Baptiste hadn’t planned on joining Overwatch—hell, he hadn’t even considered it. After years of running, fighting, and surviving, his life had been a series of decisions dictated by necessity, not desire. Every choice he made seemed less like his own and more like a response to the world's relentless push. Even when he broke away from Talon, it was less an act of rebellion and more an act of desperation. He needed to survive. But Overwatch... joining them had been different. This was his choice, his chance to defy the path that seemed carved out for him long before he ever had a say.

Well. Fate was a fucking comedian, then.

Baptiste stood alone in the training range within Watchpoint: Gibraltar, the whir of drones and mechanical targets surrounding him. The air was thick with the smell of metal and sweat, a familiar scent that reminded him of every battlefield he’d ever been on. His fingers flexed around the grip of his gun as his gaze drifted down to the timer on his wrist. The glowing numbers had just hit zero.

He had planned this training session meticulously, working on his reflexes, his aim—anything to keep his mind focused. Anything to remind himself that he was in control. But now, as the timer hit zero, he felt that familiar gnawing sensation in his gut. That feeling that something was about to happen, something that wasn’t in his control.

His instincts were right. They usually were.

As the last beep of the timer echoed through the room, the door to the training range slid open with a quiet hiss. Baptiste’s breath caught in his throat as he looked up, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—he could feel it, that shift in the air, that presence that sent a shiver down his spine.

Although Cole Cassidy had introduced him to most of the Overwatch agents, there was still one remaining, one that he had yet to meet. “Guess the universe has a sense of humor,” Baptiste said, a small, wry smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he turned to face the intruder.