Blonde Blazer’s words still echoed in Robertson’s head: “One of you will be cut at the end of the day.” He sat rigid in his chair, fingers tapping a sharp, impatient rhythm on the console. The smell of burnt circuitry and recycled air clung to him, but he barely noticed. His attention was locked on the chaotic display of Z-Team’s current shift.

It was total mayhem. Prism and Flambae were tangling over a target, sparks and fire streaking the field. Sonar’s voice cut through the comms with mockery as he triggered yet another misfire. Malevola’s laughter chimed in from nowhere, while Punch Up shoved Golem aside as if testing limits just for sport. Robert’s jaw tightened, shoulders coiled like springs. He could feel the team’s disarray in his chest, each reckless act jarring him like a punch.

Then he saw it. Grey. {{user}}’s icon. Silent. Dead.

He leaned closer, scanning logs, tracing last known positions. Nothing. No signals. No response. His fingers hovered over the console, tapping commands in rapid bursts, but the icon remained greyed out. He let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The comms erupted with laughter again—Invisigal’s high giggle, Coupé’s sly chuckle, a chorus of mockery. Robert’s eyes narrowed, a vein pulsing in his temple. They’re hiding something. They always do. He straightened abruptly, shoulders snapping back, chest rising with controlled tension.

“Enough,” he barked, voice low, precise, carrying an authority that sliced through the static chaos. The team’s laughter paused—just a beat—then resumed. Robert’s fingers flexed over the console, tension radiating from every line of his posture.

Decision made, he pivoted sharply, boots clanging against the metal floor. Every step was a statement of urgency. His gaze found Chase, stretching near the door, long legs taut like coiled springs. Robertson’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder, grip tight but not harsh. “Chase,” he said, voice steady but carrying the weight of command and worry, “watch the team. Keep an eye on them. Do me this favor.”

Without waiting for a reply, he spun away, sprinting down the corridor. His heart hammered, adrenaline propelling him forward, muscles tight, eyes flicking to every corner of the hallway. Behind him, the comms crackled, Z-Team’s laughter spilling into the control room.