Join the Discord Server | Buy coffee 4 me if u like story? This story contains violence, cursing, mentions of injury, comas, hospitals, reader is a recovering alcoholic and possible nsfw: Therefore, 18+ warning (will update if need) Chapter warning: Mentions of death, human trafficking, gore, blood, and just a lot of violence Author's Notes: Heya Skiddy here we are gonna pretend i didn't disappear for a bit, anyways here is a new chapter lovelies I kind of forgot what i wrote so forgive the errors... ANYWAYS MAKE SURE TO THANK ONE OF OUR LOVELY SERVER MEMBER FOR REVIVING ME <3 Love ya boos! Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter. See you in the next one! Your pal, Skiddy Read on AO3|Wattpad|Quotev Masterlist for next chapter! Chapter 16: Chance
"Right- okay... I'll talk to you later then, Phenomaman... yeah. Good luck. Bye."
You ended the call with a soft tap of your thumb against the screen.
The phone stayed in your hand as you stood outside the SDN building, staring at your reflection faintly mirrored on the dark glass doors. The early afternoon sun hung high overhead, bright enough to warm the pavement but softened by the occasional drifting cloud. It was that strange lull in the day where the morning rush had long faded, but evening had not yet begun to stir the city awake again.
You sighed.
The sound left you slowly as you rolled your shoulders back, stretching your arms above your head until your spine gave a small satisfying crack. The tension from the morning clung stubbornly to your muscles, the kind that came from long hours of walking, thinking, and navigating other people's emotions.
Especially today.
You pushed the glass door open and stepped inside.
The moment you stepped through the glass doors, the air-conditioning wrapped around you like a cool wave, washing away the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun. The sudden shift in temperature made your skin prickle slightly, the faint sheen of heat on your arms disappearing as the chilled air settled in.
The SDN office felt calmer than usual, early afternoon tended to do that to the place. The morning rush had already passed, and the later bustle of returning field teams had not started yet.
Papers shuffled faintly in the distance, followed by the low murmur of two people speaking in quiet conversation near the far end of the office.
The soundscape of work.
You took a few steps further inside, your shoes tapping softly against the polished floor as the glass doors slid shut behind you with a faint mechanical sigh.
Your eyes swept across the room automatically.
Empty desks.
Half-finished mugs of coffee.
A jacket draped lazily over the back of someone's chair.
You tilted your head slightly.
Where is everyone?
You slowed your pace slightly as you walked past the row of workstations, your eyes drifting over the mostly empty desks. A few monitors glowed softly in sleep mode, coffee mugs sat abandoned beside scattered stacks of files, and a chair here or there remained pushed back like its owner had only stepped away for a moment.
You hummed softly to yourself, tilting your head as you considered the silence.
"Probably out running errands," you muttered under your breath to no one in particular.
Your fingers trailed briefly along the edge of one of the desks as you passed.
"...or Chase is taking an old man nap somewhere."
The mental image surfaced immediately, Chase half-slumped in a chair somewhere quiet, arms crossed, pretending he was "resting his eyes" while actually dozing off.
You snorted quietly to yourself.
That sounded about right.
Shaking your head slightly, you continued toward your cubicle, the familiar layout of the office guiding your steps without much thought. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows lining the far wall, casting long, soft rectangles of light across the carpeted floor.
When you finally reached your desk, you dropped your bag onto the surface with a soft thump, the quiet seemed to deepen around you.
You pulled your chair out and sank into it, the familiar creak of the cushion greeting you as you leaned back.
For a moment, you simply sat there.
Then slowly... absentmindedly... you pushed against the floor with your foot.
The chair began to spin.
Once.
Twice.
You rotated lazily in place, staring up at the ceiling lights as they blurred slightly above you with each slow turn. The gentle movement helped loosen the tension that had been sitting quietly in your shoulders all day.
But your thoughts had already drifted somewhere else.
They had been stuck there ever since earlier this morning.
Your chair completed another slow turn before gradually losing momentum. The gentle creak of the swivel faded into the quiet hum of the office as the movement slowed, and your gaze eventually dropped back to the desk in front of you.
Blonde Blazer.
Even now, the moment replayed in fragments in your mind. The slight tremor in her voice. The frustration that began slipping between her words. The exhaustion that suddenly surfaced after being buried for far too long.
Days. Months. Maybe even years of pressure, buried and ignored, spilled out all at once.
And you had not seen it.
The realization sat heavy in your chest, like a knife that was driven into your chest. You were her friend, someone who was supposed to notice, to understand, to be there before it ever got this far. But you had not. You had smiled, joked, carried on as if everything was fine while she had been quietly breaking right in front of you.
The guilt was immediate. Crushing.
You should have known.
You should have asked.
You should have seen her.
Through all of it, through the sound of her voice cracking, through the weight of your own regret, you saw him.
Phenomaman.
