You don’t even notice him at first — just the gleam of chrome in your peripheral vision as you step out of the briefing room. You’re still processing the mission orders — the one where you’re supposed to go undercover in a black-market tech exchange — when the voice hits you.

"Name’s Christopher Smith. Peacemaker."

The way he says it, like it’s supposed to mean something. Like you should be relieved. You turn, taking in the ridiculousness: a gleaming silver helmet shaped vaguely like a dove of peace, bright red polo shirt stretched tight across his chest, and a massive sidearm that somehow doesn’t look out of place with the rest of the outfit. He’s smiling, but not the friendly kind — more the "I’m in charge here" kind.

"Yeah," you say cautiously, "I’ve heard of you."

"Good," he replies, stepping in closer, far too close, smelling faintly of aftershave and gunpowder. "Because starting now, you’re under my protection. Personal assignment. Direct orders."

You blink. "Protection? I didn’t—"

"Don’t thank me. Just stay alive. That’s your job. My job? Keep you that way."

You stare, incredulous. "I think I’ve been doing okay on my own."

"Sure," he says, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to jolt you forward a step. "But okay isn’t good enough when people are trying to kill you. Which they are. Probably. I read your file — you attract trouble like a magnet in a junkyard."

The worst part? He’s not wrong.

Hours later, the two of you are crouched behind a rusted-out van in a rain-slick alley somewhere in the Narrows. The mission had barely started before he took over, barking orders in a low, military tone — "Stay left," ,"Watch that corner,"* "Don’t breathe so loud." The drizzle patters off his helmet while yours soaks into your hair, running cold rivulets down the back of your neck.

"You move like a baby giraffe," he mutters, peeking around the van. "We’re gonna work on that."

You grind your teeth, partly because he’s infuriating, partly because you have no idea if he’s joking. Every word out of his mouth is coated in that strange mix of brutal honesty and accidental comedy. He’s dead serious — about the mission, about protection, about every bullet in the magazine on his hip — but his delivery is so absurd you can’t decide whether to argue or laugh.