#where like..maybe every chapter switches authors

[polytrixaf]

the thing i actually want to do most ever is like a collaborative writing effort it just seems like it would be so fun...

[minyoongiss]

INTRODUCTION | BUSINESS PROPOSAL | jeon jungkook

you were supposed to sabotage your best friend's blind date. make him lose interest. scare him off a little, maybe accidentally insult his ego enough that he'd go home and tell his parents there had been “no chemistry”. you were absolutely not supposed to make him want to marry her. or technically you in her form.

pairing: ceo!jeon jungkook x you/reader

warnings: none

word count: 1.4k

authors note: i'm lierally so excited to start this series. writing romcoms is and always will be my favourite. i hope you like this short sneak peek as much as i enjoyed writing it. as always, if you would like to be tagged in the next chapters, please let me know in the comments. (please make sure the feature to enable tagging is switched on. unfortunately, i couldn't add a couple of people for this chapter. :()

series masterlist

you were nervous. not normal nervous either. not presentation at work nervous or meeting someone's parents for the first time nervous. this was the kind of nervous where your stomach had apparently stopped functioning somewhere between leaving your apartment and arriving at the restaurant, and now only existed to make your life significantly more difficult.

which, honestly, felt fair.

because how many people regularly went on blind dates pretending to be their rich best friend?

exactly.

especially when said best friend had emotionally manipulated you, financially bribed you and somehow convinced you that identity fraud, but make it friendship, was a completely reasonable thing to participate in.

and now it was too late, because you had arrived.

too early, actually. painfully early.

the kind of early where you stood outside the restaurant for another five minutes because arriving twenty minutes before your blind date somehow felt more embarrassing than pretending to be another person. your reflection stared back at you through the glass windows and, honestly, you barely recognized yourself. mostly because approximately eighty percent of what you were wearing belonged to your friend. the dress? hers. the heels that were already slowly killing your feet? also hers. the jewelry around your wrist that probably cost more than your monthly rent? unfortunately, also hers. the only thing that was actually yours was the cheap halloween wig you'd bought on impulse and somehow it looked better than your real hair, at least according to your best friend and every other person on this world

you look expensive, she had proudly announced earlier.

i look borrowed, you had answered.

now, walking through the entrance toward reception, your brain decided this was the perfect moment to spiral. because suddenly there were too many questions and not enough answers. how did he look? how exactly were you supposed to sabotage this? what if he recognized you? what if he was weird? please let him be weird. or arrogant. or one of those men that talked about cryptocurrency during dinner and called themselves entrepreneurs after opening one business account.

anything would help.

because your mission tonight was simple in theory: ruin the date, make him dislike you, make him go home and tell everyone that miss jin young-seo was rude, unpleasant, and maybe slightly concerning.

easy.

probably.

hopefully.

you were led through the restaurant by a waiter, and honestly, you probably looked less like someone attending a blind date and more like a lost dog following its owner around.

completely out of place.

everything around you looked expensive in a way that made you suddenly aware of every single thing you were wearing even if most of it wasn't technically yours. the lighting was dim but somehow still screamed wealth, the tables far enough apart that rich people apparently also paid for personal space, and the decorations looked minimalistic in the terrifying way where minimalistic usually meant unnecessarily expensive.

you kept looking around while walking, trying not to stare too obviously while trying not to trip over your own feet.

because this place was expensive expensive. the kind of expensive where there were no prices displayed outside because if you had to ask, you probably couldn't afford it. the kind of expensive where you immediately knew your monthly salary wouldn't survive here.

actually not even survive.

your monthly salary probably wouldn't even cover dinner.

your savings?

also questionable.

you were beginning to understand why your friend had insisted on paying.

the waiter stopped near one of the tables and pulled the chair back for you.

for a second you just stared.

because no one had ever done that for you before.

then, realizing you had already paused too long, you quickly sat down.

carefully.

very carefully.

because suddenly the chair also looked expensive.

and breaking furniture in a restaurant you couldn't afford while pretending to be someone else felt like a very bad way to spend your evening.

you didn't even realize how long you been stuck in your own thoughts when—

“miss jin young-seo?”

the voice pulled you back so suddenly you almost jumped.

you looked up from where you had apparently been intensely studying the table decorations because if you were being honest, staring at the flowers had been easier than acknowledging the fact that you were sitting alone in a restaurant expensive enough to make your bank account cry.

“yes?”

and then your brain completely abandoned you.

because oh.

oh no.

your friend had forgotten to mention an important detail.

a very important detail.

her blind date was ridiculously attractive.

not normal attractive either. not oh he looks nice attractive. no, this was the kind of attractive that immediately irritated you because it complicated everything. he was tall in a way that felt unnecessary, dressed too well for a random dinner date, and had the kind of face that made you understand why rich people seemed to succeed at everything. broad shoulders hidden underneath an expensive coat, sharp features, calm expression, he looked less like someone attending a blind date and more like someone who accidentally walked out of a luxury brand campaign.

your first coherent thought was simple: he's hot.

your second coherent thought followed immediately after: this is deeply unfortunate.

“you are miss jin, right?” he asked again politely.

and honestly?

you had never been happier to temporarily be miss jin.

“yes,” you answered immediately.

too immediately.

the lie rolled off your tongue so naturally that it actually concerned you a little. maybe you should reflect on that later. much later. preferably after surviving tonight.

“please have a seat,” you said quickly, gesturing toward the chair in front of you because if you stared any longer this mission was already compromised.

and that was the problem.

because sabotaging ugly people? easy.

sabotaging attractive people? harder.

sabotaging attractive people who also seemed polite? borderline unethical.

still, you had a job to do.

you reached into your purse and pulled out the business card your friend had forced into your hand earlier. well, not your business card. hers. because apparently rich people exchanged business cards on blind dates while normal people exchanged instagram handles and asked what music you listened to.

“i don't even know who you are,” you said bluntly, deciding rudeness was probably the safest route.

good.

strong start.

“your name is?”

he blinked once but didn't look offended. if anything, he looked calm. suspiciously calm.

then he reached into his pocket and placed a card in front of you.

“my name is jeon jungkook.”

you stared.

“what?”

“my name is jeon jungkook.”

you exaggerated your expression.

“jeon what?”

“jeon jungkook,” he repeated patiently.

you raised your voice another octave.

“jeon jungkook?”

at this point he looked like he was reconsidering whether dinner was worth enduring whatever this interaction was.

good

excellent.

progress.

he reached for his card again.

you immediately pulled it closer.

“oops.”

his hand stopped midair.

you smiled awkwardly.

he slowly pulled his hand back.

you looked down again.

jeon jungkook.

then you turned the card around.

there was a logo.

a familiar logo. too familiar.

your eyes narrowed.

wait. no. absolutely not.

you looked again.

your stomach dropped so fast you were surprised it didn't physically hit the floor, because that wasn't just any logo.

that was your company logo.

your company.

your workplace.

the place where you spent eight hours pretending emails weren't slowly destroying your mental health.

slowly, very slowly, you looked back down at the card.

then back at him.

then back down again.

jeon jungkook.

the president.

your company president.

your CEO.

the man whose face was probably hanging somewhere in headquarters.

your brain kindly replayed the last ten minutes for you.

you had lied.

pretended to be another woman.

been rude.

mocked his name.

refused to return his business card.

and were currently committing identity fraud in front of your CEO.

amazing.

truly incredible work.

this was exactly why helping friends should legally require paperwork.

“miss jin.”

you didn't react because your soul had temporarily left your body.

“miss jin.”

clearer this time.

“yes?” you answered quickly, still mentally somewhere else entirely.

his eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“is something wrong?”

if something was wrong? what here was even right?

you were pretending to be someone else, sitting across from your company president on a blind date you were supposed to sabotage while actively realizing your boss was unfairly attractive.

this wasn't a blind date anymore.

this was karma.

and apparently karma looked very good in a suit.

taglist: @yooforea @ohmmylovie @serenaorsiren @arcadiaem @whoa-jo @mar-lo-pap @bangatanily @bjoriis @hrts4kook @rjsmochii @nochtuu @kokoandkookie @fadedmixtape @therealmrsbahng @badaspice @kookie96 @jakiki94 @celliez @yiyibetch @sunnnnnhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[lilahisntsadanymore]

He's good for your redemtion arc, you're good for his distraction, so your teams decided to put you in a PR relationship. You didn't expect fake rules to become so blurry so quickly.

Quinn Hughes x reader (featuring a briefly mentioned unspecified ex boyfriend)

words count: 2.8k

author's note: not counting wattpad this is my 1st fic after coming out of a writing retirement. sue me. a rpf at my big age. sue me. my 1st time writing here in 2nd person ("you"). sue me idk?

content warning: i'm not american. also keep in mind i'm not american. did i mention i am not american? besides that, implied addictions. the ending is kinda meh but i was writing this for 3h i'm fed up. this is not what i expected but idk

i feel like this would be better as a story with chapters but i already have stuff like this on wattpad so i don't wanna start yet another tapeworm for now

« ☆ —⋆——꒰ঌ·☆·໒꒱ ——⋆— ☆ »

PR matchmaking

A walking, talking PR nightmare, that’s what you were. Your last relationship didn’t just end. It detonated. One second you were convincing yourself you could forgive him, that maybe you could be one of those girls who worked through it—

And then he got her pregnant.

It happened months ago and the thought of it still made you want to vomit. The worst part of it was how they played a happy family now that the baby was born. Why did he get to live this ‘perfect’ life, when your heart was shattered? You were drinking heavily, excusing it with after-parties. You indulged in drugs, pushing it as your new party girl persona. And paparazzi were there to witness every moment of it.

For a moment, it stopped the pain. It let you stop thinking about how nothing in your life was fair. You noticed how each shot, each line, each pill made you forget about your ex and his new life. Then you’d wake up the next day, coming down from whatever you’ve taken the night before and it all hit you like a brick to the face.

The public didn’t like that. Your team didn’t like that. Your fans hated how it slowly started to ruin you. Sometimes, you’d cancel an interview because you felt too bad to step a foot out of your bed.

When you did show up, you’d wear sunglasses to hide how dilated your pupils were from a line that was supposed to pick you up. Your voice started to sound more raspy with each appearance, which sometimes made you joke about how you’ll just switch to making rock at some point.

It was another morning in your NYC apartment. You didn’t go out the previous night, having promised yourself to cut down on the lifestyle at least a little bit before it kills you.

Someone knocked on the door, but you weren’t expecting guests. So you ignored it.

Another knock, more aggressive. “Open the goddamn door, Y/n.”

You sighed, recognizing the voice. “Go away, Isa.” You yelled from where you were lying down on the living room sofa.

The woman didn’t reply, but suddenly you heard the lock clicking, which was weird because you couldn’t remember giving her a key.

You barely had time to sit up before Isa was standing right in front of you. She gave you a look, not quite judging but wishing she could stop dealing with your bullshit. She had known you for years, but this was the first time you started acting out like this.

“You look like shit,” she stated.

“No shit.” You managed a weak smile.

“We need to talk.”

“Don’t we always?”

“Because you keep doing shit that requires damage control.”

With a groan, you prepared yourself to hear what Isa had to say this time. Honestly, she must’ve been some angel sent from heaven to take care of you.

“I told you, I’m not going to rehab,” you reminded her.

“I know that,” Isa said as she fished her laptop out of her bag, “but your bullshit is getting out of control, we’re running out of ways to spin it. You don’t cooperate, you’re a liability. The label will drop you if this continues.”

“So what magical remedy did you come up with this time?”

Isa paused, a cheeky smile appearing on her face. “We’re putting you in a relationship.”

The thought of that made you sick. “No. I’m never dating again. Not for real, not for PR. Men ain’t shit. Think of something else.”

“It’s already happening.”

This sobered you up like a slap to the face. “The fuck?”

“His team approached us first, it’ll be mutually beneficial.”

You stared at her, trying to figure out if she was serious or if this was some kind of sick joke. “Whose team?”

“Quinn Hughes. Hockey player, gold olympic medal. Laughed at some joke, visited the White House. Long story short, everyone thinks he’s MAGA and even a SNL appearance didn’t help.”

You scoffed. There was no way in hell you were going to agree to do this. “So I’d be a distraction? For a trumpie?”

Isa argued. “The thing is, he’s not. Besides, like I said, it’s already happening. He gets a distraction, you get a redemption arc.”

“Did he agree to this? I don’t think he wants to affiliate himself with a cokehead, on top of all he already has going on.”

“Look, a distraction is a distraction. People will focus on you two dating and forget everything else. And for you, dating an athlete will make people think your lifestyle changed.”

You let your head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Holy fuck.”

« ☆ —⋆——꒰ঌ·☆·໒꒱ ——⋆— ☆ »

Three months, that’s how long it was supposed to keep going. Of course, it could be prolonged if people were buying the narrative. For now you didn’t even know if you’re buying it, the arranged ‘date’ was going to test it.

Your teams picked a spot. A restaurant, a believable first date. A fancy place, but not fancy enough to have privacy. Basically, you were bait, just waiting for paparazzi to appear.

You saw Quinn as you entered, he was already sitting at your table.

You spoke first. “So you’re the guy. Congrats on the medal, I guess. Sorry for… other things.”

“Yeah, hi.” He awkwardly stood up as you approached, offering you his hand. “Quinn.”

Your eyes flicked to his hand, and you decided to shake it, even though it seemed too formal. “Y/n.”

You sat down across from him, crossing your legs, feeling the urge to look away because of how awkward the situation was. You were supposed to play interested, romantically involved even, with a guy who you weren’t really interested in. You had no desire for any relationships.

“So.” You picked up the glass of water, but didn’t take a sip. “I guess we’re dating now. We should settle some rules.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Rules? I thought our teams had already settled that.”

“No, I meant personally. Touching is okay, holding hands I will accept. No kissing without previous notice. No talking about me in interviews—”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Oh, how charming of you.”

You paused. He didn’t speak. The silence was awkward.

You continued. “What about you? What should I avoid?”

He thought about it for a second. “Don’t embarrass me. If you’re hooking up with someone, don’t let people find out. Take this seriously.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how seriously he was taking it. “You sound just like I did in my last relationship. Except it wasn’t for PR.”

“Oh—” he paused, unsure of what to do with that information. “I’ve heard what happened. Sorry he was a dick. I know we don’t know each other but just know I wouldn’t do that.”

His comment sounded genuine and it caught you off guard. You almost didn’t come up with a sarcastic comeback. “Setting the bar high, aren’t you?”

He frowned a little, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking or not. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” you cut in, waving it off. “Chill. I’m not expecting you to publicly cheat on me in our very real, very serious fake relationship.”

At some point in your life, sarcasm has become a defense mechanism for you. Nobody could hurt you if you’d already joked about it.

Quinn could see that. “I’m being serious. He shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

The waiter came by to take your order, and after he walked away you had a moment to discuss once again. With each minute, it started to become less and less awkward, you thought that maybe Quinn wasn’t the worst guy you could’ve been in a fake relationship with.

“I’m starting to think this PR thing will be more bearable than I assumed.” You took a sip of your water.

There was no wine. Well, the restaurant had it, but Quinn suggested it might not be the best idea considering your latest issues. That was the second time he took you off guard that night, you didn’t expect him to be so considerate.

If you had wine, this could go a very wrong direction. You would probably drink too much, because there’s no such thing as ‘enough wine’ for you. Some people called it alcoholism, you called it sustainable consumption.

Once the food arrived, your conversation continued. Quinn told you how he disliked the attention that surrounded him recently. Hockey wasn’t just his career, it was something he loved. It was his life. He was just a guy who wanted to have fun on the ice, but the recognition that came with being a famous athlete annoyed him.

“You’re very PR-trained for someone who claims he hates the media,” you said.

“Imagine you wanna do your job in peace and there’s hundreds of people demanding explanations for things that transcend your job’s requirements.”

You giggled at that. “And so well-spoken for someone who went viral for dissociating on ice.”

“I swear I read books, I’m not your average golden retriever athlete type,” he laughed.

You knew he was just playing along, but decided to push him further. “Oh, yeah? To me all hockey players seem like the frat boy type who never really grows up.”

“Tell you what, fly back to Minnesota with me and I’ll show you my book collection.”

Your face warmed up at the idea of it. He didn’t seem like he meant anything else beneath that offer which made it quite endearing.

Then he realized. “Oh, no, no— NOT like that, I swear I didn’t mean it to sound like I’m trying to get into your pants.”

You laughed, shaking your head, trying to play it off like it wasn’t affecting you. “Well, before you were just a dumb fratboy, now you sound like a tryhard intellectual.”

Quinn turned out to be the opposite of what you had expected before you met him. You expected it to be more awkward. You worried this PR thing was going to be a torture for you to endure just for people to stop thinking you’re a disaster.

After the dinner, you parted ways at the taxi which was waiting for you.

Before you got into the car, you turned to your fake boyfriend. “By the way, I’m down for a trip to Minnesota.”

He laughed, a little awkward, a little warm. “Just let me know a few days in advance so I can make my place look presentable.”

You rolled your eyes. “I mean it.”

“I know. Me too.”

It was shocking to you how easily that not-a-date date put you back on track. Suddenly, you found yourself choosing to stay home when friends texted you about a party. Rehab started to look like a good idea, instead of something you’d dread.

Your sleep schedule changed, now you were going to sleep before midnight. There was no reason to stay up if you weren’t going out. The idea of morning workouts started to appear in our head without a warning, filling you with curiosity about what it’d be like to actually change your lifestyle.

Maybe you weren’t curious enough to sign up for a six a. m. Pilates class, but it had you searching workouts on youtube. Isa noticed it immediately when she came by one afternoon, expecting to find you on the couch with a half-empty bottle of whatever poison you felt like drinking that day. Instead, you were in leggings, hair tied back, watching a yoga video.

She gave you a suspicious look. “What… are you doing?”

You shrugged. “If I’m fake-dating an athlete, I gotta look the part, right? I might even go to rehab.”

You didn’t notice that little pleased smile creeping onto her face. “You’re changing.”

“Just exploring my options. Pilates seems hard, so I figured I’d start with yoga. Hey, come sit with me.” You paused the workout video and locked your iPad’s screen.

Isa approached you carefully and took a seat on the couch. It had only been a few days that she hadn’t seen you, and you seemed like a different person. She didn’t know whether to be happy or to call your therapist.

You smiled at the woman, unable to contain the information anymore. “I’m going to Minnesota in a few days.”

Isa’s eyes widened, and she blinked like she needed a moment to process. “Wait… what?”

“We’re gonna chill, take a few photos to post to make it look real. I’m feeling adventurous.”

The gossip pages were already talking about your first date. So the two of you decided it’s only fair if you give them something more to talk about.

So a few days later you were in Minnesota, walking through the threshold of Quinn Hughes’ place. On your flight there, you watched some tiktoks, like that one interview where your fake boyfriend’s brother, Jack, teased him about how messy he was.

