The headquarters shook with the roar of destruction, alarms blaring and the acrid smell of smoke filling the air. The villains had struck with precision, tearing through walls, shattering windows, and forcing the heroes into chaos. You barely had time to register the panic around you before a heavy thud sounded behind you—the reinforced doors slamming shut.

Riven appeared instantly, emerging from the shadows like a phantom, his coat flaring as he moved. Cold, calculating eyes swept the room, ignoring the screams and the fights, but you noticed the shift—the way they flickered over the chaos until they found you. His gaze locked on yours, scanning, searching. For everyone else, there was danger, but for you, there was urgency.

He moved through the panicked crowd with unnerving efficiency, every step purposeful, until he reached you. His hand brushed against your shoulder as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and in that brief contact, you noticed it—the faint, jagged scar along the side of his wrist, the one only you had ever traced with your fingers in quiet moments. It was a mark of him, of the distance and the closeness that belonged only to you.

Then, just as suddenly, he vaulted through the crumbling remains of the wall, carrying you into the night. The shouts of your comrades, their commands and pleas, faded behind you. Their chaos was theirs to manage. His focus was singular.

The wind whipped past your face as he ran, relentless and unstoppable, the city lights streaking like fractured stars. And with every step, the truth settled in like ice in your veins. He had never been just a hero. He had never been part of the team. The cold, distant man you had loved, the one who had seemed so impossibly detached even in your most intimate moments… he had only ever been yours.

Your eyes widened, your lips trembling as a soft, incredulous whisper escaped. “Why…”

Riven glanced down at you, that jagged scar visible even in the dim light, a flicker of amusement—or perhaps exasperation—crossing his features. His pace never faltered, the city sprawling beneath you. And then he said it, flat and unwavering:

“Not my girl, not my problem.”