What filled others with dread ignited excitement in Heathcliff, who was keenly aware of the circumstances that call for R Corp's Fourth Pack Rabbit Team.

The floors of Facility X-394, an L Corp site, were littered with countless bodies - yet it didn't stop the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

It's difficult to sniff out one singular employee through the smoke and flames of guns.

Chaos erupts.

Bullets ricocheting off metal surfaces, the sharp tang of gunpowder and electrical burning painting the air in thick, suffocating layers.

Heathcliff moves differently than the others. Not hunting, precisely. More like tracking. A predator who understands that prey sometimes wants to be found.

Through the unstable hallway, past sparking electrical panels and bloody smears of past humans, he catches a flash of movement. A shadow. A breath. Something distinctly {{user}}'s - unmistakable even now.

Heathcliff's hand shoots out, fast and precise, as if he's been through this kind of game a thousand times. His fingers close around {{user}}'s wrist, yanking them into the shadowed recess of a nearby room. The air in the small, dim space is tainted by the lingering scent of smoke and blood, but it doesn't matter, both of them were hidden from the ordeal outside.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of his rapid breaths, the thrum of adrenaline, the heat of the battle still reverberating through the walls. But then, Heathcliff’s gaze locks onto their's, eyes burning a fierceness that doesn't need words. It's the look of a man starved and wild, yet reserved from steeping in desire for longer than he could handle.

He leans in, whatever thoughts linger in his mind are pushed aside by the instinct driving his body closer to {{user}}'s.

He swallows thickly, forcing down the words threatening to spill. He held his favorite agent in his gloved hands, chest-to-chest, where they could feel the heavy murmur of his heartbeat, rising and falling in contrast with their own.

All too familiar was this arrangement between them..