As disorganised as Jack claimed Quinn was, his place was rather clean. Either Jack liked to exaggerate or Quinn hired a cleaning team to get the place ready for your visit.

Shortly, you found out Quinn wasn’t lying about books. He had… a lot of them. Not one specific genre, he seemed to read whatever he felt like. Some titles you didn’t even recognize. You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t a little attractive.

As per the photos, you couldn’t make it too obvious. If you just threw selfies into people’s faces, it would feel fake and forced. So you soft-launched instead.

A TV playing. A pizza box on the coffee table.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said, “put your hand on my thigh.”

This time you caught Quinn off guard. “What?”

“For the picture. I’ll post it on my IG story.”

“Uh, okay, yeah, let’s do that.”

When his hand landed on your leg, it felt surprisingly delicate, like he was testing the waters. You had arrived in jeans, but once you noticed how warm his apartment was, you changed into a pair of shorts you’d packed. Now, his hand rested against bare skin, and a subtle heat ran through you at the contact.

You could hear your own heartbeat as you took the picture. It was so stupid. Your face must’ve been red. This felt like something teenagers would be doing. Not knowing why, you hesitated before clicking ‘post’.

“All good?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah,” you replied too quickly. “Just, um, it’s a little hot in here.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ll bring you some water.”

When he got up from the couch, it felt like hours. You wondered, why does it feel so weird suddenly? You had already broken the ice. Back at the restaurant, the conversation flew smoothly. Throughout the days you didn’t see each other, you were texting.

So why did it feel like that now? Like you didn’t quite know what you were? Like you didn’t know where the line in your agreement was? You didn’t realize the PR arrangement would fuck with your head so much.

You watched him come back to the couch, to you, the casualness of it making something raise in your throat for no reason you could name. Quinn didn’t notice, of course, he was just getting water, but every little thing felt amplified.

When he handed you the glass, your fingers brushed. You caught yourself holding his gaze a moment too long and suddenly the fake relationship rules felt blurry.

“You… have really soft hands for a hockey player,” you said.

He smiled, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And I uhh liked how your hand felt… on my thigh.”

You set the glass of water on the coffee table and shifted slightly closer, drawn to him despite everything in your head reminding you this is all a fake arrangement.

“Then maybe… I should keep it there?” He said softly, tentatively.

You nodded, taking his hand even before he fully finished the sentence, and placing it where it rested before.

The rest of it felt like a movie. You both leaned in, and when your lips were millimeters apart, you paused. There was no going back after crossing that line. Your lips connected, and the kiss wasn’t a soft cliché like one would expect.

From the beginning, it was hungry, like the both of you finally didn’t have to keep to any restrictions. Quinn kissed exactly how you’d imagine. Precise and all-consuming as you explored each other. At some point, his hands moved to your waist and guided you into his lap. As you straddled him, your hands rested on his shoulders.

His grip on your waist tightened, holding you steady as the kiss deepened, as if he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Your body fit against his naturally, it didn’t feel like the fake-relationship performative act you’ve been doing.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath. “Didn’t expect the tryhard intellectual fratboy to be such a good kisser.”

For the first time, he gave you a cocky smile. “So much for no kissing without previous notice, huh?”

[firefliesoul-corner]

Digital Parents - (Phainon x f!Reader) - PART 1

Summary: You got isekaied in Amphoreus, coming from a world of struggle and pain, the only thing you have left of it: your Tamagotchi.

Author's note: This is my very first fan fiction, it's years that i only read and never actually put myself in action, but some weeks ago i got inspired and i wrote this down, this is the first part. Please enjoy!

ps: english it's not my first language!!

Content: mention of suicidal thoughs, panic attack, reader is a videogame lover so expect some videogames references now and maybe in the future, fluff, comforting, new found family/home, ModernAU Phainon.

Go back to -> masterlist

Chapter 1: No Way Back

Your world. A world you shared with many people, and if you asked any of us, we'd agree it's a shitty one. It's a place dominated by war and relentless capitalism, with rich and selfish people in power. Slowly destroying our own home, with global warming, smog, and poorly managed trash and plastic which is destroying the environment, killing animals, most of them near extinction.

Even if we all lived in such an awful place, thankfully, we managed to keep living, finding the good things. There were things and people that made it worth living, even when everything got harder by the day.

But humankind was never truly happy, always craving more. And you were no exception.

The day it happened, it was particularly stressful for you. You'd just had a fight with your mom about your future—you two weren't exactly on the same page when it came to your plans. You were already struggling to finish university and couldn't really think about other pressing matters. But how can you be blamed?

Yours was a world where everything moved too fast, and if you couldn't keep up, you just got left behind. No pressure at all, of course. Still, you couldn't stand your mom's nagging; you were fully aware she was just worried about you, but it was getting too much to handle.

You had a frown on your face, as you grumpily walked back home from your last lesson of the day you were tired from all the information in your head making your it spin a little, fragment of the fight you had that morning keep pop up, everything would’ve be just fine if only the world wasn't so damn ruthless.

You sped up as you walked down the busy streets of your city, the air filled with smog and all kinds of weird smells, you knew the way home by heart so you weren’t really focused on the street you were walking on, in your mind, there was only the desire to go back home, play video games to temporarily escape reality (you had a boss to defeat and daylies to do), and maybe invite your boyfriend over too.

You smiled at the idea of being on your comfy gaming chair with a nice drink in the comfort of your room, smiling and laughing at some stupid joke your boyfriend came up with and just for a moment forget about all your problems which in that moment seemed so big and so hard to get over.

Evading reality sounded like a nice idea... until it wasn't.

As you were lost in thought, you haven’t noticed the switch in atmosphere right away, a fit of dread crept through your body as you realized you didn't recognize the street you were walking on anymore.

You suddenly stopped, looking around. The usual sounds caused by the traffric slowly but surely quieted down a bit and the building you were used to see every day started to look different from usual less tall more neat, like someone suddenly started to look after them, which was unsual in your city normally you'd have to pay attention something doesn't fall on your head, something didn't seem right.

Panic rised into your chest.

Were you lost?

But it couldn't be. You knew these streets like the back of your hand, all the alleys and hidden stores now were gone, nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly everything seemed so different---too different.

Even the people around you acted differently, usually people on the street looks annoyed or frustrated and always wary of who's around them, but now they even seem to smile at you or even gives you look of consern.

You were still in a city, but it didn't look like the usual one you navigated every day.

Had you finally lost it?

Had all the pressure finally snapped your sanity?

You slowly wandered around, telling yourself that if you just kept going, you'd eventually find your way back home your hands shaking on your chest as you intertwined them together, looking for comfort

You'd never been more wrong.

Hours passed by, and still nothing.

Everything around you just felt so unfamiliar, the streets were clean and there was no noisy traffic or people swearing at eachother, like you were used to seeing.

Did some kind of revolution happen and you didn't hear anything about it?

You were frantically walking around, searching for something—anything—that would help you find your way back at that point. But it was useless. The fact that your phone had suddenly lost all signal didn't make the situation any better.

With tired legs you stopped as soon as you saw a bench to sit down on. Your hands still shaking your heartbeat rang into your ears as it gradually sped up, you stare at your hands.

“Panicking would only make everything worse.”

You shook your head, keeping your panic in check.

What the hell was happening? Something like this had never happened to you before. Sure, you'd gotten lost a lot in the past, but never like this.

And the random lost signal? It wasn't normal at all.

It was almost like…

You were in a place you weren't supposed to be.

The idea scared you, making you freeze on the spot. Even though everything looked a lot nicer of what you were used to, the idea of being somewhere unfamiliar terrified you to the core.

"No, it's not the time to panic," you mumbled to yourself as you rosed up from the bench, eyes wandering in search of any information that could help you understand what was happening.

As you keep looking trough the small building of "your?" city your attention fell on the glass of a random shop displaying TVs who shined with bright and nice looking colors, you had to adjust your vision to clearly look at the screen, as you did your blood froze at the sight of the news.

Nothing of it reminded you of any of the things you heard that morning when you watched the news with your mom; places and names were completely unfamiliar to you.

A name stood out: "Amphoreus."

Was that the name of where you were? But how was that possible?

Your mind goes back to your secret desire to escape your world and find peace it was a silly wish your murmured one tiring day with a sleepy voice before falling asleep, you had imagined how it could be like, but this wasn't peaceful at all, that feeling of dread was nothing compared to what you had imagined.

What about your parents? Your friends? Your boyfriend? Were they gone, or had you just disappeared from there?

Tears started to fill your eyes as the realization hit you, your legs giving out aking you fall on the ground in front of the screens, your head between your hands.

What now?

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.

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"Y/N?" A voice snapped you from your memories, your eyes rose from the ground looking, your eyes made contact with the woman in front of you, she was serving you some tea.

 It was Aglaea.

"Are you okay?" the woman asked, her expression worried, the cup in her hand was hot, it gave off some smoke that collided with your face warming you up

Aglaea, the kind, elegant-looking woman who had found you on alone on the street as you were crying alone, looking lost and helpless.

She helped you and let you stay at her place for the time being, a month has passed since you found yourself in this new world.

No one was truly aware you weren't from here.

The kind woman had simply assumed you were in a difficult situation and helped you out.

For some strange reason, people in this world seemed much nicer than what you were used to.

You were so grateful to her regardless; you could never forget such a kind act of kindness, whether it was normal here or not.

"Yeah, everything's fine," you tried to reassure her, taking the cup from her hands bringing it to your lips, it scent filled your nose, giving you comfort.

The truth was, you couldn't stop thinking about your world and everyone you'd left behind.

Were they looking for you? They must be worrued sick about you.

You wished you could tell them you were fine, and that you were in a much nicer place.

Don't get me wrong, as you'd stayed there during that month, you'd found out that this world has its own kind of problems too, you'd never gotten to really understand them yet.

 You couldn't say all that to her; she would never believe you came from another world. So you just shifted a little on the nice material of the couch in Aglaea's apartment.

"I was just thinkin'..." you trailed off as you got more comfortable.

"I can no longer bother you, and I should start finding a job” you laid the cup on your lap, warming yourself up, “and a place to stay, of course." You added quickly looking up at her blue eyes.

She was far too kind to let you stay at her house for that long, and a much as you appreciate her, you didn’t want to take advantage of her kindness.

After a bit of silence, the blonde woman thought hard on the matter, her eyes looking at you with care and worry, finally spoke, you clearly noticed she didn’t want to leave you alone to your destiny, she had grown attach to you in that single month you spent together with her.

"I understand. You can stay here until you find another place. As for finding a job..." She put a hand under her chin, thinking. "...I think I can help with that."

Aglaea was a well-known woman in the city of Okhema and throughout Anphoreus; she was a stylist and owned a shop in the city. She offered you a job for the time being, and you couldn't be more grateful to her.

During that month, you'd tried several times to go back to your world, often finding yourself walking back to the street where everything started, in hopes of finding your way back home. But it was all hopeless. All your attempts fell into complete failure. There were days when you ran through that street in hopes of magically finding yourself at home again, in hopes of seeing some familiar face, maybe a friend from university or one of the usual people who took the same path as you to reach their destination. But that moment never came; you soon realized you were stuck there.

Maybe it was destiny?

But—oh, what a cruel one…

There were days where you almost decided to end it all…

Yeah, you thought about killing yourself.

But everytime you even tried to plan to do it, your mind was filled with all the memories of your home.

Was that what your people wanted? For you to be dead?

You knew better than that, especially when there were someone helping you by your side, you weren’t alone. So why give up?

So now, all you could do is to start a new life. And it was finally time to move on, even if you couldn't completly accept it yet. It was hard and you missed everyone at home, but you could only keep going for those you couldn't see anymore, your mind shifted to the fight you had with your mom about your future, she didn't need to worry for you any longer, you could build your future here.

"Thank you mom for always being there for me, i'm just sorry i cannot do the same for you anymore" you whisper as a little prayer before entering the building of the small shop you were going to work in.

The interior was nice and neat, there were a lot of mannequins scattered around all dressed with high quality materials clothes, made by Aglaea herself. The smell of fabric and lavander was the first thing you felt as soon as you were inside, sparkles in your eyes as you see the beautiful shop for the first time.

Your job consisted mainly of doing whatever was needed in the shop: arranging mannequins, storing materials, that kind of stuff.

At first, everything was a bit confusing; all the unknown fabrics and the confusing tools fried your brain into a mess. But luckily, Tribbie was there to help you.

Tribbie was Aglaea's partner in business, and even though she had a childlike appearance, she was actually a very capable person, so you felt pretty lucky to have her by your side.

Tribbie instructed you during every task, and thanks to her patience and understanding personality, you managed to get used to the job pretty quickly.

"Agy talked a lot about you," she said as she was checking the quality of the new materials that came the day before, looking at them with attentive eyes. "She told me you come from..." She took a second to think, "...a hard situation" implying she didn't know all the details. She then looked at you with a worried expression. "I don't want to sound pushy, but just know that whatever you've been through, you can count on us, alright?" She smiled at you right after.

You felt touched by her generous words.

In your world, this kind of interaction with someone you'd just met was incredibly rare. This place never failed to surprise you.

"It's okay, Tribbie, thank you for helping me out today. I've never really had a job, and I have no experience with clothes," you finished putting away some pieces of cloth in the storeroom. "You've already done so much for me. I'm really grateful," you smiled, turning in her direction. You knew in that moment that everything was going to work out in one way or another. You were now determined to keep going a little bit more than before.

.

.

.

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"(Y/N), could you please put this stuff away while I work on this piece?" Aglaea asked you, her hands traveling over the mannequin as she worked on a new dress.

A week had passed since you started working in the shop, and your relationship with your superiors had grown stronger. Your job wasn't easy, and you often made mistakes, but you always managed to learn from them with Aglaea and Tribbie’s guidance. It was a quiet day, and you didn't have a lot of customers to take care of.

"Yeah, I'll take care of it, Aglaea." You picked up the basket full of materials, your arms already completely pulled down by the weight. You were supposed to take it to the storeroom, a space you now knew and had organized as if it were your own.

"Oh, by the way, (Y/N)," Aglaea called, shifting her attention from her work to you, her hands carefully adjusting the expensive fabric on the mannequin. "Some new materials are arriving today; could you please make some room in the storeroom?" You stopped in your tracks, making a mental image of the storeroom, deciding where everything could fit.

"Yes, of course," you replied as soon as you made up your mind, struggling a bit with the basket in your hands. You already knew your arms would get sore once you finished the task. It would be so much easier for you to go to the storeroom if only you could see where you were going. The stuff in the box, covering your vision, forced you to walk backward toward the storeroom.

"Damn, this is a lot," you muttered, slowly walking toward the storeroom a step at a time.

"Oh, hi, Snowy, you're already here!" you heard someone enter the store as Tribbie greeted them. Who could it be?

"Hi everyone, guess what? I managed to bring Midey to help bring the stuff this time," a good-sounding voice cheerfully responded, followed by a gruff,

"...Uff, just because I lost a bet, Deliverer," another grumpy voice responded. A laugh escaped the lips of the little lady.

You'd never heard those voices before; you were really curious about them, but you had other matters to take care of as you huffed.

"This stupid basket," you muttered once again, adjusting the basket in your arms. The thing was heavier than you thought.

"Talk about the devil!" you heard Aglaea greet. "I just asked our (Y/N) to make room in the storeroom." She got off the mannequin and made her way to the entrance where the voices came from. "And since you came early, you could help, right?" she said in a nice but strict tone, almost as if she were demanding more than asking. You knew that tone far too well; she always used it with you when you messed up.

"Yes, of course," the nice voice responded, laughing nervously.

As you were walking backwards, you didn't realize how close you were to bumping into someone. No matter how careful you were trying to be, it was inevitable, and soon your back felt the presence of the guy who was talking to Aglaea.

"Whoa, be careful now. Are you trying to intimidate me with that big pile of cloth?" the nice voice said with a joking tone as you felt a pair of hands touch yours from behind. You let out a yelp in surprise.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" you quickly apologized, surprised by the sudden warm touch on your hands.

"It's okay, let me carry it." He said quietly in your ear, making your heart skip a beat. You then let the person behind you take the basket from your hands, finally uncovering your vision.

Your eyes met with a pair of beautiful blue eyes, looking down at you with a smile, his white hair shifting to one side as he leaned to make eye-contact with you. "Hi, there," the man greeted you.

Your cheeks were a bit pink from embarrassment as you smiled at him. "Way to go, (Y/N), nice first impression," you scolded yourself internally.

You sure were impressed by his good-looking presence, not to mention his height. He was way taller than you, so you were glad he leaned down to look at you. You almost lost yourself in his eyes; you never saw such a shade of blue in your life. You mentally slapped yourself into reality.

"Thank you. I couldn't see anything; I didn't mean to bump into you," you apologized once again, fidgeting your fingers, embarrassed by the situation.

Your attention then switched to his friend. He was good-looking and tall too.

Gosh, now that you thought about it, all the people you'd met in this world were good-looking. You suddenly felt out of place by the realization.

"Nah, don't worry about it. You clearly needed help with this," he responded, giving a glance at the pile of materials. "Where should I take it?" you tried to convice him that you could handle it, but both him and Aglaea insisted on letting the white hair guy help you.

You guided him into the storeroom. It wasn't big, but it was enough to contain everything, and it was much more organized now that you were in charge of it.

You'd made sure everything was clean and in order; you could never forget how difficult it was for Tribbie to maintain it because of her small stature.

The air of clean, new fabric filled your nose as soon as you stepped inside.

"You can leave the basket there," you gestured towards a corner of the room, and the kind man soon followed behind you.

"Got it. Now..." He then looked at you, his eyes studying your thoughtful expression. "What can I do to help?"

You smiled at him, surprised by his offering.

"Well, are you ready to do some lifting?" you answered in a joking way, your smile shifting into a smug one.

"Is that a challenge?" A smirk appeared on his face as he teased back at you, crossing his arms on his torso.

"Maybe," you immediately laughed at the silliness of the situation.

This felt like the start of a good friendship.

"My name's (Y/N), happy to work with you," you finally presented yourself, extending a hand out for him to shake.

He smiled at the gesture, taking your hand and shaking it.

"I'm Phainon. The honor is mine. Aglaea kind of favors you a lot," he then said with an interested look. "She's hard to impress. I can't wait to work with you."

Chapter 2: Home is Where the Heart Finds Peace

After meeting Phainon, he presented you to his friend Midey. Phainon often drags him around to help with various tasks; they seem to have a rival type of friendship, always challenging each other like a couple of children, seeing them bicker was enjoyable. Aglaea had mentioned they often helped with material deliveries or moving furniture around the shop, and she clearly paid them well for their efforts.

You're starting to adapt to the city of Okhema. People even started to recognize you as Aglaea's pupil or Tribbie's babysitter, which is funny because she was the one guiding you around. You only helped her when she couldn't handle a task alone, and she doesn't seem to mind it; she actually thinks it's a little cute.

