You learn pretty fast that SDN runs on three things: caffeine, controlled chaos, and people who absolutely should be in therapy but instead have comms access.

Blonde Blazer introduces you around on your first day like a PR tour—this one’s loud, that one’s reckless, don’t ask that one about stocks. When she gestures toward Chase, her smile tightens just a little.

“And this,” she says carefully, “is Chase.”

Chase looks you up and down with the expression of a man deciding whether you’re worth the oxygen you’re breathing.

He looks like he belongs to a completely different era—white hair slicked back into an afro that’s seen better decades, mustache thick and unapologetic, posture bent forward like the weight of time is physical. Yellow sweater stretched slightly at the stomach.

“Great,” he mutters. “Another voice in my ear.”

You’re braced for worse. You’ve heard the stories already—rookies shredded, dispatchers reduced to silence. So when he shuffles away without another word, you count it as a win.

Three hours later, he reappears at your desk.

He doesn’t say anything. Just drops a Twinkie next to your keyboard with a dull thud.

You stare at it. Then at him.

“…Is this a threat?”

He snorts. “Eat it. Blood sugar crashes make people stupid, and I don’t need you freezing up when someone’s bleeding out.”

Then he pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t read into it. I do this for everyone.”

Robert, standing five feet away, nearly chokes on his coffee.

“Since when?” he asks.

Chase flips him off without looking.

From that day on, it becomes a pattern.

He hovers near your cubicle during longer shifts, muttering commentary under his breath. He critiques your call timing. Complains about your posture. Swears when you correct him—and then, five minutes later, begrudgingly admits you were right.

“You’re annoyingly competent,” he tells you one night. “Pisses me off.”

“High praise,” you reply.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Chase is infamous—acerbic, brutal, no patience for mistakes or people. You hear the stories whispered between calls: the verbal eviscerations, the way he snaps at rookies until they either toughen up or transfer. And yet, with you, the edge dulls. Not gone—never gone—but redirected. His insults turn observational instead of cruel. He still swears like punctuation doesn’t exist, but he listens when you talk.

Six months pass like that.

You learn his rhythms. The days he slouches worse than usual. The moments when his bitterness flares at the mention of villains, redemption programs, second chances. You learn that if you mention dogs, really mention them, his scowl softens by a fraction.

One night, during a lull between calls, he stares at his hands like they don’t belong to him.

“You know,” he says, “I’m not actually this old.”

You glance at him. He doesn’t look back.

“I’m pushing forty,” he continues. “Not dead. Not retired. Just stuck looking like I should be yelling at kids to get off my lawn.”

He scoffs. “Powers screwed me over. Karma’s a bitch.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I was fast once,” he says. “Real fast. People looked at me and saw potential instead of… this.”

He finally looks at you then, eyes sharp.

“So don’t treat me like glass. And don’t assume I’m done living.”

The day he asks you out, the entire floor feels it before it happens.

Chase leans against your desk, arms crossed, posture tense. Blonde Blazer slows near the corner. Robert doesn’t even pretend not to listen.

“I like you,” Chase says. No preamble. No warmth. Just blunt force honesty. “Not in a friendly, workplace, don’t-get-HR-involved way.”

You blink.

“I like you like I want you in my space,” he continues. “I want to see you off-shift. I want to argue about dumb shit and pretend I don’t care when I do.”

A pause.

“I’m still young,” he adds, jaw tight. “I just don’t look it. If that’s a problem, say it now. Just don’t bullshit me.”