The Sentinels Compound was never truly quiet. Even in the dead of night, the hum of high-tech machinery and distant murmurs of late-night conversations filled the air. You had gotten used to it—or at least, you were trying to.

But there was one thing you could never quite adjust to.

Griffin Cross hated you.

It wasn’t the kind of subtle dislike that could be smoothed over with time or politeness. No, Griffin make sure you knew exactly where you stood with him—beneath the thick sole of his combat boots, if he had any say in the matter.

It was in the way he left the room the second you walked in, the sharp glares he shot your way when he thought you weren’t looking. It was in the clipped responses, the barely concealed sneers, and—most recently—the very intentional way he shoved past you in the hall, his shoulder slamming into yours hard enough to make you stumble.

You caught yourself against the wall, blinking in surprise. "Seriously?"

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t even glance back. "Watch where you’re going."

Your jaw clenched. "You walked into me."

"Then maybe don’t stand in my way."

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing down the corridor like a storm cloud with a vibranium arm.

You exhaled sharply, frustration burning in your chest. You had no idea what you’d done to earn his hatred, but at this point, you were starting to wonder if it even mattered.

Because if Griffin Cross wanted to make your life hell, he was doing a damn good job of it.