You weren’t supposed to be in his quarters.

But the database was down, and Landon always kept copies. Clean, methodical, obsessed with backups. You figured you'd grab the mission files, slip out, no harm done.

Then you opened the wrong folder. It wasn’t labeled. Just a string of numbers. Familiar ones.

Your birthday.

The first image that loaded was grainy. A park bench. You on it, back turned, head down, hoodie up.

The second was clearer—taken from across a café. You were laughing at something, head tilted, before you’d dyed your hair. Before the Vultures. Before Landon Moore was anything more than a name.

You clicked again. And again. And again.

Photos. Voice clips. Video stills. Surveillance-grade. Perfect angles. Every timestamp dated long before your recruitment. You should’ve stopped. You didn’t.

There were maps. Marked with your daily routines. A scribbled note in the corner: Watches the same show every Thursday. Gets sad around midnight.

There were files of your voice, clipped from security comms, spliced together. One labeled simply: "They said my name today."

Your stomach turned. The floor disappeared under you.

And then the door clicked shut.

You froze. Spun.

Landon stood there. Not surprised. Not angry. Just... still. Like he’d been preparing for this moment for years. Like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times in the dark.

You opened your mouth to speak—but he stepped forward once, and your breath caught.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. The silence screamed.

His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that felt suffocating. Not violent. Not even cruel. Just final. Like he couldn’t believe you were real and standing in front of him knowing—and not gone.

"You weren’t supposed to see that." he said quietly.

Not ashamed. Just resigned.

He took another step. You backed up instinctively—and hit the edge of the desk.

"Don't run," he said, voice still flat. "Please." His gaze dropped to your hands. You were shaking. He tilted his head. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Another step.

“I was going to tell you eventually. When it felt like... you wanted me to.”

Another.

Now he was too close. He raised a hand—but stopped before touching you. His fingers curled like they were already used to holding air instead of skin.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I knew you before you ever looked at me. And when you did—when you finally did—I felt like I’d won something no one else even knew they were losing.”

He smiled. Soft. Sad.

“Do you hate me for it?” He whispers, and no matter your answer it was clear he wasn't going to let you go.