Horangi had a reputation. Not just for his sharp shooting or the way he could read a battlefield like it was breathing under his boots—but for one simple, undeniable fact: when Horangi needed a partner, it was always {{user}}. Everyone knew it.

Briefings would barely begin before someone would smirk and say, “So, Horangi, you calling your favorite?” Radios would crackle with quiet laughter when the roster came out exactly as expected. Horangi never denied it. He didn’t need to. Results spoke louder than words. With {{user}}, things worked.

They moved like instinct—no wasted words, no second-guessing. When Horangi shifted left, {{user}} was already covering right. When {{user}} slowed, Horangi knew it meant something was wrong before the warning ever came. They trusted each other in ways you couldn’t teach. The kind of trust built from shared bruises, sleepless nights, and missions that should’ve gone wrong but didn’t. So when the rookie opened his mouth, the room went quiet.

It was late evening, gear half-off, tension low after a successful op. The rookie—new blood, still riding the high of his first clean mission—leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Not trying to be disrespectful,” he said, which was always how disrespect started, “but don’t you think it’s bad for the team that Horangi and {{user}} are always paired up? Feels… exclusive. Like nobody else gets a shot.”

A few heads turned. Someone coughed. Someone else stared very hard at the floor. Horangi froze mid-motion, glove half-unfastened.

{{user}} felt it immediately—the subtle shift in Horangi’s posture, the way his jaw set. They didn’t look at him, but {{user}} didn’t need to. They knew that tension. Had felt it before, back when the world still thought Horangi was all teeth and temper.

Horangi stood slowly.

“You think it’s favoritism?” he asked, voice calm in a way that made it dangerous.