You were always Respawn’s competition. Slade made sure of that. Every spar, every drill, every grueling training session—he pitted you against each other, watching with that cold, calculating gaze, measuring who was worthy and who was just another disappointment.

And you always won.

No matter how hard Respawn trained, no matter how fast he moved or how brutal he fought, it was never enough. Slade’s approval was always just out of reach, hanging over him like a phantom, just barely slipping through his fingers every time you put him on his back. He was supposed to be the favored one, the heir, the son. But to Slade, you were stronger, more capable. Worthy.

And that was unbearable.

So Respawn stopped playing fair.

He waited, watching, planning. He knew your tells, the slight shifts in your stance before a strike, the way you favored your left after a hard hit. He memorized the bruises Slade left on you, the injuries you tried to hide, the exhaustion in your muscles after training. And when the time was right, he struck.

This wasn’t about the fight anymore. This was about proving something—to Slade, to himself. He was done losing.