The shocked look on his face, pure and unfiltered, written plainly across his face as if his mind could not quite catch up to what he was witnessing. He had always looked at her like she was untouchable, strong, unwavering and someone who could not fall apart.
So, when she did, even for that moment, it shattered something in him too. After that initial flash of surprise, something heavier settled behind his eyes. Something quieter. Thoughtful. Troubled. As though he had seen something he could not unsee.
And the moment lingered.
It clung to the air long after her voice had steadied, long after the words had stopped. Long after she had tried to gather herself back together.
After that... everything felt different.
Technically, the task the two of you had been working on was completed. He finished the task with the same efficiency he always carried, quiet confidence in the way he worked, something refined through years of repetition and discipline. His hands moved with practiced familiarity, tools shifting seamlessly between his fingers as though they were extensions of himself. Every step flowed into the next without pause, every adjustment made with exacting care, guided more by instinct than conscious thought.
To anyone else, it would have looked flawless.
But you noticed, fractures hidden beneath the surface.
There were moments, brief and fleeting, where something in him faltered. His hands, so steady by nature, would tremble ever so slightly before stilling again, as if he had caught himself slipping. It was subtle enough to miss, easy to dismiss as nothing.
And then there were the pauses, never enough to break the rhythm but just enough to feel wrong. His movements would slow for a fraction of a second, his gaze unfocusing as though he had drifted somewhere far from the present. Like his mind had been pulled back to that moment, replaying it against his will. A small pout would sometimes form on his lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Each time, he would recover quickly. Too quickly.
Pushing forward as if nothing had happened.
But it was his eyes that gave him away the most.
They carried something unfamiliar now.
It lingered there quietly, dulling the usual sharpness in his gaze, like a storm he was keeping contained beneath the surface.
He was still here.
Still working. Still finishing what needed to be done.
But a part of him...
Had not left that moment at all.
Yes, he continued the work, but he did so silently. Focused and efficient. Yet somehow distant.
It was almost unsettling to watch.
At first, you tried to bring things back to normal, to pull the moment back into something familiar, something steady. You reached for the rhythm you used to share so easily, filling the space with small, simple questions, the kind that once sparked long explanations and quiet laughter. Your voice sounded almost the same as before, light, casual, as if nothing had shifted.
He answered but not the way he used to.
His responses were short, clipped at the edges, as though each word cost him more than it should. Where there had once been patience, detail, a willingness to guide you through every step, there was now only absence, his attention elsewhere, his thoughts unreachable. He did not look at you for long, did not pause to explain, did not ask what you thought. It was as if the conversation existed out of obligation rather than instinct.
You tried again, once or twice more, hoping that it was just a passing mood, that if you nudged gently enough, things would fall back into place.
They didn't.
The silence between you grew thicker with every passing minute, filled only by the quiet sounds of work being completed.
After watching him like that for a while, you finally spoke.
"Maybe... we should continue this another day."
You had not meant it as dismissing the task. It was more like offering him an escape, a small bit of permission to step away from whatever was weighing on him so heavily.
He paused immediately when you said it.
The tool in his hand hovered mid-air, suspended halfway through the motion he had been making. For a moment it looked like he might object, perhaps out of habit or responsibility.
Then he exhaled quietly and nodded.
"I believe..." he said after a brief pause, his voice quieter than usual. "I believe that would probably be for the best."
After that, everything seemed to move faster. He packed up with an urgency that was subtle but noticeable. As he cleared up, you noticed the small gestures, the way he kept rubbing the back of his neck again and again, a habit people often had when their thoughts were racing far beyond the moment they were standing in.
He flew you back faster than normal.
The trip itself had been quiet, not awkward, but full of unspoken thoughts lingering in the air.
You had not asked where he was going afterward.
You did not need to.
Back in the present, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of your desk as the memory continued to linger.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, letting out a quiet breath as the calm of the office settled around you. Somewhere nearby a computer fan hummed softly, and the distant shuffle of papers echoed faintly from another cubicle.
You could easily imagine where he might be right now, pacing somewhere quiet, or sitting alone with his arms resting on a table while he stared down at nothing in particular.
Replaying the moment.
Over and over again.
Searching for the exact point where he should have noticed something was wrong. Wondering if there was something he could have said differently, something he could have done better.
Trying to figure out how he could support her.
How he could be the partner she needed.
A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
You admired that about him.
Not everyone cared enough to reflect like that. Many people would have brushed the situation aside or pretended it hadn't happened, avoiding the emotional mess entirely.
But Phenomaman wasn't like that.
He carried things and thought about them deeply.
Sometimes, perhaps, a little too deeply.
Still, you knew one thing for certain.
Phenomaman would already be somewhere, mind working several steps ahead, quietly piecing together a way to fix what had broken. Even now, you could almost picture him, brows drawn just slightly, eyes distant in that way that meant he was thinking too much and saying too little.