You still missed your home. You often caught yourself thinking about your old life: the chaos of every morning going to university, the hellish journey of using public transportation, your study buddies always teasing you for being slow at understanding the lesson's topic, and most of all,

The presence of your boyfriend.

He was the one who always had your back and never left your side. Not being able to see him anymore hurt more than you could admit. You already had come to terms with the fact that you won’t see him ever again and as a result, your relationship was officially done, you only hope for him to be happy, as fucked up at it may sound.

Every time, you struggled to keep your tears in check. It was difficult to move on from a relationship that never really ended in the first place.

A sigh escaped your lips as you thought about the past once again, Tribbie at your side as you cut some pieces of cloth for Aglaea. Your hands skillfully worked through the materials, now used to the job.

"It's the third time you've sighed today, sis. Is everything alright?" Tribbie caught your attention by using the nickname she reserved for you, looking at you with worried eyes. "Is Agy giving you too much work?"

You set aside the materials you were working on, looking at Tribbie. "Everything is fine, I was..." You trailed off, not wanting to tell her the truth, your eyes wandering. "It's just that I'm tired. I'm trying to learn as many things as I can so I can help around the shop more," an unsure answer falling from your lips, trying to reassure the little lady.

It was true, after all; there was a reason why people called you Aglaea's pupil. She was training you so you could work for her permanently. She taught you all the basic things of her job, and you were doing your best to keep up, it was always better than studying for university exams.

You were growing fond of your new job, something you could have never dreamed of in your old world.

A creative job? "You must be crazy, that won't take you anywhere!" That's what you were used to hearing anyway.

Tribbie wanted to press further, not really convinced by your answer, but decided not to for fear of bothering you. "Okay, I understand," she said, "but please don't work yourself too much. Even you need to rest."

After that, you got back to your work, focused on the notes that Aglaea had written down for her new creation. Your hands explored the pages of the notebook you always kept with you since you started working; without it, you'd probably lose your mind. It wasn't easy for you to remember everything that needed to be done around the shop without going insane.

It didn't seem like it, but there really was a lot to do to keep the shop in business.

"What you got there, partner?" You jumped in surprise as you heard an all too familiar voice ask from behind you, distracting you from your thoughts.

"Damn, Phainon, you're going to give me a heart attack one of these days!" you turned around, only to see him laugh softly at your reaction.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he covers his mouth with his hand as he keep laughing

You looked at him a little annoyed.

"Where the hell did you come from anyway?" Just moments ago, there were only you and Tribbie in the shop. Phainon couldn't really suppress a smile at your annoyed face; he had come to like teasing you and seeing your reactions.

You had become close since he helped you in the storeroom when you first met.

"Well, I came from my house, I guess?" he then said, waiting for your reaction, his eyes fixed on your changing expression.

You suppress a smile at the joke. Gosh, you just liked joking around with him, and it was difficult to stay mad at such a nice-looking man. "Haha, real funny. Is that the best you could come up with?" you teased back with a note of sarcasm in your voice.

With no time to respond, Tribbie butted in, interrupting you two. "Can you stop flirting?" sighing a hand on her forhead as she listen to your conversation. "Get a room or something!"

Phainon instantly reacted to that; his back straightened, his cheeks turning a bit red. "No, that's not what I was—" his hands held defensively in front of him as he tried to explaing himself.

He stopped immediately as soon as he heard you laugh.

Something else he'd learned to enjoy about you was your laugh. His gaze focused on your smile, as he was held hostage by the sound of your cute hilarity.

"Come on, Phainon, it's not that serious," you said, laughing and gently hitting his arm. Of course, you were teasing him back. His heartbeat quickened a bit as he felt you touching his arm.

"Well, anyway, I came here to tell you something," he looked at you, his slight blush fading from his cheeks.

"Something you're probably really interested in."

He managed to get your attention. You finally stopped laughing and composed yourself. "Really?" You then looked at him. "What is it?"

Phainon's eyes brightened. "I found you an apartment you can buy," he then said. "The person who lived next to me moved out last week. The price is pretty cheap, and it's pretty close to the shop. Are you interested? I can put in a good word for you with the landlord."

"Wow, that's amazing, sis! You've been looking all over for somewhere to stay," Tribbie said, excited for you.

"Oh, Phainon, that's fantastic news! Thank you so much for telling me!" you said, grabbing Phainon's hand and making him blush again.

"It's settled then. I should talk with the landlord," he said, smiling at you, letting you grab his hand, not daring to move, he feared that by doing that you would immediatly let go, he wanted to feel your touch as much as possible.

So your story moved on. Phainon brought you to talk with the landlord, and you managed to buy the apartment thanks to the money you'd gathered working in the shop. All your hard work was finally paying off. Phainon and Midey (dragged by Phainon) offered to help you move in. Aglaea decided to contribute by helping you decorate your new home, and Tribbie helped you take care of the various documents. You weren't familiar with Amphoreus's laws, so you really appreciated all the help. It wasn't a big place, but it was yours, and it had everything you needed: a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and even a studio (future gaming room cough cough). You couldn't have been happier.

The space felt cozier as you finally finished moving all your stuff in. Midey nodded in your direction. "Seems like everything is in place," he said, looking around, checking for possible missing stuff.

"Thank you a lot, Midey. I couldn't have done it without your help," you thanked him, passing him a bottle of water from the fridge. It was the first thing they'd installed, so you'd put some bottles in there.

Phainon narrowed his brows. "What about me? I helped too!" he said a little offended. "Damn, I was the one who dragged him here in the first place!" He points at him like a child accusing his friend of stealing his candies.

"Well you can't really blame her for thanking me, i brought in the heavier stuff" Midey says proudly looking at Phainon with challanging eyes, "what, Deliverer, feel defeated?"

"Here they go again," you thought, a hand on your forehead as you watched them bicker.

"Oh, look at them, they never get tired, huh?" Aglaea entered the kitchen where everything was unfolding. "The apartment turned out good. Do you like it, (Y/N), dear?" she asked, looking at you, a hand on your shoulder in a reassuring way. She wanted you to be honest with her; if there was any problem at all, she couldn't ignore the needs of her dear pupil.

"Everything is perfect, Aglaea. Thank you so much for the help. I'll never stop being grateful to you; you did so much for me, you have no idea," you said, feeling tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. You truly didn't know what you had done to deserve all of this. Your life some months ago was just ordinary and uncertain, but now that you were in this new world, everything had changed for you. You'd never stop missing all the people at home, but now you were sure that you could never go back. This was now your new home.

"Mom, Dad, everyone, I'll pray for you to have a good life, even if I'm not there with you anymore. I'm sorry to have made you worry about me, but I promise I'll be happy. I'll always do my best,"

you prayed to yourself as Aglaea helped you wipe your tears.

"Aw, sis, don't get all emotional now," Tribbie said, hugging you. Midey chuckled at the sight, amused by your gratitude; his respect for you grew in that moment.

As for Phainon, he was admiring you from afar with a smile. You were so out of his world. He had never seen anyone as strong as you before; he wasn’t sure why but he was drawn to your very being. He knew in that moment that he would always be there if you ever needed anything

You spent the evening together eating pizza, celebrating the start of your new life. Laughs and chatting filled the living room, giving it life.

 As the day got near its end, everyone started to leave one after another. You said goodbye to Aglaea and Tribbie. "See you tomorrow!" you waved them off.

Midey followed right after them. "It was fun.” He simply stated a smile on his face as he look at you with with care “Call if you ever need anything," he said, giving you a firm nod. He gave off such a big brother vibe. "Thank you again, Midey."

With everyone gone, only you and Phainon were left alone in the apartment. The silence settled in as you both say nothing, not really knowing what to say. Phainon's heart raced at the thought of being alone with you.

In your apartment

At night.

You felt a little awkward as the realization hit you. "Well, I guess I should be more thankful to you. Thank you for giving me this opportunity," you thanked him, a bit embarrassed by the situation.

"Well, it was my pleasure to help. I'm really happy with how the apartment turned out," he responded, switching his attention from you to his surroundings, there were still some boxes to unpack but overall everthing was tidy and clean. He was trying not to look at you too much afraid of making the situation more awkard.

After a bit of silence, he finally decided it was time for him to go. "Well, my job here is done," he said as he approached your apartment door.

"Remember, if you ever need anything, you can knock at my door. We're neighbors now, after all." He opened the door as he started to exit.

"Of course, I'll count on you then," you said in a joking way a small smile grow on your lips moved by his words, slowly closing the door behind him.

"Goodnight, Phainon."

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," and he disappeared behind the door of your apartment. You sighed.

What was that about? Why did you feel so nervous all of a sudden? And why did his last words keep echoing in your head?

Seems like this was yet the start of another chapter of your life.

Chapter 3: It started with a beep!

A faint smell of tea came from your kitchen as you poured some into a mug. Some days has passed since you moved in the new appartment, and you were getting used to live there, making yourself comfortable.

You were back early from work, so you decided to relax and slowly finish unboxing the last boxes in your apartment, you left those abandoned in the corners of your noew home, too busy to even remeber about them, but everytime you got back from work their presence reminded you of your negligence.

Most of them mainly contained clothes you bought in Amphoreus you really didn’t have any spare cloths from your world, plus some gifted by Aglaea.

As you opened every box, your home became a little bit more full than before. One box had some books that were recommended to you by Tribbie a little hobby you shared together was reading, seeing the types of books they have in Amphoreus was an important experience for you to understand its culture better; you put them away on the bookshelf, trying to organize them in alphabetical order. You took a sip from your mug every now and then, enjoying the calm of your home. Then you started to put your clothes in the almost empty wardrobe. Your carefully put every piece of clothing in their rightful place, being careful not to crease them.

As you finished putting everything away, you finally approached the last box you couldn’t rember what vwas in it so ou were pretty intrigued to find out. You slowly opened it, being careful not to cut yourself with the box opener. Just as you got it open, your ears were filled by the sound of the doorbell.

Who could it be?

Even if you had an idea of it, you left the box on the sofa in the living room and proceeded to open the door.

"Hey there," Phainon greeted you with a smile. He was holding a pot in his hands, dressed casually in just a t-shirt and some shorts. You smile at him as you greet him back, just as you thought.

"Sorry if I'm disturbing, did you have dinner yet?"

Dinner?

You turned your head to look at the clock on the wall beside the door.

Oh stars, it was already this late? You really took your time with those boxes.

"Actually no, not yet," you responded, looking at him with curious eyes.

"Well, would you like to eat together?" He gestured toward his pot. "You see, I made too much for me to eat." He wore a nervous smile on his face, looking at you with expectation. A nice smell wafted from the pot, causing a weird sound to come out of your belly as you realized your hunger; you were too focused on tidying your apartment to notice.

Your hand flew to your belly, your cheeks a bit red. A laugh fell from the white-haired man, making your heart skip a beat.

"Well, can I take it as a yes?" His eyes were full of hope, knowing fully well that he'd got you just by hearing your "roaring" appetite.

You smiled in defeat, moving to the side to give him space to enter.

"Heh, you got me, food is my weakness," you said, holding your hand in a punch in front of your face in defeat.

Phainon mentally cheered as he made his way inside. It wasn't the first time he'd entered your apartment after you moved in; he'd gotten into the habit of checking on you once in a while, making up some excuse.

This time, it was the "I made too much food" excuse.

"Oh, " he noticed as soon as he entered, "you put away the boxes!" Your place was a lot more spacious. He looked at how you meticulously had organized your books on the shelf in wonder.

"Yeah, I was actually going to open the last one," you replied, approaching him from behind. "Do you want to see what's inside with me?"

He turned around, making your eyes meet. His heart skipped a beat, not expecting to have you that close. He composed himself before answering, "Hey now, are we sure there's not a bomb in there or something?" He joked out of nervousness; he always felt comfortable joking around with you and liked the way you played along every time, like you were meant to complete him somehow.

"Oh, I won't make any promises," you said, giving him a playful wink before you turned around approaching the box you left on the sofa.

"You can leave the pot in the kitchen, Phainon." You finally sat on the sofa, waiting for him to join you. He was a little stunned by your response he didn’t expect to see you wink at him, his cheeks warmed a bit, but he soon followed your command, walking hurriedly into the kitchen.

As soon as he came back, he sat beside you, looking at the box with curious eyes, leaning in to see better. "Well, what do we have here?"

You took the box into your hands “well, we are about to find out”, you place it into your lap, slowly opening it.

"Let's be careful, it might explode," he said, teasing you. You gave him a side-eye, a little smirk on your face, as you finally opened the box, revealing what was inside.

Your eyes widened at what you saw. Phainon noticed it, his curiosity piqued as he got closer to see.

"What? What is it?"

Your hands reached into the box, taking out what was inside. "Wow, this is old," you commented, looking at the backpack in your hands. It was the same one you had when you arrived in Amphoreus.

“A backpack?” Phainon asked a little confused.

For a moment, you didn't move. You had completely forgotten about that bag. Since Aglaea took you in, you'd never touched that backpack again. It was the one you usually used to go to university.

"Yeah, it's been a while since I used it," you responded, opening it. The fabric felt nostalgic under your touch; the familiar sounds of your keychains resembling yoru favorite characters, filled your ears as a reminder of all the times you almost lost it on the bus or in one of the various classrooms in your university.

As you took a peek inside, the firts thing saw was your laptop. You took it into your hands almost immediately, startling the man beside you. He glanced at the object, confused.

"Is that a laptop?" he asked, leaning in to look at it better.

"Yeah," a sigh escaped your nervous lips "I hope it still works."

You opened it, staring at the black screen as you tried to turn it on. You waited for a while, but nothing happened. The battery was out, and of course, you hadn't brought the charger with you that day, how lucky.

You closed it, a little disappointed. Just as you thought you had something that could prove your life in your world, this happened.

"Oh well, it was worth a try…" A sad expression crossed your face.

"That’s wierd" He slowly took the laptop from your hands, observing it as you explained to him what was wrong.

"Hm…the battery is out, you say." He took a moment before speaking, a hand scratching his head, ruffling his white hair. "I've never seen this kind of model of laptop before. I don't recognize the brand name either." Of course he didn't; it was a laptop from a company that didn't exist in Anphoreus, but only in your world. He shook his head with a sad expression. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can help."

"Don't worry about it; it's an old laptop anyway," you said, trying not to sound too disappointed. You took the laptop and put it back in the box for the moment; you really didn't want to throw it away.

“That laptop has a lot of memories and files from…my old life” you tried to explain, noticing the confusion on his face. But that only made him more confused.

"Wait, what do you mean by 'old life'?" He looked at you, his blue eyes observing your face like he usually did when he teased you, but with a look of concern in them instead of his usual playful one.

You really wanted to tell him the truth, you really did, but something inside you stopped you from doing it, like something was stuck in your throat, a sense of nausea crept into your body.

He would never believe you.

And even if he did, what would he think of you?

Will he…hate you?

"Let's just say…that I'm not from here…it's a long story," you managed to blurt out avoiding his eyes. You didn't want him to ask more. He seemed to have understood that when you saw him nod.

But still he wonders…

"Did you lose your people too?" he hesitantly asked, his voice lower.

Lost your people, huh?...Yeah, you could say that. But maybe they were the ones who lost you, or better yet, you were lost, and in the meantime, you lost everything you had, too.

“Yeah, i did, i lost my home and i couldn’t find my way back…”

He looked at you, studying you. Deep down, he knew what you meant, even if you weren't fully saying it. Of course, he didn't know all the details, but he still understood.

He could tell by the way you always found yourself staring at nothing, lost in thought at random times of the day; by the way you looked confused by some things, like you were seeing them for the first time; by the crying sounds he heard through the walls of his apartment coming from yours during the night when you struggled to sleep. He understood because…

He saw himself in you.

Once again he was impressed by you, admiring your efforts, your dedication to your job, and the caring way you were always there for your friends.

"I think I understand..." he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, trying to comfort you.

Silence filled the room. It wasn't an awkward silence; it was weirdly comforting, a feeling you hadn't experienced in a very long time. The only sound was the clock ticking, a reminder of time passing by.

"I lost my home too," he admitted, staring at the corner of the room, filling the silence.

Your eyes widened at the revelation, and you turned your head in his direction. "You—you did?" A look of surprise appeared on your face as you tried to meet his gaze.

"Yeah, the Black Tide took them away from me, it took away my homeland, Aedes Elysiae…" his voice quiet. He took a moment to compose himself; he was trying to comfort you, after all.

The Black Tide. That was the first problem you'd learned about in this world. It was a kind of virus that could take away an entire city of lives in a matter of months. It was a terrible disease—rare, but not uncommon.

You gasped; that was horrifying to think about. You didn't know what to say, so you just leaned into his embrace, resting your head on his shoulder, trying to comfort him back.

A chuckle escaped his lips at your attempt to comfort him, his cheeks getting a little warmer. That sweet part of you made him feel all giddy inside.

"It's okay," he said, looking at you. "We shouldn't be this sad before eating." He gave you a smile, nudging your shoulder with his hand. He proceeded to get up off the sofa, gently pushing your head away from his shoulder and lifting his arm from your shoulder. You already missed the warmth of his embrace.

As he got up, he accidentally hit your backpack with a thud, letting it fall on the ground. All of your notebooks from university classes were scattered on the floor.

"Oh stars," he said, mortified. As you both got down to pick up the stuff from the floor, you noticed something glittery blue emerging from the scattered notes.

No, it couldn't be…

You picked it up from the ground and couldn't believe your eyes. The glittery blue device shined in your hand as it came in contact with the light; it was your Tamagotchi!

"No way! I thought I'd lost it!" you said with enthusiasm in your voice, your hands already working through the smooth plastic of the device, checking for any demages.

"Oh please, at least make this work," you mumbled as managed it in your hands. Phainon observed with curiosity as your fingers traveled through the small buttons of the device, small beep sounds came out of it.

He peeked from your shoulder, his eyes wandering onto the small screen of the device. It looked like you were setting the time.

“Could it be some kind of clock?” he was playing a little guessing game in his head, as you were too focused on the device to answer any of his questions.

"Oh thank god, it still works," you said, bringing the Tamagotchi to your chest, like it was the most precious thing to you. And it was—that was the last object you had from your world.

"I'm glad to see you so happy, but care to explain what is that?" Phainon asked. This day was getting weirder and weirder for him, and he needed answers.

"This is a Tamagotchi," you showed your device to him, a big smile on your face. "This is a digital pet."

Phainon raised a brow at that; confusion hit him once again. "A what now?"

You sighed. He really didn't know? They didn't have anything similar in Anphoreus?

You started to explain to him the magical world of digital pets, and slowly you taught him how it worked.

"You see, now that I've set the time, it's just a matter of minutes for the pet's egg to appear," you showed him how all the little buttons worked, leaning in his direction making your shoulder almost meet.

"The egg?" he asked hesitantly, scratching his head, leaning it a bit to the side like a puppy (which was adorable).

