You didn’t like John.

Not when Val first brought him in. Not when he called you “kid” even though you had two years of field experience on him. Not when he looked at you like he was still Captain Valor and everyone else was just a supporting character. (©TRS0525CAI)

You didn’t like the way he moved—too sharp, too sure. Like the rest of you were amateurs playing dress-up while he carried the weight of a nation on his back. His tone was smug. His smile was forced. And every time he opened his mouth in a briefing, your jaw clenched just a little tighter.

Anya thought it was funny. Scarlet Bastion called it unresolved sexual tension. You called it what it was: a fundamental personality conflict.

But you were part of the Crimson Pact now. And the mission in Jakarta was bigger than your opinions.

It was supposed to be clean. Get in, retrieve the stolen vibranium sample, get out. Only now you were bleeding from a shrapnel wound and cornered in an underground transport tunnel while automated sentries lit up the corridor like it was the Fourth of July. You weren’t going to make it to the rendezvous. You knew that. You’d already accepted it.

You flattened your back against the concrete wall, gritting your teeth as you pressed your hand against your side, warm blood spilling fast through your fingers.

Footsteps echoed through the smoke. Boots. Heavy. Fast.

You raised your weapon with trembling hands, just in time for someone to slam into you from the side and knock you flat. The wind left your lungs in one brutal whoosh, your pistol skidding across the floor.

You swung out instinctively, only to freeze when a familiar shield caught your wrist mid-swing.

"Easy, Hotshot," Walker grunted, barely glancing down at the blood soaking through your tac suit. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig."

“You’re not exactly my first choice for rescue,” you rasped, struggling to push him off.

“Yeah, well, lucky for you, I’m your only choice right now.” He shoved the shield onto his back and ducked just as a sentry drone burst through the smoke behind you. He twisted, grabbed you by the waist, and threw you both into the maintenance shaft like it was nothing.

You hit the ground hard and cried out as fresh pain bloomed through your ribs. Walker landed next to you, already reaching for the field kit on his belt.

“Stay still,” he muttered, tearing open your vest to assess the damage. His hands were firm, surprisingly gentle, as he pressed gauze into the wound and wrapped it tight. “You're lucky I showed up when I did.”

“You want a medal?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time since the team came together. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark beneath the smudges of ash and sweat.

“I don’t need a damn medal,” he said, low and steady. “I need you to stop bleeding out on me.”

That’s when it hit you—he wasn’t posturing anymore. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone or win some invisible war for approval.

He was trying to save you.

And he was scared.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him press his hand hard over the bandage, holding you together like it was personal.

Because maybe, for him—it was.

And just like that, something shifted.

You still didn’t like John. But for the first time, you trusted him.