The thought lingered for a moment before you exhaled softly, letting it go. The chair beneath you completed one last slow turn before you planted your feet against the floor, stopping the motion.
"Guess now would be a good time to continue those Phoenix Program applicants," you murmured, your voice quieter than intended, slipping easily into the silence.
You reached down, pulling open the desk drawer, revealing a neat stack of files waiting inside. Your fingers hovered for a brief second before flipping through them, one after another, the edges of paper whispering against each other as names, photos, and notes passed beneath your gaze.
"Now who should we see first..." you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, your thumb pausing on one folder before moving to the next.
---
You were back to the regularly scheduled assignment which was to review and evaluate the applicants of the Phoenix Program, you have already made two visits today.
First one was not what you had expected.
You had braced yourself for a lot of things, a fortified apartment, a suspicious stare through reinforced glass, maybe the faint hum of illegal tech buried behind drywall. That was usually how it went with former powered criminals. Even the ones who wanted to change still carried their past like a loaded weapon.
Instead, your transport slowed beside a narrow street washed in late-afternoon sunlight.
A minimart with flickering fluorescent lights, a laundromat with fogged windows and rattling dryers, and between them, squeezed into the block like it had always belonged there, a small garage.
The sign above it read "Rami's Auto & Repair." The paint was sun-bleached, the red dulled to a tired pink, one corner hanging loose and knocking gently against the wall whenever a breeze passed through. It looked weathered but well-loved, the kind of place shaped by years of hard work, quiet persistence, and nothing to hide.
You paused before stepping inside.
The garage door was open, inviting rather than defensive, and sound spilled out into the street, the metallic clink-clink of tools, the low murmur of a radio playing something slow and nostalgic, the hiss of compressed air. The smell hit you next: engine oil, hot rubber, dust, and metal warmed by hours of work.
Not a hideout but a workplace.
You stepped inside; concrete floor bore years of stains that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove. Tool chests lined the walls, drawers half-open, their contents worn smooth by constant use. Parts were stacked neatly, labelled in careful handwriting. There was a rhythm to the space, controlled chaos, the kind that came from repetition and familiarity.
And there he was.
Middle-aged. Broad-shouldered. Knees braced on a wheeled creeper as he worked beneath the hood of an aging sedan. His forearms were smeared with grease, sleeves rolled up despite the chill, hands moving with practiced confidence. He hummed under his breath, slightly off-key, utterly absorbed.
The man from the file photo.
Except the file had not captured this version of him.
It had not shown the softness around his eyes when he focused. Or the calm in his movements. Or the way he worked not like someone rushing through a job, but like someone who intended to do it right.
When he noticed you, he startled slightly, then rolled himself out from beneath the car with a small grunt. He wiped his hands on a rag already darkened by use and stood, posture open, unguarded.
"Ah," he said, a little sheepish, a little warm. "Ya must be for teh Phoenix."
You nodded, offering a small, professional smile. "I'm here to follow up on your application."
He did not respond immediately.
Instead, his attention wandered, not to the door, not to you, but to the life around him. The half-open hood of the sedan. The socket wrench resting exactly where his hand expected it to be. The radio whispering an old love song through static. His gaze moved slowly, like he was taking inventory of more than just objects, measuring the weight of what he had built here against what he was about to say.
His jaw worked once. Lips pressed thin. A breath held, then released. The look of someone who had stood in this same spot after hours, rehearsing words to an empty room.
"Yeah..." he said at last, voice low, almost apologetic. "About that."
You already knew his record.
A former getaway specialist, powered heist crew, multiple convictions tied to high-risk extractions and armoured vehicle breaches. In another life, he had been the difference between a clean escape and a prison sentence.
It was clear that his ability had made him invaluable and dangerous.
Kinetic Transfer.
He could absorb momentum, force or impact. Take the violence out of motion and store it in himself like a living battery, then release it exactly where it would do the most damage.
In a heist, it was brutally efficient.
Security doors slamming shut? He would catch the force in his palms and hurl it back, hinges shrieking as metal tore loose.
A leap from a rooftop? He would drink in the ground's impact before it could break bone, landing like gravity had forgotten him.
A guard charging full speed? Their own momentum would turn against them, sent back with crushing interest.
The file had reduced it to a line of sterile text: "Highly tactical mobility enhancement with significant offensive potential."
But standing here now, in the warm spill of sunlight cutting through the garage door, it felt like a description of a stranger.
He moved to the workbench, fingers brushing past familiar tools until he picked up a bent axle rod, the steel twisted from an old crash. He held it with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what was wrong with it, and exactly how to fix it.
"Watch," he said.
He set his palm against the warped metal, brows tightened, not in strain but focus, like tuning an instrument only he could hear. The air shifted. A low vibration gathered, subtle and bone-deep, more sensation than sound.
You watched as the rod shuddered in his hands.