 A constant beep came out from the little device, interrupting you.

"Oh stars, I was joking when I said it could explode!" he said, looking at the device like it might actually explode.

You rolled your eyes at him. You took the Tamagotchi into your hands.

"Here it is, see?" you showed the little screen to Phainon, who curiously looked at it, a spark in his eyes lighting up as he saw the little egg. He slowly took the device from your hands observing it with wonder in his eyes, like a child receaving a new toy.

“So cute”

 You shook your head your cheeks lights up in a bright red color surprised by your thought

“Gosh what was that?”

Yeah, you though he was handsome and a nice man, but that thought that just crossed your mind was different, and you knew it was.

That man was making you feel things you weren’t feeling from the longest time, you were just realizing that.

He leaned closer to you so you could look at the screen too, you were noticing how close the two of you were, making your heartbeat speed up, and your cheecks a little more redder.

The device start to beep again in a more insisting way, making the man beside you jump a bit out of surprise, a bit of panic flickered in his eyes has he looks at you.

“What is happening now?”

The Tamagotchi stopped beeping and the egg finally hatched.

“It’s hatched!” you exclaim with enthusiasm, you both stared at the little pixaleted pet with awe in your eyes.

“Isn’t it cute?” a laugh escaped your lips as your hand find it way around the plastic device making contact with Phainon’s hand that was still holding it, your fingers pressed the little buttons in search of the stats page.

He chuckles softly at your laugh, his hands loosening their grip, allowing you to take the blue device back, the sight of your smile and the sound of your laughter made his heart flutter in his chest, it looked like the tamagotchi came to your rescue since you were sad.

Even if it was a bit strange for him, he has decides to play along with your little gadget, eager to see more of your smile.

Beeping sounds filled the room as you tended to your little pet. Phainon's curious eyes tracked your every movement, trying to understand what made you so happy about it; after all, it was just a bunch of pixels.

"Aww, look how small it is! I gotta protect it with my life," you commented, a soft smile on your face as you watched the little pet eat.

Phainon let out a dramatic gasp. "With your life? That's a big responsibility, are you sure you can handle it?" A boyish smile appeared on his stupidly handsome face as you shot him an annoyed look.

"Of course I can! As a matter of fact, I will officially become a mom, starting from now." A big smile on your face, you looked at him with a determined gaze.

"A mom, really? A single mom in this economy??" he gasped again, his hand flying dramatically to his forehead.

You slapped his arm softly, a giggle escaping your lips at his stupid remark. Laughter filled the room as your little bickering went on. The sadness from minutes ago was completely erased as you both got distracted by the little pet. Yes, it was just a bunch of pixels, but it managed to lift your spirits.

You composed yourself, a smile still on your lips as you now looked at the screen. "Shall we give it a name?"

Phainon shot a surprised look at you, “does it even need one?” his gaze now on the small screen looking at it intensly, “we don’t even know it gender”.

Your eyes widen at that “well, OF COURSE it’s a girl” you say with confidence.

"Really? How can you tell?" Phainon asked, his surprise shifting to genuine curiosity. He leaned in, peering closer at the tiny pixelated creature.

“Well i can just feel it, girls always recognize other girls” you exclaim with confidence, your eyes brigh as you were fully convicend of what you were saying.

Phainon blinked a few times, but he still nods at you, even if he really didn’t understood your logic.

“Well, don’t man have a similar kind of feeling?” you asked noticing his confusion.

“Yes, it’s called common sense” he said laughing.

A hand flew to your head as you rolled your eyes at him, starting thinking about a potential name, for the little girl. There was only a small problem: You were terrible with names.

Your mind daze off to the momories of your poor pokemons, they always ended up with stupid names, you had a pikachu named thunder and even an Eevee named BOB, that was probably a moment of true inspiration for you…

"Okay, okay, what do you think about the name... Pixel?" you said, gesturing dramatically with your hands in the air.

Phainon smirked. "Pixel?" he repeated, trying not to laugh. "Are you sure about it?"

You narrowed your eyes at him. "So what's wrong with it?"

At that, he finally snapped. A childish laugh erupted from his lungs, and he doubled over, holding his stomach. Your cheeks grew warmer at the sight; he was really cute, but you felt a bit embarrassed by your poor naming choice.

"Damn, (Y/N), you really suck with names!"

He noticed the little frown on your face and composed himself, looking at you with a small grin finding your small flaw adorable.

“I’m sorry for laughing, but i won’t let our girl be named with such a name” he looks at the pet on the little screen, it was dumb, but he was liking the idea of taking care of it with you, making his insides warm up.

He thougth for a minute a hand ruffling his white hair making some fall on his face, “maybe we should go, with a name who gives off important vibes, something elegant, you know what i mean?”

You blink at him, a small smile on your face, an elegant name…Maybe you could think of something, together.

“What exactly do you mean by elegant?”

“You know, a name that has meaning, something historical, like Aquila, the sky titan!” Phainon suggest.

 You hummed unsure, you were familiar with the concept of titans, they were basically godsIn your world, the concept of religion was a lot more complicated due to its history; there was more than one, and it was often used as a reason for war. Amphoreus beliefs reminded you more of greek mythology wich you were obsessed about in middle school.

"Maybe calling our pet after a Titan is too much… what if we call her Iris?" You tried to suggest once again.

"Iris… it sounds nice, elegant, but I've never heard of it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

You figured. It was the name of a flower in your world and also the name of the goddess of rainbows in Greek mythology. "It means 'shines' and 'bright' from Greek… it's a language I used to study years ago," you explained, trying to hide the actual origin of the language.

Phainon listened carefully to your explanation, enjoying the shine in your eyes as you spoke. He nodded, the grin on his face growing tender. "Very well then, I like this name. It's far better than something basic like Pixel," he teased, giving you a little wink.

You nodded, satisfied with the name you had chosen together. It was a small thing, but it made your heart feel tender in your chest. You got lost in his eyes; you always thought they were beautiful. They reminded you of the sea, and the sparkle in his eyes was the sun that illuminated it.

Before you could say anything, the device started beeping again, demanding your attention once again. Phainon, as he was also lost in your irises, immediately snapped out of his thoughts, a little blush on his features. "Oh Iris, is SO demanding!"

"I-I know right?" you blushed too as you realized what you were thinking. Soon, your hands met as you both tried to grab the Tamagotchi. The contact sent a shock through your whole body, making you retreat your hand to your chest.

"Oh, sorry," you muttered.

"Nah, don’t worr—" Another beep came out from the device, more demanding of your attention. Phainon quickly took it in his hands, a worried expression on his face, as he took care of Iris.

You could feel your heart beat into your chest, making your hand upon it tremble a bit. It definitely sped up. This wasn't good. You were catching feelings for your dork neighbor, who was also your colleague at the shop and your close friend.

You observe him as his eyes concentrate on the little screen of the Tamagotchi, tending to the need of your little pet, his big and nimble hands were frantically pressing the little buttons, his tongue almost out while he was deep into “worried parent” mode.

Parent huh? Various images of Phainon as a dad flashed into your head. You shook your head frantically, slapping your face with both hands.

“Snap out of it, isn’t it too soon to think about this stuff?”

The little beeps from the button pressing stops, as Phainon looked into your direction, realife washed his face as Iris was good again. “Done, she should be good for a while!” a proud big smile on his face, it almost took your breath away.

“Nice job, digital parent!” you commented, giving him a thumbs up too flustered by your new feelings to come up with a smart response.

A laugh escaped the lips of the man that was giving your brain a shortcircuit, “digital parent, is that how is called?”

“W-well, actually i just invented it” you admit looking away from the sparkling man.

Phainon grinned at the idea, taking care of Iris with you sounded like a fun idea, and maybe a chance to get closer to you, so without thinking he jumped into it, “Let’s do it!” he exclaimed leaning closer to you with exctiment.

Your cheeks immediatly heats up, “wait, what do you mean?” your voice came out a little higher than you inteded. He looked at you in confusion, than he realize how wrong it sounded, now a blush cover his cheeks too “NO! Sorry it came out wrong- What i meant was,” he pause taking a deep breath to calm down.

“Let me be a digital parent with you!”

“A what now??”

Credits:

diverders by: galactic-graphix and cafekitsune

Phainon banner edited by me please give credits if used.

Please don't repost this fanfiction anywhere without consent, DON'T FEED TO AI PLEASE.

[sunsburns]

peace in the madness (i) — john walker

⟢ synopsis. despite it all, you and john walker can make a pretty good team.

⟢ contains. plot from fatws, wakanda forever & thunderbolts*, violence, gore, death, murder, politics, morally ambiguous characters, john is a bad person, the reader is a bad person, fem!reader, slow burn, mutual pinning, reader is an assassin, action scenes, lots and lots of plot and words sorry.

⟢ wc: 14.4k+

⟢ author’s note. this started off as a thirst post for john walker but then i got ahead of myself and now we have a slow burn fic in the making with over 10k words per chapter, sue me. i just beleive john is such a complex character and i needed him under a microscope.

Present Day – 19:04 hrs

“Remember, this is a non-lethal op. Valentina says we can’t have any more bodies traced back to her.”

You shift your weight, the rooftop gravel crunching softly beneath your knee. A slow exhale fogs the air before you for half a second before clearing. The city stretches out in front of you, muted, restless. The sun had just dipped behind a jagged skyline of glass and steel, leaving behind a smeared amber haze. It painted long shadows across the streets below, where headlights flickered to life like fireflies.

Dusk was always the worst. Not dark enough to disappear, not light enough to see clean. But it was your best window. The fifteen-minute gap between the day shift clocking out and the night guards trickling in—eyes off monitors, radios switching hands, attention divided. Just long enough for Ghost and U.S. Agent to breach the perimeter, move fast, and get out clean.

That was the idea, anyway.

Beside you, a slim matte-black laptop sat open in the gravel, its screen casting a greenish hue on your gloves. A thermal overlay of the building two blocks down flickered on display, tracking body heat in faint red pulses. Two of those pulses—John Walker and Ava Starr—moved steadily toward the north service entrance, right on schedule. The building’s schematics hovered in the corner of the screen: lines of data flowing like code through a digital wireframe, green-on-black, flickering every so often.

Technically, Valentina had “acquired” the schematics through official channels. In reality, you knew she had someone twist the arm of someone important who owed her. Either way, it landed in your inbox. You wished she had managed to get access to the live security footage.

You adjusted your elbows against the ledge, the butt of your rifle snug against your shoulder. Custom grip. High-calibre suppressor. Nothing lethal tonight—just tranquillizers and a scope calibrated to tag a guard’s thigh at four hundred metres without alerting the guy next to him.

You had your knives, though, just in case.

And maybe you had real bullets too. You know, just in case.

Through the scope, the world narrowed to a single slice of reality: the street below, filtered in sharp contrast. A white utility van idled at the curb, hazard lights blinking in a slow, steady rhythm.

“You copy that, Walker?” Ava’s voice broke into comms, laced with sarcasm. You could hear her grin. “Means keep the temper in check.”

A burst of static, then a dry scoff. “Please. I’m the most emotionally stable one on this team.”

You smirked, never lifting your eye from the scope. “Anger still counts as an emotion. If anyone’s got a handle on their shit, it’s ‘Lena.”

“I’m more stable than you.” comes his immediate reply.

“Highly doubt that.”

“Wanna bet?”

There was the smallest pause, not long, just a breath, and you were already lining up your next jab when Ava broke in, her voice flat. “Can we not do this right now?”

You bit back your reply. She was right. You’d have all the time in the world for petty back-and-forths and real shoves later, once the job was over, once you were wheels up and back on the jet for a debrief with Barnes. For now, you just have to keep things tight.

You didn’t answer, but the faint grumble of agreement from Walker’s comm told you he was backing off, too. Probably reluctantly.

You glanced at the time: 19:05. “Fifteen seconds to breach,” you said, eyes flicking to the laptop beside you. The red tracker blips show you they were holding position just outside the perimeter, waiting for your go.

“North fence is clear,” you added. “No visible movement on cams. You’ve got a thirty-second blind spot, so move clean.”

You exhaled slowly, steadily. Finger off the trigger, but ready. The soft click of your rifle’s safety going hot was the only sound above your breathing.

The perimeter fence came into view on the feed. “Eyes on,” you muttered, tracking them both as they closed in. “Execute on my mark.”

Ava reached the side door first, already at the panel. Walker kept the rear cover, his silhouette tense and alert.

You adjusted your scope again, with an angle wide enough to catch both targets and the door in the frame.

You cracked your neck. “Three… two… one. Breach.”

A faint static came through the comms—Ava phasing through the doors and overriding the locks, letting John in.

“Entry confirmed,” she reported. “We’re in.”

“Alright,” you mutter and settle in. “Let’s steal a thing.”

The thing is a recipe.

A file. A set of encrypted protocols. A theoretical antidote.

Your objective is to extract archived material once belonging to OXE—an old failsafe from the Sentry program. Apparently, Val kept one copy tucked away in a black site R&D facility, just in case. And now that Bob’s officially on the New Avengers roster, she wants it out of any hands but her own.

She never said why, but the team figured it out anyway:

The recipe is a formula designed to suppress or stabilize Bob’s abilities—not a killswitch, exactly, but something close. A failsafe to reduce his emotional volatility during one of his manic spikes or episodes. Something to keep the Void at bay so that Bob could use his powers without turning into another anomaly.

You didn’t love the implications.

But you liked Bob.

He was sweet, awkward and out of place in every room, but in a way that made you root for him. Like watching someone try to stand up in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet. He reminded you of a neighbour you used to have when you lived in a shitty apartment.

You’d been there during the early days of his recovery. Helped Yelena guide him through the tangled mess of who he’d been and who he was now. Neither of you really had a plan. Honestly, you both just winged it. Gave him space. Gave him structure. Sometimes, you gave him snacks when he looked like he might cry.

Most of it, he had to figure out on his own. But none of you left him to do it alone.

Combat training fell to you because Bucky was too stiff and formal, and Alexei treated every session like a test of manhood and heroism. John tried once—just once—but walked away muttering, “How the hell do you teach someone who can melt concrete by accident?” So you stepped in. You didn’t think you could be any better than the rest of them, but Bob seemed to be learning.

Ava worked on basic life skills and academics with him—laundry, math, and how to boil water. Yelena handled the social stuff: conversations, sarcasm, and the difference between being funny and being rude.

It wasn’t always successful.

You liked to think the self-help books Bucky kept slipping him helped more than anything else.

You caught Bob reading one on emotional regulation over breakfast once, underlining passages with a pink highlighter. You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, poured a second cup of coffee, and read your own book.

“Ghost, keep moving east. You’re coming up on the lab corridor,” you say, your voice low in the comms. “The third door on the right should be the terminal. Look for a glass panel near the keypad—it’ll bypass the sound barrier if you fry the lock.”

“I see it,” Ava replies. “I’m clear.”

“Walker, shift south. You’ve got two patrols on a staggered sweep—one’s off-pattern. If they get eyes on you and hit the alarm, we’ll have a five-minute window before response units converge.”

“Five minutes is plenty of time,” John mutters, almost bored.

Ava snorts. “Is that what the girls you bring to bed tell you to make you feel better?”

Despite yourself, you huff a quiet laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch as John grumbles, deadpan and dry, “Funny. Truly hilarious, Ava.”

“Thanks. I try my best.”

You glance down at your laptop, watching the two red blips moving across the grainy schematic. Ava’s nearing the lab. Walker’s rerouting to intercept the patrols. The building layout’s a mess—half the blueprint’s been Frankensteined together from mismatched archives, with whole sections scribbled over in corrupted data strings. Which makes sense, because Val’s intel is always somewhere between half-baked and legally actionable.

“Still no eyes on that eastern stairwell?” Ava asks, voice tense but steady.

“Still dark. Feed cuts out halfway up the stairwell. Could be lead shielding or just bad wiring. Either way, be ready for when you hit the lab.”

You adjust your grip, gloved fingers ghosting over the safety as you settle deeper into a more comfortable position. The rifle’s cold beneath your cheek, scope zeroed in on the east-facing window of the building complex. Below, the white van is still idling. Its blinkers flash every few seconds.

A flicker cuts across your scope—too fast, too low. Movement. Wrong angle.

Through the long stretch of second-story window glass, you spot Walker moving just as planned, cutting across a side hallway, back hunched slightly to minimize his silhouette, hand resting near his holster.

But there’s another shape less than ten metres back, hugging the wall. No tag on your screen display. No heat signature. No digital marker to tell you what unit they belong to.

The figure moves with practiced precision, tight stance, smooth gait, rifle already drawn, angled for a clean line-of-sight. They’re trailing just far enough behind Walker that he hasn’t noticed. Must be soundless, too. He’d have heard the steps otherwise.

“Where the hell did you come from?” you mutter, adjusting your grip.

You shift your rifle, sighting them down the scope. No insignia, no armour signature. Their suit is matte, black, the kind that absorbs light and bends edges, stealth-grade gear. High-end. This wasn’t in the briefing.

You flick through the thermal overlay and find nothing. Either they’re cloaked, or someone scrubbed them from your network feed entirely.

Your finger brushes the trigger guard. You line up the shot.

And then you freeze.

If you shoot, the alarm system triggers instantly. Shattered glass, body on the floor, muzzle flare from a sniper rifle in a supposedly dead zone, the AI security in this place will wake up screaming. Every unit on-site will descend to its position in less than two minutes. Mission’s a wash. Bob’s antidote, lost.

Too many variables.

You exhale through your nose, trying to slow the rising pulse in your neck. Your finger curls near the trigger, just shy of committing. “Walker—tail on your six. Armed.”

Without hesitation, John pivots. Clean. A soldier’s turn: weight shifted just right, elbow up, forearm slamming hard into the barrel of the oncoming pistol just as the hostile pulls the trigger.

The shot slams into the wall, sparks and marble shattering.

The two collide mid-hallway in a rugged scramble. No words, just kicks, elbows, and desperate force.

You track them both through the scope, struggling to find a clean angle as they slam into the corridor’s far wall, fists flying. John’s back hits hard enough to dent and break the marble tile.

There’s training in the attacker’s movements, but nothing polished. Just raw aggression. A blade flashes once. John knocks it aside. He locks the hostile’s arm and tries for a disarm. Gets a fist to the face for his trouble. The pistol clatters to the floor.

“Walker,” you say again, more urgently. “This is non-lethal. Do not kill him.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he snaps through clenched teeth.

Another thud as the two of them crash into a concrete column. John gets a hand on the guy’s neck and forces him to the ground, but the attacker rolls, swinging a knee straight into Walker’s ribs.

Your hands tighten on the rifle.

Seconds later, the lights inside the building shift, bleeding into crimson. A pulsing red wash blinks through the hallway in timed intervals. Then the alarms scream to life, shrill, high-pitched wails that rattle your teeth through your comms and cut through the silence like a blade.

“Shit.” The word rips from your mouth.

