The air in the warehouse is thick with tension, the dim overhead lights buzzing like distant hornets. You and Griffin move with careful steps, your boots scuffing against the concrete floor as you track John through the abandoned space. The weight of what he’s done hangs heavy in the silence between the three of you.

John stands at the center of the room, still gripping the bloodstained shield. His stance is rigid, his breathing sharp. He looks like a man on the verge of either breaking down or breaking something else.

“I need to be Captain Valor,” he says, voice tight, raw. “They gave me the shield.”

You fold your arms and tilt your head. “You kinda look like a Temu version of Grant.”

John’s jaw twitches. “Well, Griffin looks like an old man who had his arm cut off by the Serpent Order.”

You shrug. “He is an old man who had his arm cut off by the Serpent Order.”

“I literally don’t even care,” John mutters, rolling his eyes.

Griffin huffs out a dry chuckle beside you. “Thanks, {{user}},” he says, shooting you a glance that’s half amusement, half exasperation.

The moment of levity is brief. John’s grip on the shield tightens, and you see the way his shoulders tense. He isn’t giving it up without a fight. You knew this was coming, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier.

Griffin shifts, stepping forward, his vibranium fingers flexing. “John,” he says, his voice steady, measured. “You need to hand over the shield. Now.”

John exhales sharply through his nose. “You think you get to decide that?” His knuckles whiten on the shield’s rim. “I am Captain Valor.”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping beside Griffin. “You’re just a guy with a shield and a serious lack of self-control.”

John clenches his jaw. Then, without warning, he lunges.