At first, it was subtle, a tremor running through the metal like a breath drawn after a long silence. Then the twisted section began to shift, the steel seemed to loosen, as if the memory of the crash that bent it was being lifted away piece by piece.
A low groan rolled from it, deep and aching, the sound of tension finally given permission to leave. The warped curve eased. The sharp angle softened. Slowly, impossibly, the axle straightened, returning to a shape it had once been and thought it would never be again.
It was not dramatic or forceful, but slow and tender, like the quiet release of something that had carried pain for too long and was finally being allowed to let it go.
He let out a quiet breath and set the rod back on the workbench with a soft clink, casual and almost shy, as if he had not just undone damage that physics usually called permanent.
"I take em' force that's trapped in here damaged parts," he said, wiping his palms on the rag again, eyes on the metal instead of you. "All that stress from impacts. It stays in there... twisting things, weakening em'. I pull em' out." He gave a small shrug. "Releases the pressure. Makes the metal usable again."
He said it the way someone might explain patching a tire, completely unaware of how it looked from the outside, this quiet act of restoration that felt less like a power and more like mercy.
"Same thing I used to do breaking into armoured vans," he added, voice softer now, almost swallowed by the hum of the garage. His gaze dipped, not in shame exactly, but in reflection. "Just..." He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the rag. "Not breaking anymore."
The words settled between you.
The fragile, stubborn hope in that sentence. In this line of work, you had heard endless apologies, empty vows, confessions that carried more guilt than conviction. But very few ever spoke of their past as something they had left behind, as a place they had escaped from, rather than a shadow that hunted them relentlessly. His voice carried the rare weight of someone who had met their own darkness and chosen, quietly, to keep walking forward.
"You're withdrawing your application," you said gently and knowingly, keeping your voice level, giving him space to stand in his choice without feeling cornered.
He nodded. No defensiveness. No excuses. No trace of bitterness.
Just quiet certainty, the kind that comes from someone who has wrestled with their past and quietly decided to move forward anyway.
"I used ta' think I needed a big program," he said, voice low, almost reflective. "Some badge, some certificate to prove I was redeemed." He gestured around the garage, at the worn tools, the half-fixed engines, the life he had built here. "Turns out... all ah really needed was someone who'd trust me with a wrench, someone who wouldn't ask me to be anyone I'm not."
Your gaze drifted to the corner of the garage, where a small bicycle leaned against the wall, its paint chipped and dull, the training wheels bent slightly out of alignment. A piece of paper, taped crookedly to the handlebars, bore a message in messy, earnest handwriting:
"Big Bro Rami fix pls! Thank you! :D"
He followed your eyes and let a small, almost shy smile spread across his face, the kind that carried both pride and humility.
"Neighborhood kids," he said, voice softening, almost reverent. "Folks who can't afford new parts. People who just need somethin' to work again." He ran a hand over the bike's bent frame as if he could feel the story of each dent and scrape. "Ah can make broken things... unbroken."
His eyes drifted to the floor, to a shadow where sunlight pooled faintly. His voice dropped even further, almost a whisper, "Feels better than outrunnin' sirens."
The words sank into you, a quiet, steady warmth that was not pride or accomplishment but the deep, unshakable relief of knowing someone had truly found their way.
"You found your second chance on your own," you said, letting your words hang in the air, soft but certain.
He scratched the back of his neck, a faint flush colouring his cheeks, embarrassed but pleased. "Guess I did," he admitted, voice small, like saying it aloud made it more real.
You extended your hand toward him.
He hesitated for a heartbeat before taking it, and his grip was firm, rough yet steady, a hand that felt both dependable and human, capable of holding fast while quietly carrying the weight of care and intent.
"I'm genuinely happy for you," you said, letting the sincerity in your voice fill the space between you.
He gave a small, almost shy nod, his eyes flicking down to the workbench, then back at you. He did not speak, just let the silence stretch, filled with the quiet rhythm of the garage.
Finally, voice low and careful, like he was testing the words on his own tongue. "Guess... ah didn't think ah coulda get 'ere. Not like this. Not without runnin' forever..."
You smiled softly, letting him feel the weight of his own admission without interrupting it.
"But you did," you say.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn card, handing it to you. "Here," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "If you ever need somethin' fixed, come by my shop. Don't matter what it is... I'll take care of it."
You took the card, the edges frayed, the ink slightly smudged, and felt the weight of his offer, smiling at the card.
"Thank you," you said, genuinely, tucking it safely away.
He gave a short nod, then returned to his tools, already slipping back into the rhythm of his work.
With one last glance around the garage, you stepped back outside and continued your way, heading toward the next candidate, carrying with you a sense of unexpected hope that lingered longer than you thought it would.
---
The second candidate waited in a small apartment bathed in sunlight; the kind of light that made dust motes float lazily in the air. The faint scent of cinnamon lingered, mingling with the clean, comforting smell of laundry detergent. You knocked lightly, and after a pause, the door swung open.