You spin toward the monitor beside you, flicking over to the digital feed. “Ava, babe, I’m gonna need you to move with those files. Now.”

“I can’t exactly control how fast these want to download,” Ava mutters through clenched teeth. “This terminal is running on—what is this, Windows 2000?”

You barely register the sarcasm. Your gaze jumps between tabs and windows, digital heat maps flickering wildly, red outlines of guards beginning to move in a ripple, breaking formation. Swarming. The entire eastern wing is lighting up. You track one group breaching a stairwell, and another cutting toward the lower hall. All of them converge on John’s position.

You drop your eye back to the scope.

John’s still locked in hand-to-hand with the hostile, barely holding ground. The fight is close-quarters, raw and ugly. The man he’s grappling with is vicious—fast, using tight elbows and low strikes. He’s fighting like someone who’s been told not to leave survivors.

You shift your position, adjusting the tripod, trying to align a clean shot. But they’re too close. Moving too fast. Every time you get the hostile in your sights, John shifts into your line—an elbow, a shoulder, a blur of movement that risks friendly fire.

“Give me a clear shot, Walker.”

“I can take ‘em,” he grunts, voice rough.

You watch through the glass as he slams a punch into the guy’s side, but it’s sloppy—his feet are too close together, too flat. A stupid habit of his, one he’s never really corrected, no matter how many times you’ve needled him for it during sparring sessions. You don’t even realize you’re muttering under your breath until the words slip out.

“Watch your feet…”

And sure enough, the hostile sweeps low, catching John’s ankle. He goes down hard, landing on one shoulder, barely catching himself in time to keep from getting pinned.

Your eye twitches behind the scope. “You’ve got twenty seconds until a half dozen soldiers are on top of you,” you snap. “You’re about to be outnumbered, John. Give me a shot.”

“You doubting me?”

“Not doubting,” you say, steady despite the thundering in your chest, “just asking you to hurry up or give me a fucking angle.”

There’s a pause—a grunt, then a huffed breath through the comms as John forces himself back onto his feet. You can see him through the scope, rising with the kind of tenacity only men like him carry—soldier-stubborn, blood in his mouth, grit in his bones.

“I got this,” he growls.

“Sixteen seconds,” you say anyway, flatly. No patience to deal with him. You don’t have time for his ego, not when he is about to be compromised and Ava still has a job to finish. You flick your gaze to the screen, watching her tag blinking steadily in the lab.

“Ava?” you call out.

“Almost got it.”

“Twelve seconds, Walker. Eleven.”

Your fingers hover over the trigger, steady but tense. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remind yourself that even if you did accidentally graze John, the odds of a standard round doing real damage to a super soldier are slim. Still, the thought turns your stomach. It’s not the damage you’re worried about—it’s the principle.

He’s your teammate now, whether you want him or not. And sure, you won’t miss, but John’s too unpredictable in a fight. Sometimes he moves like he’s still in formation, clean and efficient, tactical. Other times, he throws that out the window, fighting dirty, using weight and brute force, slamming elbows, and breaking form. He leans on his strength like a crutch.

“Six seconds.”

The two tangle together again, this time in a headlock. John’s arm is locked around the hostile’s throat, but his footing slips, just enough to lose leverage. They pivot, stagger, and crash into the wall like bulls. You can see the tremble of strain in his shoulders.

You adjust the scope. Grit your teeth.

“Five seconds.”

“I got it. I got it—fuck!”

You don’t wait.

The shot cuts clean through the dusk—suppressed, but still sharp. A brief shudder through your body, a flash of recoil. The bullet punches through the reinforced glass, spiderwebbing the pane in a single fracture.

The hostile drops instantly. Like a puppet with its strings sliced. A dead weight slamming against tile. Head-first. Spine buckles.

John freezes, standing over the body as it crumples at his feet. Blood spatters in a fan across his neck and cheek, warm red across the sweat already beading at his collar. His chest heaves once. Then again.

You don't breathe until you’re sure he’s fine.

“Contact,” you call into comms, “Hostile neutralized. You’re welcome, Walker.”

Through the scope, you watch John pause, briefly, with blood on his face. He glances toward the window, eyes scanning the rooftops like he might catch a glimpse of you. But he doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and bolts down the corridor, slipping into the flickering red wash of emergency lights, boots pounding against the polished floors.

The guards spill in seconds later, converging on the body you dropped. You shift your view, watching them swarm like hornets kicked awake.

Static hisses. Then John’s voice crackles through.

“So much for non-lethal,” he mutters. The sarcasm is brittle, but there’s no heat in it, more of a reflex than a complaint. Then, after a beat, “Good shot.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile, even as your pulse stubbornly refuses to slow, and you try biting down the way your heart stutters in your chest.

“It was an excellent shot,” you correct, smug as ever, already returning to the heatmap where John’s signal is pushing further away from the kill zone. You track him weaving through side corridors, putting distance between himself and the growing cluster of guards.

“Thanks for watching my flank,” he adds, voice faint but clear.

“Yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes with a half-smile he can’t see. “Can’t say I never did anything for you.”

Thirty-four months ago – 18:07 hrs

It was unusual for Valentina to pair you up with someone else during a shadow op. Sure, you knew she had other agents, mercenaries, and off-the-books assets scattered across the country—most of them names you weren’t supposed to know, and faces you’d never seen twice. But she never gave you a job that required backup. She never needed to. You were efficient, lethal, and clean. Whatever assignment she sent your way, you handled it alone.

And usually, Valentina would’ve given you a briefing over the phone—quick, coded, impersonal. Ever since she got Everett Ross arrested, she’d been keeping her head low, her name even lower. No texts. No encrypted drops. Just a voice in your ear telling you where to be and what to do. That was the new pattern.

So yeah, it threw you when you came home and found her already inside your apartment, legs crossed, mug in hand as if she’d always belonged there. You hadn’t even reached for the light switch before she looked up at you with that familiar smile—cool, polished like this was just another Tuesday.

You figured from that moment that whatever job she was about to give you would be different.

The scent of your coffee still lingered in the air. Strong. Burnt. She must’ve made it fresh. Bold of her, considering your kitchen was barely more than a rusted kettle, chipped tiles, and a dollar-store knife set you never used but let your neighbour across the hall, Peter, borrow when he needed it. The couch she lounged on was old, military surplus maybe, something you picked up off a thrift store for cheap a few years ago.

“You know,” Valentina said, swirling the mug with a faint look of distaste, “for someone I pay quite handsomely, this place is a crime against interior design.” She gestured vaguely at the peeling paint, the half-dead plant on the windowsill, and a rug that had definitely seen better decades. “At least get curtains. Or a new couch. God, do you sleep on this?”

“Good to see you too, Val,” you muttered, kicking the door shut behind you. You dropped your stuff with a dull thud by the wall and made a slow beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a half-drunk bottle of wine from the counter. “Always a pleasure.”

She watched you over the rim of her mug, something fond tugging at her smirk. “You know I’m just looking out for you, hun.”

When she stood from the couch, it gave a wheeze of protest. She wrinkled her nose at it with genuine offence. “I can’t believe you live like this. After this job, we’re going apartment hunting. Non-negotiable.”

You gave her a look, wine glass halfway to your mouth, then rolled your eyes and sipped anyway.

Val met you at the kitchen island and casually tossed a file down with the same effort someone might use to hand over a receipt. It slid a few inches across the counter. “Your next mission.”

The confidential folder was thicker than usual. Neat. Pressed. Clipped with that high-grade OXE stationery that always reeked of classified importance. Inside: brief logistics, heat maps, aerial photos of some sandblasted facility in the middle of nowhere. She’d labelled it Operation Ashglass.

The objective: extract a captured OXE-affiliated scientist from a rogue paramilitary cell squatting in a fortified complex along the edge of mountains—ambiguous terrain, west of Durango, Mexico, somewhere that made jurisdiction murky and involvement deniable. It was textbook Valentina: silent infiltration, no witnesses, no mess. Get in, get the target, and ghost out.

She never gave you full dossiers. Just fragments. A hint of motive here. A half-truth there. You’d stopped asking questions a long time ago—unless it was something mission-critical.

And then you turned the page.

There it was. A picture that stood out. It wasn’t the target—it was a personnel profile. Cleaner. Official. Military-standard. OXE clearance and an enhanced physiology tag in bold black text. That face you’d seen before—on the news.

“U.S. Agent?” you asked, brows furrowing.

“Oh, yes,” Val said with a little flourish, finally setting down the mug. She stepped beside you and tapped the photo like she was showing off a school project. “He’ll be joining you. Don’t mind all the printed fluff.” Her hand slid down, fingernail tapping a yellow sticky note beneath the paper. You recognized her handwriting instantly.

His desperate need for validation would be sad if it weren’t useful. Just keep stroking that fragile ego.

You stared at it. Then glanced at her.

“It’s how you’ll get along,” she said brightly as if it were obvious. Then she wandered off, opening your fridge like it was her own. You didn’t stop her.

You stayed rooted in place, one hand still resting on the edge of the file, the other loosely cradling your wine glass. You’d heard of John F. Walker—who hadn’t? His name and face had been splattered across the news for months. The rise and fall of America’s new golden boy. A war hero turned public tragedy, Captain America, stripped of his title, caught on video with blood on his shield.

How embarrassing.

You never knew he worked for Val.

But of course you didn’t. You were a ghost in her network, just like he was. No one was supposed to know who worked for her. That was the point. Still, it was hard to imagine him—the man who’d tried and failed to be a symbol—now skulking around in black ops missions under her banner.

You flipped through the file again. Standard OXE dossier layout, but chunkier than most. Half of it was redacted in black bars thick enough to cover small paragraphs. Still, a few key points caught your eye:

Name: John F. Walker Status: Active Rank: Former Captain, United States Army – 75th Ranger Regiment Service Notes: [REDACTED] Post-Service: Briefly served as Captain America until dishonourable discharge. Current Alias: U.S. Agent Abilities: Peak human physical condition from military training. Enhanced strength via hazardous self-administered Super Soldier Serum. Proficient in shield-based combat. Notable Operations: Led multiple military campaigns with a high success rate. Awarded medals for bravery and service. Prevented terrorist threat on U.S. soil. Demonstrated strong tactical leadership in high-stakes hostage recovery missions.

You read it all twice, then looked up. “He’ll be working with me?”

Val, now elbow-deep in your fridge, pulled out a questionable container, opened it, sniffed, then wrinkled her nose and tossed it in the garbage. “Somewhat. He has his own mission, but your paths will intersect.”

“Will his mission interfere with mine?”

“It shouldn’t,” she said, turning to lean against the counter beside you, “The two of you will drop in together. I can arrange an extraction zone a few miles from the compound. As long as you bring me Dr. Murphy, alive and unharmed, I’d consider it a rousing success.”

“And if someone gets in my way?”

Valentina smiled, slow and indulgent. “Take care of them. Any way you like. The plane leaves tomorrow morning. Seven on the dot.”

You were there by six.

And somehow, John Walker was already on board before you.

When you stepped into the cargo aircraft, the cold air hit first—sharp, metallic, familiar. Walker sat alone on the left side of the plane, smack in the middle of the row, already strapped in with his shoulders squared and his eyes locked on his phone.

He wore his suit.

The one the world had seen when he paraded around as Captain America.

Only now, the colours looked muted—bled out. The blue was deeper, like bruised skin. The red had faded into a muddy maroon, and the white was a grimy, bone-grey shade in certain places, streaked from too many missions and stains that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase. Blood, probably. You could see it in the creases of the fabric, in the weathering across the chest.

There was something unshakeably worn about him.

You took the seat directly across from him, surprised he hadn’t acknowledged you. Not even a glance. Just kept scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world. You watched as he scratched at his jaw, brushing over the faint scruff lining his chin. He exhaled through his nose, barely more than a tired huff, and dragged a thumb lazily across the screen.

His hair was longer than you'd expected, a light, muted blond that caught the edge of the sunrise through the open ramp. It slipped across his brow, unruly and unbothered. His helmet sat beside him, dull and dented, the star on the forehead barely visible anymore.

You turned away and counted your bullets.

Not because you needed to—you’d already counted twice before boarding—but because it gave your hands something to do. Something quiet.

About twenty minutes passed before he finally looked up from his phone. You didn’t move, but you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. The kind of tension that crackled in silence. His posture changed: back straightening, boots planted harder into the floor like instinct had kicked in. You glanced up just in time to catch his eye and the way his jaw clenched. He nodded once, tight-lipped, and you blinked at him in return.

That was it. That was the extent of your introduction before the plane took off.

Neither of you said a word.

You shifted your gaze past him instead, watching a pair of OXE field operators secure crates and compressed tanks into bolted brackets across the far wall. A reinforced cooler unit was strapped down beside them—probably med supplies or something volatile. You weren’t cleared to ask, and you didn’t care enough to guess. The faint smell of jet fuel and steel mingled with cold air circulating through the cargo bay. Somewhere near the cockpit, static cracked in and out over the intercom; it was radio chatter from OXE’s command channel, coded and low.

Your seat was hard metal with a worn cushion, bolted to the frame. No frills. No comfort. You adjusted your knife sheath against your thigh and leaned back.

Walker kept to himself. You did too.

Even if you’d wanted to speak, there wasn’t anything worth saying. You were here for your mission, and he was here for his. Separate, parallel objectives. No need for small talk, or whatever he might’ve been like when he wore the stars and stripes.

You moved on autopilot. Occasionally, you got up to stretch your legs, shake off the stiffness, and check the window. Once, you made your way to the tiny steel restroom toward the tail end of the aircraft—just a glorified metal closet with a drain. He waited until you were seated again before he stood and did the same.

It was a long flight.

Eventually, one of the pilots unstrapped and ducked below the low cabin ceiling, making his way back to you. He didn’t say much—just a nod and a flat “Drop zone in five. Gear up.” Then he was gone again.

You stood, boots heavy against the vibrating floor as you grabbed a parachute from the wall rig. It was a standard stealth issue: black webbing and a well-worn pack with a clean deployment record. You shouldered it with practiced ease, adjusting the straps as you moved toward the rear gate.

You felt Walker behind you a beat later, mirroring your steps.

The back gate began to creak open with a mechanical whine, the hydraulics groaning before the full force of the wind slammed inside. Papers whipped through the air—briefing pages, loose Velcro tags, anything unsecured. Your hair, pinned down before you left, was now fighting its restraints, strands catching in your face. You didn’t bother fixing it.

You stepped closer to the edge, peering out over the yawning drop below. The land stretched wide beneath you, jagged mountain ridges bleeding into open wilderness and fractured stone. Near the horizon, a river carved through the earth like a vein—narrow, silver, and winding. There was a cluster of small buildings there, the hazy blur of an old city built. Just visible in the dawn glow was a tall, narrow building, sharper and darker than the others.

That had to be it.

You heard movement behind you, of boots shifting against metal, a slight creak of worn floor panels, and you turned just in time to catch Walker stepping up close, too close. Instinct had you shifting a step to the side, pivoting until he was back in your peripheral vision. He didn’t flinch at the silent correction—just leaned forward slightly to look down at the terrain below, hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Then he straightened again and shook his head, exhaling sharply before pulling his helmet on. He strapped it tight with practiced ease. “Jesus,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “Never jumped out of a plane before?”

You doubted it. With his record—what you knew of it, at least—he’d probably done a dozen HALO drops. Maybe more.

Walker turned his head to you. “I have,” he shouted over the noise. “It’s just been a while.”

You caught the shift in his voice—slightly raw, not from nerves, but memory. The kind that stuck like shrapnel. You nodded slowly, eyes trailing him in your side view. Taller than you expected. Broader, too.

“I’m Walker,” he said finally, pivoting fully to face you. One gloved hand reached out, stiff but polite. Formal. The soldier’s way of making nice. A true gentleman when he tried. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t have thought this was the same man who tainted the symbol of Captain America in the span of four weeks.

You turned to meet him halfway, fingers tightening around his hand with a steady, even grip. You told him your name. “Nice to meet you, Walker.”

His brows knit under the helmet’s brim. He nodded once, then let go, hand curling into a fist at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I read your file,” he said after a second. “Gotta say, ‘t’s pretty impressive for someone not military trained. Did you come up through S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

You turned your face back toward the open hatch, letting the sunlight catch your cheek. “No.”

“Red Room?”

“No.”

“…HYDRA?”

You gave him a lazy side-eye, letting your head roll just slightly on your shoulders. “I’m not a Nazi, Walker, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His lips twitched upwards and he cracked a light laugh—barely audible over the wind, but you heard it. He shook his head once, a faint breath escaping as he settled his weight back into his heels.

“Just tryin’ get to know you,” he shouted. “That’s all.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have a reply, but because there was nothing else worth saying.

One of the pilots returned, bracing himself against the wall as the aircraft hit light turbulence. He made his way to the side panel near the rear, glancing down at a set of toggles before giving a sharp wave. “Reaching drop zone! T-minus three seconds!”

The signal was enough. You turned, grabbed hold of your chute’s harness one last time for good measure, and then stepped closer to the gate’s edge. The wind screamed past you, drying your lips and stinging your eyes. You didn’t flinch.

You threw one last glance over your shoulder, fixing your goggles into place. Walker was watching, head tilted just slightly. You could feel his eyes tracking you even from across the roar of the aircraft.

You raised your hand in a lazy wave. “Good luck!”

Then you stepped off the ramp and vanished into the wind.

The force of the fall sucked the breath out of your lungs, wind shrieking past your ears as it clawed at every seam of your suit, gravity tearing you downward. The world below hurtled toward you, a blur of ridgelines, lush foliage, and jagged rock—earth scorched by the sun but fractured with patches of greenery. Mesquite trees and ocotillo branched out of cracked soil, the brush scattering along the slopes of a low mountain range.

You shifted your weight, angling toward the drop zone marked in your HUD: a small clearing tucked just below a rocky bluff, just about a klick out from the compound’s edge. It wasn’t much; barely flat; littered with brittle stone, but it was good enough.

You counted the seconds. Then pulled.

The chute snapped open with a whipcrack, jolting your harness and pulling hard at your spine. You gritted your teeth and rode the drag until your boots hit the earth.

You touched down harder than you liked, rock bit into your knees as you rolled, shoulder catching the edge of a stunted bush, but you were up in seconds, chute already being detached and folded tight.

You dropped low behind a rocky ledge, body pressed tight to the ground.

You scanned the horizon and saw no movement yet.

The compound loomed ahead, wedged between the base of a canyon wall and a ridge of limestone hills. Not what Valentina’s file had suggested. Bigger. Smarter. Partially built into the hillside—worn roofs, sand-coloured siding, power lines strung low between towers disguised as agricultural silos. Fields of tall grass surrounded the place, and the gravel path leading in was bordered by fencing and barricades that didn’t look standard.

You didn’t have time to admire it.

A shout cracked through the silence, sharp and panicked.

Two guards crested the ridge behind you, rifles drawn, boots snapping over brittle underbrush.

