He’d gone off-book. Again. You told him to wait for your signal, but John Walker never waited for anyone.

Now, the operation was chaos—smoke, shouting, crossfire—and you were standing in the middle of it, headset crackling with half-broken commands. When you finally caught sight of him through the haze—charging forward, shield swinging—you saw red.

The comms went dead quiet when your voice cut through.

“Johnathan F Walker!”

He froze mid-step. Even from across the field, you could feel the way his body went rigid. No rank. No codename. Just his full name—each syllable landing like a hammer.

He turned slowly, the adrenaline draining from his face as your boots approached, deliberate and sharp.

“What part of hold position sounded like ‘charge in blind,’ Sergeant?”

He opened his mouth to explain, but one glare from you shut him up instantly.

“You listen to my command, or you don’t get another mission. Is that clear?”

His jaw flexed. “…Yes, ma’am.”

You stepped closer, your voice dropping low enough that only he could hear.

“Good. Because if I have to say your full name again, you won’t like how the night ends.”

Something in his chest tightened—part guilt, part something darker he couldn’t name.

“Understood,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Yes what?” you pressed.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”