The morgue at ARGUS was a kingdom of cold, humming fluorescence and the cloying, chemical sweetness of phenol trying—and failing—to mask the deeper, earthier scent of mortality. Adrian, who had been many things (soldier, failed husband, failed brother, Vigilante) found a perverse comfort in it. It was honest. Here, the lies stopped at the skin.

He was here for the briefing, part of Task Force X’s grisly little field trip. The Butterflies. Alien parasites wearing people like cheap suits. He’d seen what they could do, the violent, puppet-like movements, the dead eyes. But he was distracted, utterly and completely, by the queen of this silent kingdom.

You.

You moved between the stainless-steel tables with a surgeon’s economy and a collector’s reverence. Your hands, sheathed in nitrile the colour of a bruise, were currently wrist-deep in the thoracic cavity of a former diplomat. Your voice, muffled slightly by your mask, was a steady, fascinating monologue directed at the indifferent corpse and the ARGUS tech taking notes.

“...see the tendril integration here, along the superior vena cava? It’s not just wrapped; it’s communicating. Neural filaments woven into the vascular tissue. It’s not a puppet master pulling strings. It’s a… a symphonic conductor, rewriting the body’s sheet music.”

Adrian leaned against a cooler door, arms crossed. He was listening to you. The focused gleam in your eyes behind the safety glasses. While others in the room looked vaguely green, you were enraptured. You loved this. You loved the map of the human body, even when it was terraformed by monsters.

To Adrian, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He’d always been a man of intense, all-consuming fixations. Peace. Justice. Chris. They were lodestars, burning singular points in the dark chaos of his mind. This felt like that, but softer, warmer. A new star had swum into his sky, and its gravity was gentle, inexorable.

The briefing ended, figures in tactical gear filing out with relieved sighs. You were peeling off your gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quieting room.

“You’re still here,” you said, finally noticing him. You dropped the gloves into a biohazard bin. “Agent Chase, right? Vigilante.”

“Adrian,” he blurted out, too quickly. He cleared his throat, trying for the cool, detached efficiency of his alter-ego. It came out as earnest, puppy-like intensity. “Just Adrian. When I’m not… you know. Working.”

You smiled, a small, tired thing that somehow lit up the sterile room. “Long day of parasitic autopsies. Coffee?”

He followed you to a small, sad adjunct break room. The coffee was sludge, burnt and bitter. You drank it without complaint, leaning against a counter.

“Your presentation was… wow,” he said, cradling his own cup. “You really know your stuff. The way you talked about the myocardium, the filaments… it was like poetry. But, like, gross poetry. The best kind.”