They hadn’t seen your landing—but they’d heard it.

Fuck.

They weren’t supposed to be there. Valentina’s file had said nothing about scouts this close to the drop zone.

You froze, breath caught low in your chest.

If you moved now, if your boots scraped against rock or brush—they’d hear it. You knew that. So instead, you went still.

Your hand slipped silently toward your weapon, screwing the suppressor into place with one fluid twist. Then you rolled to your back, adjusted your position, and raised the sight to your eye.

They were moving between the mesquite and cedar, their camo blurring against the background. But the sunlight caught them, just enough. You tracked the first one through the scope and squeezed the trigger.

The shot hit his shoulder.

He didn’t drop.

Instead, he turned, shouting—gun half-raised—

Second shot.

Dirty. Right below his helmet. In his face, bursting through the side of his skull. He folded into the dirt like a dead weight.

The second one screamed, already firing as she charged. Her bullets tore the brush inches from your leg. You ducked low, teeth gritted, then surged forward as she closed the distance—no time to aim.

You met her halfway.

Blade out. You caught her just under the ribs, the blade biting deep as her weight crashed into you.

She rolled and hit the slope hard. Gravel tore into her palms as she scrambled to get up.

You tackled her, straddled her chest, and drove the knife in again, deeper this time.

Her scream barely made it out before your gloved hand clamped over her mouth. She jerked once, twice—then went still.

You exhaled and crouched low. Dust curling around your knees.

The quiet came back.

You stood and rushed to the body at the top of the hill. His uniform was cleaner. You could work with that.

You knelt beside the body, breathing steadily now, fingers already working. The man’s uniform was a local military issue—dust-faded fatigues, patched at the seams, boots scuffed but solid. You stripped him quickly, trading your own gear for his piece by piece: shirt, vest, gloves, boots. Loose fit, a little too broad in the shoulders, but it would pass under pressure.

His helmet, which had come last, the interior still damp with sweat and blood, had started to soak the back of it. You didn’t flinch as you strapped it on.

A radio unit was clipped to the front of his vest, already hissing with static. You clicked it once to check the channel.

A radio clung to the chest strap, crackling with static, and you pressed it once to check the channel. Foreign chatter. Spanish—regional accent. You knew it well. But that didn’t matter. You listened, not for words, but tone. Urgency. Panic. Nothing yet. No raised alarms.

You took his dog tags and shoved them into your thigh pouch. Just in case. Insurance.

Your own gear went into the ravine behind a cluster of brush, shoved deep and covered in loose dirt. You kept your weapons, though. The bodies were dragged into the shadow of a low rock wall, out of sight if no one looked too hard.

You scanned the ridgelines in the distance. No sign of movement. No shadow slipping between trees. No falling parachute.

You couldn’t tell if Walker had already landed or if he was just that good.

You doubted it; he didn’t strike you as the stealthy type.

You adjusted the rifle on your back, fingers tightening just once on the sling. Then you turned toward the slope.

From a distance, the compound had looked like a relic—half-sunken and silent, swallowed by the green swell of the mountainside. Vines clung to rusted scaffolding. Concrete blistered under heat and rain. Satellite dishes, three of them, were bolted at odd angles into a sloping rooftop like broken bones jutting from skin.

Abandoned. Or pretending to be.

And that was the first lie.

You moved uphill through the riverbed’s dry seam, low and careful, boots sinking in silt. Thorns tore faint lines into your sleeves. The sun had baked the path to cracked clay, and each breath burned hotter than the last. Your stolen uniform stuck to your spine like wet gauze. The guard’s blood had dried to a tacky smear across your gloves. You rubbed your hand along your thigh to clear it and kept going.

You told yourself you’d done harder jobs.

Val hadn’t said much. She rarely did. Only that Dr. Murphy had been taken—“kidnapped,” she called it as if someone had beaten her to the punch. And she wanted him back. Nothing more.

But the photo she gave you said enough.

A pale man with wire-rim glasses and sunken cheeks, skin thinned from stress and exile. His posture was a question mark. Eyes hollow. An Irish national, wrapped in a name you didn’t recognize and a face that felt too soft and mundane for the kind of work Valentina expects.

You crested the slope and paused.

Closer now, the compound wasn’t empty. Not even close.

The barbed wire was new. So were the floodlights, off for now, but pointed outward like they knew someone might come. Reinforced fences lined the outer edges, looped with security mesh you hadn’t seen from above. No cameras. No tech giveaways.

You spotted a garden first. Neat rows. Bright vegetables. Rich, real soil—someone had been tending it carefully. Too careful for a prison. Too careful for a lab.

A little farther, stables came into view. Cows. Horses. A few goats. Fresh straw.

You slowed.

A woman crossed the yard in a long blue dress, her gait gentle and slow. Pregnant. Eight, maybe nine months. One hand braced her lower back. The other shielded her eyes from the sun as she called something to someone you couldn’t see. Her voice was soft. The sound of it didn’t match anything in your training.

You stopped walking for the first time.

Just a second.

Just enough to feel the shape of something wrong twist in your chest—like a metal hook curling behind your ribs. Were you in the wrong place?

But then you moved again. Knife already in hand.

The dirt trail beneath your boots was narrow and winding, just wide enough for two people. You followed it like you belonged, shoulders loose, pace measured. A shape emerged ahead—a man in fatigues, walking toward you, rifle slung, hand on his belt. No urgency. Just patrol.

He didn’t know what you were.

You dipped your chin slightly in as he approached, a nod. He didn’t return it.

Instead, he squinted. Slowed. His mouth started to open, already forming a question you wouldn’t let him finish. Probably about the uniform. Or your face. Or your route. The sun caught in his eyes.

And in that breath of hesitation, you moved.

The blade slipped through the space between you like breath. You pressed forward, arm steady, cutting across the exposed skin of his throat—clean and deep. His eyes widened, and his hands caught yours too late, reflexes firing only after the damage had been done.

He made a sound; a wet, helpless choke. You caught him before his knees hit the ground.

For a moment, his weight hung in your arms. Then you shoved him forward, over the railing and down the scrubbed hill, where he vanished into the brush. The woman in the blue dress didn’t look up.

Inside the barrier, it was cooler—shadows stretching long beneath shaded walkways and low-slung rooftops. Vines clung to the brick walls in tangled loops. Wind whispered between them, thick with the scent of soil, animals, and sweat.

You kept your head down and slid wordlessly into a small group of guards heading toward a steel-frame building near the centre of the compound. No one spoke. No one noticed you didn’t belong.

It should’ve felt like progress.

Instead, your nerves started to itch.

There were more civilians than you expected—dozens, maybe more. Not ragged hostages or frightened prisoners. Just… people. Unarmed. Unbothered. Some walked slowly, pushing wheelbarrows or balancing crates of food. Others leaned in shaded corners, talking low in multiple different languages; French, Polish, Portuguese, Mandarin, even English, no tension in their shoulders.

Your eyes swept over them. No cuffs. No guards herding them.

Some even smiled as they passed.

It didn’t make sense.

The more you looked, the more it felt like you’d dropped into a place that didn’t match the mission. A compound built into a mountain like a military secret, yet soft with domesticity. Not a prison. Not a lab. Not exactly a village either.

You recognized the insignia on a few patches of the guards—an old empire symbol rebranded into a paramilitary logo. Val’s notes had been vague on who these people actually were.

Then, a gunshot rang out.

Sharp. Clean. Too far off to see, but close enough to feel in your chest. Somewhere on the far end of the compound. An echo down the mountain’s spine.

Everyone stopped moving.

The group around you stiffened. Radios crackled to life. Static turned to shouting. Orders flying in Spanish. There was a breach.

Walker.

That son of a bitch.

Your jaw tightened as the guards broke off and scattered—some charging toward the perimeter, rifles drawn, boots pounding through dust, others ducking into buildings, already shouting instructions to unseen teams.

Two peeled off toward the civilians—or the not-quite civilians, whatever they were—and barked orders you couldn’t hear through the panic.

People started running, the calm unravelling around you.

You didn’t move right away. You stood there, your hand hovering near the rifle strap at your chest, eyes scanning for anyone watching you. The disguise still held. No one here questioned your face, your gear, or your presence. But that wouldn’t last.

The weight in your chest hadn’t lifted since you entered this place. And now it pressed harder. Urging you forward. Urging you to finish what you were sent to do. Get in. Find the doctor. Extract him. No wasted bullets.

You broke from the disbanded group without a word, slipping behind a low stone wall where the vines grew thick and unkempt. Your boots moved silently through dirt and shadow. You pressed yourself to the main building’s outer wall, tracing its curve until you found a utility door slightly ajar. Unlocked.

Inside, the air was cooler.

A damp kind of cool, like the breath of an old basement. The hallway you entered was lined in unfinished concrete, walls painted in faded beige, the lights overhead buzzing softly in their sockets. A bunker of some sort. But it wasn’t the layout that caught your attention.

It was the smell.

Food.

Vegetables. Meat. Something frying. Something human and warm.

You kept moving. Slow, steady. A rifle slung on your shoulder, boots muffled against the floor. You scanned faces as you passed them—some armed, others not. Some men. Some women. Some too young to be either. Some looked like families, ushered into rooms you could barely get a glimpse into by other guards.

You kept moving, and the further in you went, the more it looked like a living space rather than a bunker. You followed the map layout etched into memory—three more turns and you’d be near the wing where Murphy was meant to be stationed. Meant. That word was becoming less and less comforting the deeper you went.

You turned a corner and stopped.

It was a cafeteria.

Open floor, long metal tables, cafeteria trays still left out on some of them, one rocking slightly from a recent disturbance. A refrigerator hummed in the corner. The overhead lights flickered, catching on linoleum floors half-mopped and still wet.

There were coffee mugs scattered across a serving counter, half-finished drinks gone cold. One still steamed faintly.

You stepped in. Slowly. Rifle angled downward.

You glanced at the side wall. More drawings. Children again. You wondered if it was a school, a compound or a prison or all three. A cartoon sun, smiling with sunglasses. Scrawled beside it in crayon: “Dr. M gave us watermelon today!”

Your stomach twisted again. This time, you didn’t ignore it.

Then, behind you—

A voice. Close. Sharp.

“¿Qué haces aquí?”

You turned.

A man in uniform stood in the doorway. Maybe early thirties, pale skin, square jaw, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His rifle wasn’t raised, but his suspicion was instant. You knew that tone. That shift in posture. He was doing the math in real time, and he didn’t like the numbers.

You tried the same trick—rusty Spanish, something casual, something quiet.

“I got turned around,” you said. “Comm’s out.”

His frown deepened. Eyes narrowing. Let me see your badge.” He gestured toward your chest strap.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

That was enough.

His hand twitched—toward the rifle, maybe the radio—it didn’t matter.

You moved first.

You crashed into his space and knocked his wrist sideways with a sharp upward hook. Your blade flashed up and sank deep, between ribs, under the vest, angled through soft muscle. His breath hitched. A raspy gasp tore from his throat.

You shoved him back, hard, slamming him into the metal counter. Your hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the noise as he choked on his own blood. You felt the shudder run through his body, sharp, then weaker.

Blood spilled fast, hot and sticky over your gloves. It pooled at your feet in uneven circles, trickling along the seams of the tile. The gurgle in his throat was louder than you'd expected. Messier.

You jolted upright, and the crackling shriek of an alarm finally kicked in overhead, shrill and sharp enough to rattle your jaw. The stolen radio on your belt hissed to life: static, then screaming.

“Shit.” You cursed.

You heard the crackle of rushed instructions, shouted orders. They plead for backup and medics. A sharp gasp. Someone sobbing into the mic. Gunshots cracked loudly through the speaker.

Behind you, there was another noise. Closer. A chair scraping across the floor behind you. You turned just in time to see a shadow slip through the far door—someone bolting, slamming it behind them.

Didn’t wait to see if the man behind you was truly dead, or if someone else had entered the room, or if the blood still dripping from your blade would give you away.

You ran after that figure.

The door flew open under your shoulder. The stairwell greeted you like a wound torn open in the building’s side—grey, industrial, the air tasting like metal and dust. Your boots pounded upward, two steps at a time, too fast, too loud, but stealth was already dead.

Footsteps above echoed in a frantic rhythm, more than one. You could hear stumbling. A voice muttered something. Then: “Doctor Murphy—come back!”

There.

The building rumbled, dust falling from the ceiling; an explosion. Standard military grenade, you assumed. Screams followed soon after. What the fuck was Walker doing?

You blew past two guards barreling down from the next level—one shouted something clipped and aggressive, but you didn’t hear the words, only the fear behind them. Civilians clung to their sleeves, dazed and panicking, one woman barefoot and bleeding, one man with soot—no, blood—streaking down his temple.

You pushed higher.

And then you saw them. Just a glimpse of a pair of shoes, clean and narrow, more academic than military. Soft-soled. Moving fast. They disappeared behind the door on the twelfth floor.

You slammed the door open, and there was movement at the end of the hall. A figure sprinting, lab coat flaring behind him. He turned his head just long enough for you to catch a flash of his face—pale, wide-eyed. Recognition sparked, and he nearly tripped. A deep, soul-deep kind—the kind that said he knew what you were. Knew why you were here.

You didn’t need confirmation. That was your target.

You charged after him.

His shoulders bucked, and he yanked himself around the hallway bend, disappearing behind a pair of tall frosted-glass doors that swayed in his wake like they were still unsure whether they should have let him through.

You reached them seconds later.

The lab wing.

You tried the handle—locked. A clearance pad flashed red. Denied.

You didn’t miss a beat.

One bullet to the pad. A second into the hinge.

The reinforced glass spiderwebbed—fractured light slicing across your face like veins of lightning. You didn’t flinch. The following shot cracked it wide. The whole pane gave way with a sound like shattering ice, shrill and sudden, followed by distant screaming from somewhere inside.

You stepped through, boots crunching across shards, gun raised.

The space beyond the doors was vast and cold, the air tinged with a faint antiseptic scent. A hybrid between a medical bay and a research lab, containing pristine surfaces, chrome equipment, and overhead lights casting a sterile glow across white tile. It might’ve once been a conference room, or an entire floor converted in haste. Drawn-back curtains hung from ceiling tracks, revealing narrow beds tucked into corners. Machines blinked softly beside them, most unplugged. Others still hummed.

You moved deeper.

There were signs of haste—boxes stacked along the walls, half-open, papers spilling from the edges. One lay kicked over, its contents scattered across the floor. Medical files. A child’s crayon drawing pinned to the corner of a corkboard beside a schematic of a human nervous system. Someone had been packing up. Rushing. Or running.

You swept your pistol across the room, careful, quiet. Something clanged in the distance, a dropped tray, maybe. Another gunshot echoed from outside. Closer this time. A window somewhere behind you cracked violently, a bullet spiderwebbing the glass.

You ducked instinctively and turned toward the sound. A scream from inside followed. Short. Muffled.

You pressed forward, voice low but firm.

“Doctor?”

Your own voice sounded strange in here. Thin. Almost drowned by the alarms blaring on the lower floors.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

The further you stepped into the lab, the more it felt like something was watching you. You checked the corners. The dividers. Empty. Machines lined the walls, humming, blinking—monitors showing idle vitals. Your breath grew tight in your chest. Not from nerves, but from frustration. If he ran again—

You caught movement. A flutter of shadow beneath the wide metal desk stationed near the entryway. Not the kind of shift a draft would make. Something human. Something scared.

You approached, gun still raised.

Another gunshot thundered from outside, closer than before. A thin scream trailed off into silence. You crouched beside the desk and shoved it aside.

And there he was.

The man—older, beard streaked with grey—threw up his hands, trembling so hard his entire frame seemed to flicker. His eyes were wide, wet with panic, mouth moving soundlessly like he was trying to form a plea he’d already choked on. Behind him, a woman sobbed softly into her sleeve, her face pale with terror. And tucked into the woman’s side, a girl—barely a teenager—curled in on herself, her small hands fisted into her shirt, knuckles white. She wouldn’t look at you.

Your finger hovered near the trigger out of habit, then eased off.

“Doctor Murphy,” you said quietly.

The name landed in the space like a verdict. And for a moment, everything inside you stilled.

It was him. Really him. You blinked as if the image might shift or disappear, but the details held. That same sharp jaw softened by age, the faint scar near his left temple.

A breath left you—part relief, part disbelief. You found him.

Mission halfway done.

You dropped your gun a fraction, and let your eyes sweep over him again. He looked… fine. Better than expected. No bruising. No dried blood. No signs of restraints. His clothes weren’t torn, and his posture wasn’t hunched with pain. If anything, he looked… fine. Scared, but he was fine.

Not the version of this man you’d imagined while memorizing building schematics and infiltration routes. You’d been prepared to cut him loose from chains, drag him out of a locked basement, and maybe carry him if his legs were broken. Not chase him through a medical wing like he was running from you as if you were the threat.

Your brows pinched.

“Why the hell did you run?” you asked, not really expecting an answer.

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. His eyes darted between you, the girl and the woman behind him. His body shifted, ever so slightly, like a shield trying to form between them and you.

“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse and breaking. “You don’t understand.”

You stepped forward, boots crunching softly over broken glass, hands lifted in a gesture of peace that didn’t quite suit you. He didn’t relax. Not really. Just stopped trembling long enough to stare like he was trying to find a crack in your expression. Like maybe you’d give him mercy if he begged hard enough.

“I’m here to take you home,” you said, slow and even, stripping the threat from your tone as best you could. You reached up, popped off your helmet, and let him see your face. You met his eyes, trying to ground him as you knelt to meet his level.

You’ve dealt with your fair share of difficult extractions, and you knew that showing humanity allowed them to ease into the thought of your help.

But his gaze slid right past you. Focused somewhere far away, somewhere terrified. His lips quivered.

“No…” he whispered, voice ragged.

“Valentina sent me,” you added as if a name he might recognize would help.

But that was the moment everything split.

“No!”

It was raw, panicked. His voice cracked in half, and his body surged forward instinctively—not to attack, but to block. Like the name alone had ignited something in him. A sob tore free as he clutched the woman and the girl tighter behind him.

“Don’t hurt them,” he begged. “Please. Please.”

You stared, jaw tightening as the pieces tilted in ways you didn’t like. He hadn’t just flinched at you—he’d flinched at her. At Valentina. Like her name alone had teeth.

Your gaze fell to the girl, small, trembling, her knees drawn to her chest like she’d folded herself in half to disappear. Her eyes darted to yours for only a second before she buried her face again. The woman had gone completely still, one hand protectively over the child’s back. Her shoulders were braced for impact. Neither of them looked like they’d been taken hostage.

No shackles. No cages. No signs of forced detainment. Just… fear. The real kind.

You finally put your gun on the ground. You think you have seen this before—his fear and reluctance, refusal to return.

“You ran away,” you said, more to yourself than him.

