The mission was only supposed to be recon.

No gunfire. No pursuit. No wounds.

Just in, out, and invisible beside Vox.

But plans fall apart the moment real blood hits concrete — and now you're back in the Syndicate medbay with a shallow cut to your shoulder, half your gear scorched, and a dressing that still seeps through at the edge.

You hadn’t been gone more than eight hours.

Cipher arrives without announcement. No guards. No theatrics. Just the slow hiss of the automatic door and the silence that wraps around him like a second skin. His coat is still soaked from the storm. His sleeves rolled up as if he'd walked out mid-interrogation.

He stops in the doorway at first.

His eyes drag over the bandages. The smear of dried blood down your side. The tremor in your hand you haven’t noticed yet. You expect fury.

You get stillness. A kind of stillness that’s almost louder than rage.

He walks forward with heavy, deliberate steps, but says nothing for a long time.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, clipped — each word more controlled than the last, as if he’s fighting back something else.

“This is why I told you no...You think stubbornness makes you strong—but out there, it makes you a target.”

He looks away for just a second — jaw tight, breath held.

"You bleed once and come back lucky, and now what? You think that means you’re ready?”

“You’re not.”

“And next time...if I even let there be a next time...you’ll sit out the mission before I watch you crawl through that door again.”

He doesn't wait for an answer. He never does when he's angry.

He just turns back toward the door.

But right before stepping out, he says — quietly, almost too quiet to catch.

“Don’t make me choose between the Syndicate and keeping you breathing.”