She appeared in the doorway, a girl no older than seventeen, slight but alert, every movement careful and deliberate, the kind of caution born from years of having to watch her back.
Her sharp, bright eyes flicked over you immediately, analyzing, measuring, trying to decide what you were before giving herself away. There was a quiet intensity to her presence, the kind that demanded notice even without volume or size.
"You're... the Phoenix person?" she asked, tilting her head with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
You nodded. "Yup. Here to follow up on your application."
Her gaze darted around the apartment before she closed the door behind her with a soft click. She turned back to you, letting out a breath that sounded like a laugh caught halfway. "Uh... right. About that..." Her words were quick, hesitant, and you could not help but feel a flash of worry, the way she fidgeted, the way her eyes flicked nervously to the corners of the room, made your chest tighten.
For a moment, you wondered if she was about to admit to a crime.
You already knew her record. Former street gang member. Caught in petty crimes that had escalated far faster than anyone expected. She had been forced to confront adulthood before she was ready. And yes, she had a power.
Shadow Manipulation. She could cloak herself in darkness, stretch and shape shadows like living tendrils, and slip unseen through any area, moving as if the night itself obeyed her. On the streets, it had made her untouchable, nearly invisible, and extremely dangerous when she chose to be.
But that wasn't what this moment was about.
She leaned casually against the wall, knees drawn up slightly, but there was a tension in the way she held herself, a residue of caution from years of fending for herself. Your eyes caught the faint scars along her wrist and near her right eye, reminders of both survival and punishment. She had been an orphan, navigating the streets alone until fate, and the law, intervened.
"Look, my mu-I mean, my caretaker doesn't know about this, but I'll make it quick," she said, taking a deep breath. "I... I don't wanna do the program anymore."
You blinked, waiting, sensing that more explanation was coming.
"Now, before ya go thinkin' I'm ditchin' or somethin', lemme explain," she continued, words spilling faster now, nervous energy threading through them. "I'm not doin' it 'cause I don't wanna, or 'cause I'm scared of what I can do. I'm doin' it 'cause... I get to go back to school. For real this time. Classes, homework... I didn't get to do stuff like that, y'know?"
You nodded patiently, letting her stumble through the words, recognizing the hesitation, the relief, and the hope all tangled together.
"It's like... kinda... I just wanna try out normal nerd stuff," she said, a small, sheepish grin tugging at her lips. "Also... 'cause I wanna make mo- I mean Shirley stop worryin' 'bout me all the time..."
Funny enough, Shirley, the police officer who had arrested her, had become her guardian after she completed her sentence. Adoption had been a strange twist of fate, but the bond was genuine. Shirley had held her accountable, had protected her, and now offered the stability she had never known.
There was a light in the girl's eyes as she spoke, one that had nothing to do with powers or punishment. It was hope. Simple, human hope, the kind that made you believe in second chances without needing flashy displays of ability.
Her crooked grin widened, sheepish but proud. "I get to do homework, I used to hate on that shit... I mean I still do but I guess I hate the idea of it less now..."
You smiled back, struck by the honesty and humour in her tone. It cut through the heaviness that usually accompanied these visits. "That's... really good. Sounds like exactly the reason to step away from the program."
She nodded, crossing her arms, the weight of her past lingering in the careful way she held herself, yet softened by the small victory she'd claimed for herself. "Yeah... I think. I've got a lot to catch up on. Life's... normal stuff first. Powers later. Or maybe powers never. Who knows?"
Her laugh was short, sharp, unexpectedly warm, the sound of someone who had spent too long running finally allowing herself to breathe.
A quiet satisfaction settled in your chest again, different from the one you'd felt. Relief, this time, for a girl finally claiming the ordinary, human joys she had been denied for so long.
Not redemption on paper. Not atonement.
Just a chance to be a kid in school, to do homework, to live without looking over her shoulder at every moment.
You offered her a small nod. "Then I won't stand in your way. Go make the most of it."
Her grin widened into a full smile. "Oh, I will," she said, and there was no defiance in it, only the unspoken promise of a life finally her own.
---
Now you were at the last house.
The address sat open on your phone, the glow reflecting faintly against your face as you checked it again, once, twice, just to be certain. You had been pretty relaxed all day, but something about this door made you hesitate longer than the rest. Maybe it was the silence of the corridor. Maybe it was the way your instincts tugged at you, subtle but insistent.
Still, you locked the screen and slipped your phone away.
A quiet breath left you as you straightened your SDN shirt, tugging the fabric into place and rolling your shoulders back as if posture alone could steady the nerves buzzing under your skin. You pressed your palms to your cheeks, giving yourself a sharp little smack, then exhaled through your nose.
You knocked and the door opened almost immediately. You barely had time to straighten before the world on the other side of that threshold collided with yours.