The doctor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You looked at the way his arms curved protectively around them. The desperate panic in his voice. And—shit—you saw it now. The resemblance. The girl’s nose. The woman’s eyes. The ring.

Wife. Daughter.

They weren’t in your file. They should’ve been.

You cursed under your breath.

You prepped for a quick extraction. For fast exits, bleeding targets, safehouses and helicopters. Not… this. Not families. Not a coward trying to shield his kid from you like you were the monster.

You breathed in deep, chest tight.

This wasn’t what you were told.

“I'm bringing you back,” you said, your voice clipped, hardened. “De Fontaine’s orders.”

“Please—wait. Wait. You don’t know the half of it.” He rasped. “She told you I was taken, right? Right? You think this is a prison? You don’t know what she’s using you for.”

Your jaw clenched. He was making this harder than it needed to be. You didn’t care what this place was—a hideout, a home, a bunker carved out of loyalty or desperation. It didn’t change the assignment. Valentina had wanted this man back, and you were going to bring him back.

And if she’d wanted you to take his family too, she could’ve said that. You would’ve planned accordingly. You would’ve brought more cuffs.

He backed a step when you rose from your crouch and snatched your weapon off the floor with a frustrated motion.

“She’ll kill me,” he said, shaking. “She wants me dead.”

You sighed. “If she wanted you dead, she’d have sent me to do that.” You flicked the safety off for emphasis. “She wants you back in her lab. That’s all.”

In all honesty, you don’t know if that’s true. You don’t know if you’re bringing him back to Valentina’s doorstep just for her to shoot him herself or hire another person to do it. You doubt she wants him dead, though; she wouldn’t have put you through all the trouble to bring him just for that.

“No. No, I’m not going,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under its own weight. “Don’t make me go back. You don’t understand—she’s not just experimenting. She’s accelerating trials. Human trials. She wants to start now. Hundreds of people will die—under her name. Under mine. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t do it.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Because something in his voice stopped you.

Not defiance. Not arrogance. But fear. Raw, blood-deep terror. Not just for himself, but for what would happen if he gave in. If he lets you take him. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie—but the moment never came.

A shot tore through the air.

The woman jolted violently like someone had yanked her backwards on a string. Blood exploded from her shoulder in a wet, arterial spray, streaking across the white tile behind her in a brutal arc. She crumpled with a boneless thud, her limbs folding under her, and a gasp caught mid-scream in her throat.

“Mom!”

“Ciara—Ciara, stay with me, baby, stay with me—”

“I’m okay,” she choked, her face twisted in pain. “It’s just my arm, Kieran, I’m okay—”

You weren’t sure if she believed it, or if she was just trying to quiet the panic that was overtaking her daughter. The girl was sobbing, rocking slightly, her hands fluttering around her mother’s face, too afraid to touch her, too afraid not to.

The doctor’s hands were slick and trembling, slipping as he tried to apply pressure. You could see it in his eyes—he was calculating the damage. Tendons. Arteries. She was going into shock already.

You turned quickly, gun raised, your heart clawing its way up into your throat.

And then you saw him.

Walker stepped through the shattered entrance like a shadow breaking into sunlight. Forty-five long-barrel pistol raised. Seemingly a bit annoyed. Restrained. You knew that stance. You’d used it yourself.

Another shot cracked the air, just barely skimming over your shoulder.

You flinched, and the back of Ciara’s skull erupted like a dropped melon. A hot mist sprayed across her daughter’s face. The woman’s body jerked, her limbs flailing once in some primal response, and then slumped, twitching. Her head lolled sideways, half her face caved in. Blood spilled from the fresh ruin in thick, gloppy ropes, pooling with the rest. Brain matter clung to the tile like wet paper.

The girl let out a sound, high-pitched and animal. Her fingers scrabbled at what was left of her mother’s hair like she could pull her back from it.

The doctor wailed. “No—no, no, no!”

He threw himself over her body, sobbing into the wreckage of her shoulder and chest, pulling her close like he could hide her from the horror of her own death. You saw the way he rocked her, back and forth.

The girl hadn’t moved. She sat stiffly beside them, soaked in her mother’s blood, jaw trembling but silent. Her hands shook in the air, fingers curled and useless. Like she didn’t know what to do with them.

You stepped forward, placing yourself between them and the one who pulled the trigger.

“Agent.”

Walker turned his head, a soldier’s stiff stance in response to being called. Dust and ash clinging to the sweat on his face. Blood streaked down from his temple. It had started to dry there, dark and crusted. His uniform was torn in places, parts of it scorched, the deep blue now a mottled patchwork of soot and crimson. His shield, tight in his arm, was smeared with something thick and brown-red.

You raised your gun, the barrel pointed squarely at his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you asked.

His gaze barely twitched. He looked through you. Past you. His expression was unreadable.

“Completing my mission. What does it look like I’m doing?”

You shifted your stance, feet braced. Your arms didn’t lower.

“Valentina said no harm was to come to Murphy,” you said slowly, words carefully chosen. If he tried to get in your way, you had no problem shooting him down. “That was my directive.”

“I’m not here for him,” Walker said. Then he nodded toward the space behind you. “I’m here for them.”

You heard the words, but your body didn’t move—couldn’t. Not until the soft, broken murmuring behind you twisted into something sharper.

The doctor whispered into his wife’s hair, lips barely forming words, breath catching in his throat. The girl’s breathing was growing ragged now, her gasps shallow and quick, panicked like a cornered animal. You turned, slowly, lowering your gun just as the air cracked.

The next shot hit before you could even react.

It punched into the girl’s chest, a single snap of violence that echoed like the room itself winced. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, body folding like paper, knees giving way before she slid limply to the ground. Her head lolled to one side. Blood pooled beneath her.

Dr. Murphy didn’t move at first.

It was like the world had gone quiet in his ears. He still held his wife in his arms, rocking gently, whispering her name, some prayer or plea that was already too late. But then his head turned. Slowly. Mechanically. His eyes fell on the still figure of his daughter crumpled against the wall, and something inside him broke.

His mouth opened in a soundless gasp.

“Valentina sends her regards,” Walker muttered.

The words felt like gravel in your throat, even though you hadn’t said them. Your gaze dropped to the floor, to the blood painting the edges of your boots. Your arms were leaden at your sides as if the weight of the silence and the gore had pressed into your joints.

You’d done things before. Seen things. You’d killed. Followed orders. But never—never—had you lingered long enough to see what happened after.

The doctor began to shake.

His hands twitched, then clawed at his daughter’s body, dragging her closer, like he could hold her soul in place if he pressed hard enough. His voice came out strangled and raw, a broken incantation of disbelief.

“No... no—my girls—my life—”

His scream wasn’t a cry for help. It was the sound of something tearing in two. A howl dredged from the deepest pit of grief, so guttural and primal it didn’t sound human.

You didn’t look away. Maybe you should have. But you couldn’t.

He pulled both bodies into his arms, one cradled against his chest, the other draped across his lap. His sobs were jagged and helpless, filling the sterile, blood-streaked air with a kind of mourning that left no room for anything else. It drowned the fluorescent hum of the lights, the shuffling of Walker’s boots, even your own thoughts.

And you just stood there. Letting it soak into your bones like smoke.

You were supposed to bring him back alive. But what did that mean now?

What the fuck was left of him?

His life was smeared across the ground—blood and bone and heat barely fading from the bodies he once lived for. There was no man left to extract. Just grief hollowed out and dressed in skin.

“Fuck,” you muttered, jaw tight as you took a step forward. “Doctor… we need to leave. I need to get you out.”

His shoulders convulsed, a sound escaping his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Something feral. A humourless bark of disbelief.

“Leave?” he echoed, turning on you, eyes rimmed red, face a ruin of despair. “You want me to leave?” His voice climbed, then cracked into a full-throated scream. “You want me to leave?!”

And then he lunged at you.

It was messy, erratic—he wasn’t trained for this, but grief had given him teeth. He grabbed at your gun, and though your instincts screamed to stop him, to put him down cleanly, your mission brief roared louder: Do not harm the asset.

You hesitated and let the man land a weak punch on your cheek, which had Walker take a step closer as if to stop him.

The doctor ripped the gun from your hands before the soldier could get any closer, stumbling back on shaking legs. You stayed your stance, hands up in a signal of mercy, your heart hammering, and the side of your face stinging. Walker, of course, didn’t hesitate—he raised his weapon, eyes already calculating the best spot to drop the doctor in one shot.

“Don’t,” you snapped at Walker, stepping just enough to obscure the shot. “Put it down.”

“He’s armed.”

“He’s not a target.”

“He hit you.”

“And you killed his family. He’s just retaliating. Drop the gun.”

Walker scoffed, but he listened anyway, lowering his gun begrudgingly.

The doctor moved between you both now, wild-eyed and trembling, blood all over his coat, his hands, his mouth. He swung the barrel at Walker. “You… you took everything. You killed my—” His voice cracked, eyes darting from Walker to you. “Why would you—how could you—”

“Doctor, please.” You took a breath, steady. Your hands still raised, your body tense.

“Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, the sound tearing straight from his ribs. He aimed again at you this time.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body coiled and ready. If Walker took one step closer—

But he didn’t need to.

Because the doctor’s grip on the gun shifted, he turned it, not toward you or Walker, but toward himself.

He lowered his head, mouth trembling, teeth clenched as his fingers searched for the trigger. Pressed the muzzle under his chin. Closed his eyes.

“No—no, no!” you shouted, launching forward before you could even think.

Your body collided with his just as the shot fired.

The sound rang through the lab like a hammer to steel.

You crashed hard against the ground, tangled with him, skidding across the slick tile. Something warm sprayed across your shoulder. For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe.

The echo of the shot was still bouncing off the walls.

And then silence.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t even know if you could move.

Eyes wide, lungs stuttering, you slowly pried yourself off the doctor’s chest. Your hands trembled as you cupped his face, fingers brushing away blood and sweat, searching for wounds.

He flinched under your touch but didn’t resist—just sobbed, quietly and broken. You turned his face, checked his hairline and his neck, and pressed your gloved hand to his chest. Alive. Breathing. Unharmed.

You exhaled sharply, the relief hitting you like a wave. The gun slipped from his fingers, landing with a clatter on the floor as he curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands like he could smother the sound of his grief.

You stayed straddling him a second longer, sitting upright as your own breath steadied. Your heart still thundered, but at least it was still beating.

Walker rushed into view, fast and heavy, combat boots crunching over shattered glass and blood.

“He’s fine,” you managed, voice thin and breathless.

“You hurt?” he asked, stepping around to study you from above. “Did it hit you?”

You looked up at him, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He squinted, head tilting as he motioned with his shield. “No. You’re hit.”

You followed the direction of his gaze—down to your arm. The black fabric of your suit was torn clean open, the edges soaked through with dark red. You hadn’t even felt it. But now the burn was starting to settle in. Dull. Hot. Sharp around the edges.

A graze. Not deep enough to be dangerous, but enough to sting like a bitch. You pressed your palm to it, feeling warmth leak through your gloves. “It’s fine,” you said again, firmer this time.

Still kneeling, you leaned over to retrieve your gun, stuffing it back into the holster with one smooth movement. Then you turned to the doctor.

“Up,” you muttered, reaching for him. He didn’t respond, didn’t even look at you. His body had gone slack, boneless in grief, still rocking slightly where he sat in the blood of his family.

You grunted, grabbing his arm and trying to haul him to his feet, but he didn’t help—not even a little. Just a sob, a choked sound that made your skin crawl as he caught another glimpse of his wife’s body from the corner of his eye. He whimpered and covered his face again.

You huffed, digging into one of your pouches. “Fine,” you muttered.

The cuffs clicked cold and metallic around his wrist before he even noticed. He flinched when you pulled his arm toward you, but he didn’t resist. Just stared at the floor, wide-eyed and hollowed out. The second cuff snapped around your own wrist, the steel biting against your skin.

“You’re coming with me,” you told him. “Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He sat there, tethered to you, shaking like a leaf in the wind, breathing shallowly through the stench of gunpowder and blood. You watched him a second longer, long enough to see the tears still clinging to his lashes, long enough to wonder how the hell any of this could ever be justified.

“Pull that shit again,” you muttered, dragging him upright, “and I’ll break your fucking nose.”

His legs buckled halfway up, dead weight dragging you sideways until another arm helped steady him.

Walker.

You shot him a glance as he stepped in, sliding his arm under the doctor to haul him upright. His grip was firm, but not needlessly cruel. But it was the look he gave you as he steadied the man that made you pause.

Not a command. Not approval or disdain. Just a nod of his chin.

Then he unlatched his helmet.

You watched as he pulled it off, and his hair spilled free, dark and damp with sweat, falling across his brow in uneven strands. Dust clung to his temples. A bruise had already started to bloom high on his cheekbone, dark and ugly beneath the dirt.

The blood on his jaw had dried into the stubble there, and he clipped the helmet loosely to his belt.

“Place went up faster than intel said it would,” he muttered, voice low and even, like none of it surprised him. His eyes flicked to the ruined hallway beyond the lab. “We’ll need to move before reinforcements circle back.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on the doctor’s wrist. He was barely walking, feet dragging more than stepping, eyes still fixated somewhere behind him—on what he’d lost, maybe, or just the thought of going back to whatever Hell Valentina had waiting for him.

You didn’t pity him.

But you understood the kind of pain that makes a man want to disappear.

“Got a route?” Walker asked, keeping pace with you as you started moving.

His voice was nonchalant. Too casual for a man who had just torn through an entire building and left two corpses cooling in a corner. But maybe that was how he did it—cut quick, cauterize faster. No time to feel it.

“Extraction point’s two klicks west. There's a dry riverbed just outside the ridge—Val set up a drop zone there.”

He gave a grunt, the sound more acknowledgment than response. “I saw a few M-ATVs on my way in. Might still be operational. We could hijack one.”

“You don’t need to stay with me,” you muttered, eyes scanning ahead, boots crunching over broken tile and scattered brass. Your hand burned from where you were pressing into the bullet graze on your arm, warmth still bleeding through your suit in slow pulses. You let go to get a better grip on the doctor.

“I know.” He gave a half-shrug. “Just don’t feel like walking alone.”

You didn’t respond to that. You didn’t know how to. You just adjusted the dead weight of Dr. Murphy, who hadn’t said a word since you cuffed him, and kept moving.

The hallways had gone still now.

All that remained were the wraiths—blood smeared on cracked tile, flames hissing from ruptured walls, shattered glass crunching beneath your steps. A few papers fluttered in the breeze.

You weren’t used to working with other people like this. Not side-by-side, not shoulder-to-shoulder with someone like him. Someone who didn’t ask. Who didn’t need you to explain yourself.

Walker, you assumed, had spent years learning how to work in teams. Probably knew how to cover a partner’s blind spot without even thinking. Maybe that instinct never left him. Maybe that’s why he was still here with you.

You could tell he was trying—trying to be useful, or civil, or something close to decent. You noticed it when he helped you get Dr. Murphy down the stairwell after the man tried to throw himself down it like a live grenade, uncaring that you were still cuffed to him. You’d warned him you’d break his nose if he pulled that again, and when he did, you made good on your word. Walker hadn’t said anything about it. Just grabbed the doc by the other side again.

You wondered if this was his first time getting paired up on one of Valentina’s assignments. If you could even call this a partnership. You’d both been sent in for different reasons. The only thing you shared now was your trip home.

The doctor had gone quiet, dazed and small as he stumbled beside you, cuffed to your wrist. His breath came shallow, nose crooked and bloodied, but at least he was upright.

The silence didn’t ease when you stepped outside.

Smoke choked the air, thick and cloying, fires spitting from crumbled rooftops. Bodies littered the sand, some still twitching, others broken in ways that made you squint. Civilians peeked from corners and alleys, eyes wide, clutching children to their chests as they shrank away from you like you were another weapon aimed at their door.

But no one stopped you. No one dared. Not anymore.

Walker didn’t look at any of it. Not the blood. Not the children. Not the lives smeared across the concrete like warnings. He just kept walking, his shield slung across his back, helmet clipped to his belt, jaw locked tight.

You glanced sideways, just once.

He didn’t flinch at what he’d done. And maybe that was the part that unsettled you most. You’d killed before. Too many times. But you did it with precision. Purpose. A clean exit. You didn’t revel in it, and you didn’t leave a mess unless someone else had already started it.

But him?

You wondered if his orders had been to burn the whole place down. Or if that was just his style.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to hear the answer.

You just kept walking, your cuffed arm aching from the weight of a broken man, the throb in your wound matching the pace of your heartbeat.

The vehicle bumped along the uneven path, its engine grumbling beneath the weight of three people and too much blood. The windows were cracked halfway down, letting in the dry air, thick with dust and leftover smoke. You sat in the passenger seat, your arm aching under the hastily wrapped dressing you’d pulled from your kit.

The doctor slumped in the backseat, quiet, now cuffed to the truck’s grab handles. He seemed to have fallen numb to everything now. Good. That meant it’d be an easy rest of the trip.

Walker kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. His sleeves were rolled up now, sweat and blood drying against sunburned skin. He didn’t say anything for a while. You didn’t either.

Then, without looking at you, he said, “If we get there before o’ two hundred, I might make it back in time for my son’s birthday.”

You blinked. The words felt like a glitch in the moment. So strange. You tried to make out what they meant. But it seemed that he just wanted to talk to you. How funny.

You tried to meet him halfway at his attempt in conversation; you really did try.

You turned your head slightly, eyes dropping to his hand. His gloves were torn and frayed, the knuckles stained with blood; it was hard for you to tell if that was an outline of a ring or not. Was he married? Did he have people waiting for him back home? White picket fence and everything? Or was he lying to talk? He must be lying. It was practically impossible to have a family and do this kind of work.

“Your son?” you asked, cautiously.

He looked at you for just a breath—just long enough for you to catch the flicker in his expression—then turned his eyes back to the road.

“Yeah. My son.”

You waited a beat, watching the side of his face. There was something unreadable there, something tight in the way his jaw set.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Just... surprising, that’s all.”

“How?”

“I dunno. Didn’t expect it.”

“You didn’t expect me to have a family?”

“Didn’t expect you to be a father.” You said, letting your eyes linger on his suit, “How old is he?”

He hesitated. You caught it instantly, the pause was too long, too stiff. You frowned. Did he not even know his own son’s age?

Then he said, “It’s his first birthday.”

You sat back slightly, digesting it.

“...And you’re here?”

His eyes narrowed just barely. “So are you.”

“So what?”

“So, you’re no better than me.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Jesus.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Why’re you laughing?”

You met his gaze, something sharp in your smile now. “I never said I was better than you, man. Besides, me being here is completetly different than you.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m not missing my son’s first birthday. That’s for sure. I mean, what father agrees to work on his kid’s first birthday?”

“One who makes sacrifices.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’m not doing this for free, you know. I do this for them.”

“Right, yeah. You’re the man of the year.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew on. Even the engine seemed quieter, the tension swallowing up the rattling hum between you. Dr. Murphy continued to stay silent.

