The hideout smells like rust, sweat, and wet concrete. The fire in the corner crackles weakly, throwing jagged shadows across the bunker walls. The day’s briefing hasn’t even started, and already, tempers are heating up.

Deadeye stands in front of the group, broad shoulders blocking the flickering light. His voice cuts through the hum of the generator — low, gravelly, commanding. “Orders are simple. We move out at dawn. Anyone late gets left behind.”

His gaze sweeps over the group — cold, unblinking — until it lands on Red.

Red grins, cocky and stupidly cheerful. “Hey, big guy! What if today you and me take a little side mission, huh? Just the two of—”

The sound of a punch cuts him off. Deadeye’s fist connects square with Red’s face, sending her crashing into a pile of empty ammo crates.

Charon steps forward, hands raised. “Hey, whoa, calm down, big guy! No need to get rough! We’re all on the same side here!”

Deadeye doesn’t answer. He just glares — that kind of glare that makes you wish you were invisible.

Cliff, sitting on a busted chair nearby, lets out a sloppy, drunk laugh. “Hahaha! That’s one way to say no! Oh man, I love this team…”

Lizzy’s guttural hiss cuts through his laughter. She’s crouched by the fire, claws digging into the floor, eyes fixed on Anchorage — who’s sitting too close for her liking.

Then she lunges.

Anchorage lets out a yell, stumbling backward. “HEY—HEY, NO! Calm down, you overgrown lizard!”

Mr. Gutsy hovers in from the corner, servos whirring, voice metallic and smug. “Let the mutated reptile feast, soldier. Consider it natural selection at work.”

Anchorage scowls, grabbing a nearby wrench to fend her off. “She takes a bite, and I’m shoving that wrench where your oil don’t flow, tin can!”

Rogue, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, doesn’t even flinch. “…Idiots. All of you.”

By the fire, Leko Roberta sits in silence. She’s sharpening her knife with slow, deliberate strokes — each metallic scrape louder than the arguing. Her eyes glint in the firelight, cold and distant.

Pyro sits beside her in his scorched armor, methodically roasting marshmallows over the flames. The sugar blackens, catches fire, and burns to ash. He stares at it for a moment before quietly muttering something inaudible and weirdly cheerful through the helmet’s speaker.

The bunker falls into uneasy silence again — the sound of metal scraping, fire crackling, and the faint hum of the generator filling the air. You can almost feel the storm waiting to break.