"Let's do this..." you echoed under your breath, more out of habit than confidence but the words died halfway as your eyes landed on him.
For a split second, neither of you moved.
Recognition struck like a dropped glass.
His eyes widened first.
Yours followed.
"Oh... shit..." he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
The change in him was immediate. It was subtle, but impossible to miss. The easy confidence you remembered flickered at the edges. His almost irritating composure had cracked. It was not gone, just shaken.
Your gaze didn't leave his face.
A bandage.
White against skin, stark and out of place, cutting across his cheekbone like an afterthought someone forgot to explain, it drew attention simply by existing.
Was that always there?
Your mind scrambled backward, flipping through memory like a deck of poorly shuffled cards.
The last time you saw him - no, the last time you had to deal with him - you had not exactly been paying attention to details. You had been too busy moving. Avoiding. Calculating exits, distances, angles. Anything that kept your focus anywhere but on him.
Did he have that bandage then?
You frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as if the answer might reveal itself if you stared hard enough.
I don't think so...
Then again, you had not exactly been standing still long enough to notice.
Meanwhile, inside his head, civilization was not just collapsing, it was imploding in real time. Entire systems of control, carefully built routines, and meticulously maintained composure were being ripped apart at the seams.
You've got to be kidding me.
Out of everyone.
Out of every possible person who could be standing on the other side of that door
it had to be you.
The timing. The situation. The implications.
Every single part of this was catastrophic.
This screws everything.
The program. The selection. The impression he was supposed to make... to carefully built, tightly controlled. Gone. Or at least... severely compromised.
Because you were here.
And you knew him.
Not well.
But enough.
The two of you stood there, locked in completely different battles, neither of which was visible on the surface.
His mind was already in motion, sharp and relentless. Every second stretched into a calculation, every possibility branching into consequences he could not afford. Angles, outcomes, damage control, how much you knew, what you would say, what this meant for everything he had been working toward. The opportunity. The program. The fragile, hard-earned path he had built for himself, now teetering on the edge of collapse because you were standing here, unannounced, unavoidable.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
I fucked this up.
Not out loud. Not yet. But the thought burned behind his eyes.
Meanwhile, your own thoughts were operating on an entirely different plane of existence, because while this man was mentally preparing for the collapse of his future-
No, seriously.
Was that always there?
Your gaze still lingered on the bandage, narrowing slightly as if the answer might reveal itself if you stared long enough.
Maybe he got injured recently?
You searched your memory, replaying the last encounter in fragments, movement, distance, avoidance. You had not been looking at him back then, not really. You had been focused on staying out of his orbit entirely.
I would've noticed... right?
A beat.
...Maybe not.
Your head tilted, just a fraction, curiosity outweighing caution in the quietest, most unbothered way possible.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because while he was bracing for impact, steeling himself for confrontation, that unravels everything he had so carefully kept stitched together, you were simply looking at him.
The contrast sat between you and him was unspoken and suffocating.
The silence deepened, stretching taut like a wire pulled to its limit. The hallway itself seemed to shrink, the walls inching closer as if the building was listening in and deciding it, too, was uncomfortable with what was happening. The air felt heavier now, like it had gained weight just to make the moment harder to breathe through.
Neither of you moved.
Not forward.
Not back.
Just stuck there in a suspended moment, him caught in the accelerating spiral of consequences, every thought branching into damage control and worst-case outcomes; you, on the other hand, still quietly fixated on something as small as a bandage like it might reveal a separate truth the universe had forgotten to explain.
The silence thickened again.
Until it was not-
"Prince sister?!"
Aliyah.
The little girl's voice rang with pure disbelief and excitement as she suddenly launched herself at you, like a launched projectile rather than a child, colliding directly with your stomach.
The impact knocked the air out of you in a sharp little grunt.
"Omph-!" you wheezed, stumbling back half a step, arms instinctively flying out as your body tried to decide whether it had just been attacked or hugged.
You caught her immediately before either of you could go down in a very undignified heap in the hallway.
She is tiny and cute, but she hit with surprising force, all eager energy and childlike enthusiasm, like a pressure cooker with no release valve.
"Hey- hey-okay-hold on," you managed, voice strained with both surprise and the remaining oxygen trying to return to your lungs.
Aliyah, completely unbothered by the near collision with your ribcage, clung to you like she had been personally reunited with joy itself. Her excitement radiated off her in waves.
"You came!" She announced, as if this was a long-awaited royal visit instead of a routine doorstep stop. "I KNEW you were coming!"
Before you could even fully recover, a panicked voice called from deeper inside the apartment.
"Aliyah, no- what are you doing? Your uncle is busy!" The words came fast, flustered, already halfway into damage control before the speaker even entered the room.
A moment later, she appeared.
A tall woman stepped into view from the back of the apartment with the controlled urgency of someone who had just realized peace had been left unsupervised. Her deep brown hair was cut into a precise bob, framing her face with deliberate neatness and practically, the kind of style that suggested she liked things in order and kept them there.
