𓆩♱𓆪

The Outernet was an unforgiving place, and you had long since learned that trust was a currency spent sparingly. You weren’t here to make friends—you were here to get the job done. That’s what Rocket Corp. hired you for.

And yet, for some reason, he kept showing up.

Agent. The so-called right-hand man of Victim, the mercenary with the sunglasses and a reputation sharper than a glitching toolbar weapon. He was efficient, ruthless, and—above all else—annoying.

You didn’t hate him for his skills; you respected those. No, it was the way he acted like he was always two steps ahead, like he had already calculated the way you moved before you even thought to move at all. It was how he barely acknowledged you when the others talked, like you weren’t worth his time.

The feeling was mutual.

That’s what everyone got wrong. The Rocket Corp. workers, Ballista, Hazard—hell, even victim had made some offhand comment about how well you two worked together, how you must get along. Some even thought there was something more there. That was the worst part of it all.

You didn’t like Agent. And he sure as hell didn’t like you.

It started on a mission. A simple retrieval—some old piece of code victim needed. You and Agent were the only ones available to go, much to your dismay.

The two of you barely spoke as you rode hoverbikes through the fractured data streams of the Outernet. The silence was fine. Preferred. Until he had to open his mouth.

"You always wear that?"

You nodded and asked why.

Agent clicked his tongue, adjusting his sunglasses. "Nothing. Just… Huh."

He exhaled sharply, like he hated the words before he even said them. "I like black too."

Silence.

Then, inexplicably, he looked away.

Agent. Agent. The cold, calculated mercenary, the one who never flinched, looked away. You barely caught it, the way his fingers twitched against his hoverbike’s handlebar, the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw.

Was he—was he flustered?