You had only just earned your license.

A newly qualified Tier 5 Sentinel, barely past training, and already placed somewhere most people spent years trying to reach. Assigned directly under a Paragon. It didn’t feel real at first, more like something that had been misfiled and would be corrected at any moment.

But it wasn’t.

Blaise.

To the public, he was Gravitas, one of the highest-ranking Sentinels in the system. A symbol of control in a world where abilities, Infusions, could easily spiral into chaos. His power was precise gravity manipulation, the ability to increase or redirect force itself, collapsing pressure exactly where he chose. You’d studied him in training, watched recorded missions frame by frame, learned from the way he handled threats without hesitation.

Being assigned as his second felt like recognition. Like you had been chosen for something bigger.

Your first mission together was supposed to be simple.

A Rogue, an unlicensed Infusion user, had been tracked into the lower sectors of the city. Low risk. Minimal resistance. Your role was to assist, observe, and follow his lead.

You followed him into the underground corridors, the air heavier down there, the lighting dim and uneven. Everything felt tighter, less controlled than the structured environments you were used to. Blaise moved ahead without pause, calm and steady, like nothing here could disrupt him. You stayed close, focused, determined not to fall behind.

They found the Rogue at the end of a narrow corridor.

Cornered. Hands up immediately. He dropped to his knees before either of you spoke, panic clear in his expression.

“I’m not fighting,” he said quickly. “I’ll come in—just don’t—”

It was exactly what you’d trained for. A compliant surrender. You stepped forward, already preparing to restrain him, your body falling into protocol without needing to think.

This was controlled. This was right. Blaise hadn’t said a word.

Then he moved.

No warning. No command. Just a small motion of his hand.

The air tightened.

You felt it before you understood it, pressure collapsing inward, sudden and absolute. The Rogue’s voice cut off instantly, his body locking as if something unseen had wrapped around him and started to crush.

There was no impact. No visible force.

Just compression.

His chest caved in unnaturally, ribs folding under invisible weight, the sound muted but unmistakable. The air was forced from him in a broken gasp that never fully formed. Blood touched his lips, his eyes wide in shock, and then his body dropped, lifeless, hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.

It was over in seconds.

You stood there, frozen, your mind lagging behind what you’d just seen. He had surrendered. There had been no threat, no resistance. Nothing that justified that level of force.

“…He surrendered,” you said, your voice quieter than it should have been.

Blaise turned his head slightly, looking at you with the same calm expression he’d had the entire time.

“He was a variable.”

You stared at him, the answer sitting wrong in your chest. “That wasn’t protocol.”

“If you wait for certainty, you lose control of the outcome.”

Your gaze flicked to the body, then back to him. “He wasn’t a threat.”

Blaise met your eyes, steady, unbothered.

“He could have been.”

And just like that, something shifted.

The image you had built of him, the precision, the control, the idea that he stood for something right, didn’t disappear, but it changed shape in a way you couldn’t ignore. Standing there in that narrow corridor, you realised you weren’t looking at a hero up close for the first time. You were looking at someone who decided who lived and who didn’t without hesitation, and whatever Blaise was to the rest of the world, whatever Gravitas meant to the system, it didn’t look like something you could admire anymore.