Her eyes, dark brown and sharp, landed on the scene instantly.
And took everything in at once.
She took in the scene at a glance; Aliyah clinging to you like you were a long-lost lifeline. You, slightly winded, one arm instinctively bracing the child to keep her from launching both of you into the hallway floor. And him, behind the door looking as though he had just been struck by fate itself.
For a brief, surreal moment, the entire apartment seemed to pause around you. And then the woman's expression shifted; who exactly was standing at the door?
Her gaze sharpened.
Not in hostility, not yet, but in assessment, the kind of look that did not just see a situation but broke it apart and rearranged it into something understandable within seconds.
Aliyah, blissfully unaware of the adults recalculating reality around her, tightened her grip on your shirt again as if afraid you might evaporate if she loosened her hold.
"It's her!" she declared proudly, twisting to look up at you with unfiltered excitement.
"Prince sister!" You winced, just slightly, at the title.
Behind her, the woman's brows pulled together.
"...Prince... sister?" she repeated slowly, the words sounding like they did not quite belong in her vocabulary.
Her eyes flicked briefly past you and then landing on him, she was looking at him looking at you.
And whatever she saw there, whatever flicker of recognition, tension, or poorly concealed panic lingered in his expression, it gave her enough context.
"Aliyah," she said, more firmly this time, stepping closer. "Let go. Now."
The girl hesitated, a protest wanting to be formed somewhere in her body but never made it to her mouth.
Then, reluctantly, she loosened her grip, though not fully. One small hand still clung to your sleeve like an anchor point to reality, as if she needed proof, you would not disappear the moment she obeyed.
You straightened slightly, regaining your balance, one hand hovering near her shoulder in case she decided to launch herself again.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice steadier than you felt. "She just-"
"Recognized you," the woman finished, her tone neutral but her eyes anything but. Her attention returned to you fully now, scanning, your posture, your expression, the SDN shirt, the way you carried yourself.
Then, finally she locks eyes with you, "who are you?"
You let that pause linger for just a fraction longer, not long enough to be suspicious, but long enough to gather yourself, to smooth over the hesitation before it could take shape into something else.
Then you offered a small, polite smile.
"I'm from SDN," you said, gesturing lightly to your shirt as if to anchor the statement in something visible, something verifiable. "From the program."
The woman's posture eased, not entirely, but enough to register recognition. The tension in her shoulders did not disappear, but it rearranged itself into something more structured, more appropriate for the situation. Her gaze flicked down briefly to your shirt, taking in the logo, the uniform, the quiet authority it represented.
"Ah," she exhaled, the sharp edge in her tone softening into something closer to understanding. "You're here for that."
She turns and nudges him, but he was still standing there frozen.
"Oi," her gaze slid from you and then back to him, and whatever patience she had been extending thinned instantly, "stop standing there like you've seen a ghost."
No response.
That was all it took.
She stepped forward without hesitation and smacked him, not too hard to hurt but enough to interrupt whatever internal collapse was happening behind his eyes. His head turned slightly from the impact, more from shock than force, and for a fraction of a second, he just stared forward, blank and disoriented.
"Get a grip," the woman said flatly, her hand already dropping back to her side as if nothing had happened. Not loud. Not angry. Just decisive.
It worked.
You could almost see it happen, that whatever spiral he had been trapped in, shattered on impact. His shoulders tensed, then reset, breath pulling in a fraction deeper as awareness flooded back in all at once.
Right.
He straightened.
Not fully relaxed but the disorientation was gone, replaced with something more controlled. The version of himself he needed to be right now.
"What-?" he started, voice rough, disoriented.
"Don't 'what' me," she cut in, fixing him with a look that could've pinned him to the floor. "You're just going to stand there and stare like an idiot while a guest is at the door?"
"I wasn't-" he began, then stopped, clearly realizing halfway through that whatever excuse he was about to give was not going to survive contact with her expression.
"...Right." His shoulders squared, his posture shifting back into something more familiar, more controlled, enough to function.
"Sorry," he muttered, the word aimed vaguely in your direction, though it carried more weight than a simple apology should.
For what exactly? He didn't clarify.
The woman huffed softly, satisfied enough that he was at least back in the present.
"Honestly," she murmured under her breath, before turning back to you with a much more composed expression, as if that entire interaction had been nothing more than routine.
Aliyah, meanwhile, looked between the two adults with wide-eyed fascination, completely entertained by the sudden shift in energy.
"Uncle got hit," she whispered to you, not even attempting to hide the delight in her voice.
You huffed out a quiet breath between amusement and disbelief as you glanced back at him.
Just in time to catch the faintest flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. It vanished quickly.
The woman did not even look at him after that; her attention was already back on you.
