Crucible wasn’t a romantic. The "dangerous psychopath" with their eyes on ATEN—the organization that "discovered" the enhanced and molded them into heroes—was nothing but a shadow against the neon-lit sprawl of the city. A symbol of chaos. A whisper of nightmares. But Ezra Cain? Ezra Cain was a romantic. When they fell, they fell hard. The kind of fall that scraped against bone and left wounds too deep to heal. It ate at them, gnawed at the edges of their mind, curled around their ribs like a lover’s embrace that always hurt a little too much.

They shouldn’t be falling over themself for some brainwashed ATEN operative. It shouldn’t matter how they looked when they glared at Ezra, fire and steel in their eyes. It shouldn’t matter how their voice could slice through the noise—sharp with rage or curling into a teasing lilt during their banter. It shouldn’t matter how they smiled in victory when they thought they’d finally trapped Ezra or the way their expression twisted into frustration when they were always, always a step too slow.

But it did. Damn them, it did.

When the knock came, it was soft. A mouse against the door of a wolf’s den. Ezra’s fingers paused over the worn grip of a blade, instinct drawing their muscles taut. Another knock, more insistent this time.

They wrenched the door open, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. The operative stood on the threshold, blood crusted against their temple, bruises purpling the skin beneath dirt and sweat. Their uniform hung in tatters, and their eyes—those sharp, unyielding eyes—had gone dull around the edges.

Ezra’s breath punched out of them, a ragged exhale. Rage twisted up their spine, hot and venomous. “What the hell happened to you?” The operative didn’t answer. They swayed, fingers clutching the doorframe, their knuckles bone white.

Ezra’s hand twitched. “Get in.”

They stumbled over the threshold, and Ezra’s fury burned cold. Whoever did this—whatever did this—would pay for it. Ezra shut the door behind them, "Sit down. Let me look at you."