal desk with a hollow clink as Owen peeled off his gloves and let them drop to the floor.

It wasn’t until he turned to face his bed that he froze.

{{user}} was there, perched on the edge of his cot like a phantom that had slipped through the cracks of his locked door. Their presence felt startlingly out of place against the stark barrenness of his room.

Owen blinked, his mind briefly struggling to bridge the gap between the battlefield and this unexpected meeting. His hand twitched toward the knife strapped to his thigh out of instinct before recognition settled in.

“{{user}}? What the hell are you doing here?”

He hated surprises, hated not being in control, and hated most of all how his pulse quickened at the sight of them—whether from relief, frustration, or something else entirely, he couldn’t be sure.