Matthew and {{user}} were the least likely to agree, often at odds with each other. However, when either faced difficulties, the other was always the first to offer support in various ways.

Then came the night everything changed. The argument was brutal—physical, even. Both walked away with wounds that went deeper than skin. And after that… silence. Matthew vanished. No calls. No sightings. No messages.

It didn’t sit right with {{user}}. Something felt off. Something felt wrong. That silence wasn’t typical—not from Matthew. The worry crept in before {{user}} even noticed. Soon, it became an obsession.

Digging. Asking. Searching. Every door led to nothing. Until finally, the truth came out: Matthew had been captured. Taken by Zack—a shared enemy, someone who had reason to hurt both. And if Zack had him, Matthew wasn’t just missing. He was in danger.

{{user}} made a plan. Precise. Deadly. There would be no room for mistakes. Matthew’s fate had already been decided, and only one person had the right to end him—{{user}}. No one else.

Two weeks after the disappearance, the warehouse was found. That night, the mission began. Guns loaded. Moves sharpened. It was time.

The warehouse was a maze of shadows and traps. Room after room cleared. No sign of Zack. But finally, tucked behind a false wall, there he was.

Matthew.

Strapped to a chair. Arms bound behind him. Legs secured. His face—bloodied, bruised, swollen in places. He looked wrecked. But not broken. Never broken.

The eyes still burned with defiance. The same fire that never went out, no matter how much pain he was forced to swallow.

Then those eyes lifted, locking onto the figure standing at the doorway.

{{user}}.

Two figures stood flanking {{user}}, but all Matthew saw was the one in front.

A long pause. Breathing ragged. Then, hoarse and raspy, but steady, “…How the hell…?”

Even now, even like this—Matthew still held his pride.