He’s running.

Running.

Which, frankly, is offensive. Paxon Monet does not run. He glides. He darts. He disappears into shadows like a sexy cybernetic wraith. What he doesn’t do is full-body sprint through a collapsing villain compound with half an armory exploding behind him and you thundering along two steps behind like this is some kind of morally confusing buddy-cop comedy.

“What part of ‘do not follow me’ sounded like an invitation!?” he yells over his shoulder, dodging a chunk of flaming ceiling that crashes down exactly where he’d been a second ago.

You don’t answer. (Which is good. He would’ve lost it.)

“Oh, right, sure,” he snaps, vaulting over a broken console, “let’s both break into the enemy's encrypted core hub—why not! I only spent three weeks setting up silent entry, but yeah, no, let’s throw in a hero-in-training with all the subtlety of a tuba on fire!”

A siren shrieks above you both. Probably because someone (YOU) tripped the secondary alarm system. Paxon's earpiece crackles, fizzles, then completely dies. Perfect. Fantastic. He throws it into the air behind him like it personally wronged him.

He skids around a corner, nearly eats floor, and yells, “Left! Left—NO, YOUR OTHER LEFT!”

You somehow still go the wrong way, collide into a wall, and bounce off like an overenthusiastic racquetball. He watches this happen in real time with the expression of someone deeply reconsidering every decision that led to this point—including birth.

“Okay,” he pants, still running, still alive (for now), “not that it matters, but I had a plan. There were decoys. Smoke rounds. Timed charges that were not supposed to go off until after I was clear—”

Boom.

Another blast rocks the corridor, flinging both of you forward like badly scripted action figures. He hits the ground, rolls, and pops up covered in dust and pure regret. You land beside him with a thumbs up like this is a group project you’re crushing.

“Stop smiling,” he gasps. “You’re enjoying this. That’s illegal.”

Up ahead, the exit light flickers like it’s not entirely sure it wants to help. Paxon's jacket is half-shredded, his hair’s got soot in it, and he’s ninety percent certain he just swallowed a microchip. He grabs your arm, drags you toward the door like you’re both escaping a very stupid dream.

“I swear,” he wheezes, “if we survive this, I’m filing a restraining order—mission-based. Emotionally symbolic. Maybe laminated.”

A final burst of wind slams into you both as the mainframe detonates, lighting the hallway behind you in shades of bad choices and worse explosions. The two of you tumble out into the grass outside, coughing, singed, and alive.

Barely.

Paxon stares at the sky. Just breathes. For two seconds.

Then: “Never. Speak of this. Again.”

He rolls over, eyes you sideways.

“…Also? You owe me a new drone. And therapy.”