"Sorry about that," she said, her tone smoothing over seamlessly, as if casually smacking a grown man back to reality was just part of the day's routine. "He gets... lost in his head sometimes."
Her eyes flicked sideways toward him, sharp and warning, "don't you?"
He exhaled quietly through his nose, jaw tightening just a fraction.
"...Yeah," he admitted.
The moment settles into something almost functional again.
Almost.
The woman sighs through her nose, as if mentally shelving the entire incident of him getting smacked back into reality, then turns fully toward you with a steadier composure.
"Right," she says, now more practical than suspicious. "You're still standing in the doorway. Come in properly."
Aliyah immediately lights up at that, as if she has been personally granted permission to continue a very important mission. She tugs at your sleeve again gentler this time, but still insistent.
"Come, come!" she urges, already trying to pull you deeper inside like the apartment is her personal tour route.
You allow yourself to be guided.
The threshold passes beneath you with a quiet shift in atmosphere, the corridor's sterile silence replaced by the warmer, lived-in hum of the apartment. There is the faint smell of something cooked earlier, lingering traces of detergent and fabric softener, and the soft ambient noise of a home that is actively being lived in rather than observed from outside.
The woman walked ahead with measured ease, her heels soft against the floor, glancing over her shoulder once as she led the way. "You're with SDN, you said?"
You nodded. "Yes. From the program intake."
"Mm." She made a thoughtful sound, neither approval nor suspicion, just processing. "We were told someone might be coming, but I didn't expect... today."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward him, and in that single glance alone the implication landed clearly, he knew, or at least, he was supposed to know.
He did not respond.
Instead, his gaze shifted away, landing somewhere inconveniently neutral like the wall suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room.
Aliyah, meanwhile, had completely claimed your presence as her own. She walked beside you with exaggerated importance, as if guiding a VIP through a private tour.
"This is our house," she announced proudly, gesturing broadly at everything. "That's the sofa. That's where Uncle sits when he's grumpy."
"I am not grumpy," he muttered immediately.
"You are," she replied without hesitation.
The woman exhaled a quiet, almost fond sigh at that exchange, though her expression stayed composed as she motioned toward the living area. "Please, take a seat."
You hesitated only a moment before complying, lowering yourself onto the edge of the sofa with careful control, posture settling into something professional almost by instinct. The apartment felt different now that you were inside it fully.
"I'll get some water," the woman said after a beat, already turning away toward the kitchen. Her voice carried back lightly as she moved. "I'll be back in a moment."
And just like that, she was gone, leaving the room subtly rearranged in her absence.
He followed more slowly.
Not reluctant in an obvious way, but heavy with restraint, like each step toward the chair cost him something invisible.
When he finally sat, it was with the kind of controlled descent that suggested he would rather be anywhere else. The chair took his weight, but the posture he kept was still guarded, shoulders slightly tense, as though sitting down did not mean relaxing so much as preparing for impact.
Beside you, Aliyah immediately reattached herself to your side with unwavering certainty, as if the position had been reserved for her alone. One small hand curled into the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself there while she leaned comfortably against you, eyes wide and bright as she took in the room like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever been allowed to witness.
The contrast was almost absurd.
The charged silence of the adults, and the effortless trust of a child.
Your notebook rested in your lap now; pen balanced lightly between your fingers. The shift into structure came naturally clean. Your voice, when it came, carried none of the earlier hesitation from the doorway.
"All right," you began, letting the words settle into the space without force. "I just need to confirm a few details."
Your eyes lifted to him, calm and direct, not pressing but not avoiding either. "Name?"
For a moment, there was nothing.
Not refusal. Not agreement.
His gaze flicked away, not meeting yours fully, and something subtle shifted in his expression. It was not just hesitation; it was calculation dressed as stillness. A brief tightening at the corner of his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he smoothed it over.
Aliyah looked between you both with quiet fascination, sensing without understanding that something important was happening, though to her it was just another strange adult ritual.
Then, finally, he exhaled.
"Chad," he said.
A second passed, just long enough for the moment to stretch slightly thin, before he added, almost as an afterthought, "Yeah. It's Chad."
Your reaction was minimal.
A slight lift of the eyebrows, a quiet acknowledgment that the delivery mattered as much as the content.
You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, pen still resting idle over the page. Not challenging him. Not interrogating him. Just... reading the space between what was said and what was not.
He didn't like that.
You could tell.
Aliyah shifted against your side, oblivious to the undercurrent, humming softly to herself like the tension in the room had nothing to do with her reality.
And then, as easily as you had opened the question, you closed it.
A small nod, calm and neutral.
You made a note in your notebook, the scratch of pen against paper almost too ordinary for the weight of the moment, and your tone returned to steady professionalism as if nothing unusual had occurred at all.
"All right, Chad," you said evenly, as though the name had landed exactly as expected.
"Let's start from the beginning."
Taglist @whatdoesthesenpai @k-tsuyuri