Walker didn’t say anything else right away. His fingers flexed once against the steering wheel, mouth stitched into a deep frown.

Then he said, dryly, “You got a family back home?”

You froze and shut your mouth. Then, just stared out the window, watching the desert smear past the glass in shades of dust and ash. You didn’t think the kid living across the hallway counted as such.

“Not anymore.”

“Then maybe you don’t get to judge.”

That made you scoff, “You’re the one who brought up your son. No need to get so defensive about it.”

He turned to look at you again—a sharp snap of his neck, hair falling over his forehead. “I was just…!” He started loudly, practically shouting, then caught himself, jaw clenching. “I was just starting a conversation. Y’know? Like normal people do? I don’t need you making up ideas on my life choices, you don’t even fucking know me.”

You shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “Could’ve just asked about the weather.”

“And say what? ‘Wow, look how dry and empty it is here’? Would that have worked better for you?”

“It’s a start.”

He glared at you again, jaw twitching. That almost made you laugh. He looked genuinely irritated as if your audacity personally wounded him. Was it that easy to piss him off? Maybe the father comment struck deeper than you’d expected. Maybe he was just weak under all that bark and bravado.

He threw up a hand in frustration, like the words were choking him. “You’re so—” His voice cut off mid-sentence, strangled. He shook his head, scoffed through his teeth, and turned back to the road. “Never mind.”

“What? Please, do tell.”

“Forget it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

You shrugged, watching him. “Alright.”

“What do you mean ‘alright’?”

“It means alright. End of conversation. Since you want to forget about it.”

He leaned against the window, propping his head on his hand. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

Walker looked straight ahead, deadpan. “Doing what?”

“You’re literally copying everything I say.”

“Uh, no. I’m literally not.”

“Yes, you—” You cut yourself off, biting down on the argument before it spiralled further. Your arm throbbed again, sending a sharp spike of pain through your side. You sucked in a breath and muttered, “Whatever, man.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Asshole.”

He arched a brow. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said asshole.”

“Asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m an asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“How am I an asshole?”

“Because you are.”

“Oh wow. Solid argument. Very compelling. Really makes your case.”

You gave him a sideways look, exasperated. But you didn’t say anything.

He scoffed. “You know what? I should’ve just left you in that compound.”

You barked a laugh. “Yeah, and you’d be what—driving in circles trying to find the extraction point without me? You didn’t even know where it was.”

“I was in the army,” he snapped. “I would’ve found it just fine.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Jesus Christ. Remind me never to work with you again.”

“It’s not exactly a choice.”

“Oh, I’m making a choice. Next time Val tries to team me up with anyone, I’m putting in a request.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“FINE!”

You turned your head back toward the window, jaw tight and eyes burning from more than just dust. Outside, the desert stretched endlessly and uncaring, the kind of heat that made even anger feel like wasted energy.

And yet... it was hard for you to bite it back.

“…dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

part two: check it out!!

[board-af-fanfics]

Between Takes

Chapter 1 (Part 2)

Warnings!: None!

Chapter Summary: Y/N's first day as the newest producer at Smosh Games begins with far too much nervous energy, an aggressively early arrival, and the terrifying realization that everyone here is somehow even weirder in person. Between shadowing Spencer and Alex during a Board AF shoot, getting unofficially adopted by Angela and Amanda, and meeting the surprisingly quiet Damien Haas, Y/N starts to realize that maybe—for the first time in years—work doesn't have to feel like something to survive.

Pairing: Damien Haas x Reader

Words: 4.6k

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. While it features public figures associated with Smosh, all events, dialogue, relationships, and characterizations are fictional and created for entertainment purposes. No disrespect is intended toward any real person portrayed in this story.

Author's Note:

Hi! Thank you so much for checking out my little Smosh fanfic. 💛

This story follows a fictional producer joining Smosh Games in early 2024. While many videos, filming schedules, and personalities are inspired by real Smosh content, the behind-the-scenes conversations, workplace interactions, and overall story are fictionalized for the sake of storytelling. My goal is to stay as respectful and authentic as possible while still telling an original slow-burn romance.

I also spent... an embarrassing amount of time researching Smosh production, timelines, cast appearances, and filming order because I wanted everything to feel grounded in the real world. If you spot a tiny continuity error, just know I probably spent three hours trying to prevent it. 😭

I hope you enjoy meeting Y/N as much as I enjoyed writing their first day.

I had to break this into parts since it was too long to post as one whole.

And one last thing... Chapter 2 switches perspectives. It's Damien's turn behind the narration, and it turns out the new producer wasn't the only one making first impressions that day.

Thanks for reading! 💙

Chapter 1 (Part 2)

"Food!"

Angela's voice echoed through the studio.

Every head turned.

Amanda leaned into the doorway.

"Lunch!"

Spencer glanced at the clock.

"...Already?"

Alex looked up from his clipboard.

"Huh."

"It really is."

Amanda spotted me almost immediately.

"There she is."

Angela pointed dramatically.

"Our lunch hostage."

"I'm beginning to think that's not how friendship works," I said.

"It absolutely is," Angela replied without missing a beat.

Amanda smiled warmly.

"You promised."

"I don't remember promising."

"You smiled."

"...That's legally binding."

"I don't think it is."

Angela gasped.

"She's questioning the rules already."

"I've been here for..." I checked my watch.

"...Three hours."

"And already causing problems."

"I asked one question."

"It starts with questions."

Amanda nodded gravely.

"Then suddenly you're hiding snacks from everyone."

"I don't even know where the snacks are."

"We'll teach you."

Alex looked toward me.

"Go."

I blinked.

"...Really?"

"It's your lunch."

"The work will still be here afterward."

Another thing that would've never happened at my old job.

Lunch had always been...

Eat quickly.

Eat at your desk.

Or don't eat.

"Thanks."

Alex waved me away.

"Have fun."

Spencer raised his nearly empty can.

"My condolences."

Angela pointed accusingly.

"He's jealous because he's not invited."

"I absolutely am."

"You could've been."

"I enjoy silence too much."

"Fair."

Amanda looped an arm through mine before I could protest.

"Come on."

"We have questions."

"So many questions."

Angela appeared on my other side.

"Oh no."

I looked between them.

"Should I be scared?"

Amanda smiled sweetly.

"No."

Angela grinned.

"...Maybe a little."

I laughed despite myself as they steered me toward the kitchen.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

Ian had been right.

Maybe everyone really was nervous on their first day.

The difference here...

Was that nobody was going to let me spend it alone.

The three of us walked back toward the kitchen while the conversation immediately veered into complete nonsense.

"So..." Angela began.

"Important question."

"I feel like I'm going to regret answering."

"You won't."

She paused dramatically.

"...Do you like garlic bread?"

I blinked.

"...Yes?"

Amanda nodded approvingly.

"Good."

"That was apparently the correct answer."

"I don't understand the test."

"There isn't one."

Angela shrugged.

"I just wanted garlic bread."

"...That's somehow exactly what I expected."

By the time we reached the kitchen, it was considerably busier than before.

The room smelled like coffee, reheated leftovers, and something suspiciously resembling instant ramen.

Amanda pulled a salad from the fridge.

Angela triumphantly held up an unopened Lunchable she'd apparently been saving.

"You brought a Lunchable?"

"They're delicious."

"They're designed for children."

"So am I."

"...Fair."

I laughed quietly as I opened my own lunch.

Nothing fancy.

Chicken.

Rice.

Vegetables.

Meal prep.

The perks of spending Sunday pretending I had my life together.

Angela pointed her fork at me.

"So..."

I braced myself.

"...Favorite musical."

I laughed.

"That's evil."

"It is," Amanda agreed. "Answer anyway."

"Depends on the day."

"Boooo," Angela said immediately.

"No, seriously."

I counted on my fingers.

"If I want to cry? Hadestown."

Amanda nodded in understanding.

"If I want to feel inspired? Hamilton."

"Solid."

"And if I just want to have fun..."

I smiled.

"Something Rotten."

Angela slapped the table.

"YES!"

"I knew I liked you!"

Amanda looked between us.

"I have absolutely no idea what's happening."

Angela gasped dramatically.

"You've never seen Something Rotten?"

Amanda shook her head.

"I'll fix that."

Damien, who had been quietly eating beside them, finally looked up.

"I've never seen it either."

Angela froze.

She looked at Damien.

Then at Amanda.

Then back at Damien.

"...What do you people do?"

Damien shrugged.

"Other things."

Keith looked at the table.

"...Is this another theatre conversation?"

Angela pointed at him.

"She's one of us."

Keith looked at me.

"...Run."

Everyone laughed. 

The conversation somehow spiraled from musicals to movie adaptations.

"They butchered Dear Evan Hansen," Angela declared dramatically.

Amanda nodded.

"Objectively."

"I've never recovered."

Keith pointed his fork toward them.

"You say that every time someone mentions the movie."

"Because I'm still grieving."

"You weren't in it."

"I could've been emotionally."

I laughed into my water bottle.

Amanda caught it.

"Oh, good."

"You laugh."

"...I was worried we scared you."

"I was a little scared."

"Were?"

"I've accepted my fate."

Angela pointed proudly.

"See?"

"She's adapting."

Chanse wandered into the kitchen halfway through lunch, grabbed something from the refrigerator, then looked toward me.

"So."

"You're the new producer."

"I am."

"First impressions?"

I thought for a moment.

"...Everyone's a lot louder than I expected."

Amanda looked offended.

"We're delightful."

Damien didn't even look up from his food.

"They're loud."

Angela threw a napkin at him.

Arasha wandered in a minute later.

She opened the fridge.

Looked inside.

Closed it.

"...Someone stole my yogurt."

Silence.

Keith slowly looked away.

Amanda started laughing.

Angela immediately pointed at Keith.

"It was him."

"I've been framed."

"No jury would believe you."

I found myself laughing again.

Not because anyone had told one amazing joke.

Because everyone kept building on each other's jokes.

Nobody seemed worried about looking stupid.

Nobody hesitated before speaking.

It felt...

Easy.

Amanda looked over.

"So."

"How's the first day actually going?"

The question caught me off guard.

I looked down at my lunch for a second before answering honestly.

"...Better than I expected."

"In what way?" she asked.

I hesitated.

Then shrugged.

"I spent the entire drive here convincing myself everyone was going to think I didn't deserve to be here."

The table got noticeably quieter.

Not awkward.

Just...

Listening.

Amanda smiled.

"I think everyone feels that."

Keith nodded.

"I still feel that sometimes."

Angela raised a hand.

"I actively assume I'm getting fired every Thursday."

"You've said that every Thursday for like..."

Amanda pretended to count.

"...Two years."

"And yet."

Angela spread her arms dramatically.

"I'm still here."

Even Damien spoke up.

"Impostor syndrome doesn't disappear. You just eventually realize everyone else has it too."

I looked at him.

"...Really?"

He nodded once.

"Really."

For some reason...

That helped.

More than I expected.

Amanda smiled.

"Besides..."

"You've survived three hours."

Angela nodded.

"And Spencer hasn't cried."

"So you're already ahead."

"I don't think Spencer cries."

"You'd be surprised."

Everyone laughed again.

Without realizing it...

I'd stopped thinking about whether I belonged.

I was just...

Having lunch.

–

After a few minutes lunch ends as Spencer pokes his head into the kitchen. 

"Stealing my producer?"

Angela frowned.

"Legally she's ours now."

"I checked."

Spencer nodded.

"I also checked."

"...Unfortunately she's Games."

Amanda sighed dramatically.

"Fine."

She stood and pulled me into a quick hug.

"Come sit with us tomorrow."

My answer came almost automatically.

"I'd like that."

Angela grinned.

"Perfect."

She pointed dramatically.

"Congratulations."

"...You've been adopted."

I laughed.

"That seems to be happening a lot today."

"It only gets worse," Damien said as he stood, collecting his empty vanilla milk bottle.

He caught my eye and smiled.

"See you this afternoon."

"See you."

The kitchen slowly emptied as everyone returned to whatever they had been working on before lunch.

Angela tossed her Lunchable packaging into the trash.

Amanda stacked her containers neatly back into her lunch bag.

Keith wandered out mid-conversation with Chanse, somehow still trying to defend himself against the stolen-yogurt allegations.

I couldn't help but smile.

Less than four hours ago, I'd walked into this building terrified I'd spend the day wondering whether I belonged.

Now...

I'd somehow been adopted.

"Ready?" Spencer asked from the doorway.

I looked over.

"As I'll ever be."

–

The afternoon passed faster than the morning had.

Without the constant anxiety buzzing around my head, I found it much easier to focus on what Spencer and Alex were showing me.

They walked me through where equipment was stored, how production schedules were organized, who to ask for what, and the countless little systems that somehow kept Smosh Games functioning despite looking completely chaotic from the outside.

It turned out there was a method to the madness.

A very strange method...

But a method nonetheless.

I filled page after page of my notebook until my wrist started protesting.

"You know," Alex said after watching me scribble down another note, "you really don't have to write down everything."

"I know."

"...You're still going to."

"I absolutely am."

He laughed.

"I respect it."

A little while later, another production assistant looked around the room.

"Does anyone have a Sharpie?"

Almost instinctively, my hand disappeared into my bag.

"I do."

The room went quiet for a second as I handed it over.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Not even five minutes later—

"Anybody have hand sanitizer?"

"...I do."

Then—

"I think I scraped my hand."

"I've got Band-Aids."

Another pause.

Angela slowly turned toward me.

"...Hang on."

She pointed at my bag.

"What's actually in there?"

I blinked.

"...Stuff?"

Amanda looked unconvinced.

"What kind of stuff?"

I shrugged.

"The usual."

"The usual?" Spencer repeated.

I nodded as I unzipped the bag.

"Notebook."

"Makes sense."

"Pens."

"Reasonable."

"Portable charger."

"Useful."

"Wall charger."

"Also useful."

"Power bank."

Alex nodded approvingly.

"I like where this is going."

"Umbrella."

"It's California," Spencer reminded me.

"I know."

"First-aid kit."

"Painkillers."

"Allergy medicine."

"Hair ties."

"Emergency deodorant."

"Tissues."

"Stain-removal wipes."

"...Tiny sewing kit."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Angela stared into my bag like she'd just witnessed magic.

"...Is your purse just Mary Poppins?"

I looked down thoughtfully.

"...I've been called worse."

Amanda burst into laughter.

"I love her."

Spencer shook his head.

"I take back everything I said."

"You never said anything."

"I was thinking it."

Alex laughed.

"I've worked here for years and somehow she's still more prepared than I am."

"I just don't like being caught off guard."

Spencer smiled.

"...That's probably going to come in handy around here."

The rest of the afternoon settled into an easy rhythm.

I observed more than I spoke.

Asked questions whenever something confused me.

Made a few mistakes.

Learned from all of them.

Once, I started moving a case of cables toward the wrong storage shelf before Alex gently corrected me.

"Close."

"Wrong wall."

I immediately stepped back.

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize."

He smiled.

"That's why you're shadowing us."

No annoyance.

No irritated sigh.

No passive-aggressive comments.

Just...

A correction.

Simple.

Professional.

It shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did.

–

By the time the day finally began winding down, my notebook was nearly full.

People slowly packed equipment away while conversations drifted between work and whatever ridiculous topic had taken over by then.

Somewhere across the studio, Angela was passionately arguing that penguins could absolutely beat geese in a fight.

Nobody seemed interested in stopping her.

"Hey."

I looked up.

Ian leaned against the doorway, coffee mug somehow still in hand.

"I figured I'd check in before everyone disappeared."

"Oh."

I smiled.

"Yeah?"

"How was the first day?"

I glanced around the studio.

Spencer and Alex were discussing tomorrow's schedule.

Amanda was laughing at something Keith had said.

Someone groaned dramatically after losing another argument to Angela.

Damien quietly carried a stack of game boxes toward storage without anyone asking.

...

"It was..."

I searched for the right word.

"...Really good."

Ian smiled.

"I'm glad."

"I was honestly expecting today to be terrifying."

"It usually is."

"I think everyone made that part a lot easier."

"They're good people."

"They really are."

His eyes drifted toward the bag hanging from my shoulder.

"...That thing looks heavy."

"Oh."

I looked down.

"It isn't that bad."

"...Can I ask what's in it?"

I hesitated.

"You're going to judge me."

"I promise I won't."

"..."

"...You might laugh a little."

"I can live with that."

I sighed dramatically before opening it.

"Okay..."

"Notebook."

"Mhm."

"Pens."

"Mhm."

"Portable charger."

"Mhm."

"Wall charger."

"Mhm."

"Power bank."

"Mhm."

"First-aid kit."

Ian nodded slowly.

"Alright."

"Medicine."

"Tissues."

"Umbrella."

"...In Los Angeles?"

"I like being prepared."

"Emergency sewing kit."

That one finally broke him.

Ian laughed.

"I think you're prepared for the apocalypse."

Before I could defend myself, Spencer walked past.

"What are we laughing about?"

Ian pointed toward my bag.

"She's carrying enough supplies to survive a natural disaster."

Spencer looked inside.

"...Honestly?"

He nodded once.

"Respect."

"If something goes wrong during a shoot, odds are she already has the solution."

I couldn't help smiling.

"See?"

Ian raised both hands in surrender.

"I stand corrected."

He looked at me for a moment before smiling.

"I think you're going to fit in just fine."

Something about hearing that...

So casually.

So matter-of-factly.

Made the last bit of nervousness I'd been carrying all day finally disappear.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

I'd made the right decision.

–

A few minutes later, I stepped out into the evening air.

The parking lot was beginning to empty.

I unlocked my car, slid into the driver's seat, and set my bag in the passenger seat.

For a long moment, I simply sat there.

This morning, I'd parked here nearly forty minutes early because I was convinced I'd somehow mess everything up.

Now...

I was already looking forward to tomorrow.

I started the engine, smiling to myself.

For the first time in years...

Going to work was something I couldn't wait to do.

[unificsation]

operation: v-card જ⁀➴ 1: the game plan

series masterlist

????? x f!reader, 4.1k

EDIT: Please read the teaser trailer first!

🍒 SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, english is not my native language, no use of y/n, SEXUAL THEMES, MODERN AU/not canon compliant, eventual smut, VIRGINITY LOSS (extremely planned), attempts at romcom and girlhood vibes, coarse language, probably wrote new york wrong, original side characters

❤️ READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is able-bodied and has hair

📌 CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: descriptions of past sexual discomfort, nicknames ("angel", "baby"), texting format, a lot of men slander (essential i fear)

💋 AUTHOR'S NOTE: welcome to this new series! i'm so nervous because this is extremely different than the fics i am used to writing. thanks @theworstwolvie for briefly telling me about your nyc experience: one of my favorite phrases in here is "trash bag miasma", which was inspired by that story.

don't miss the thing at the end!

There’s a science to fucking for the first time. Especially with your standards and the not-so-easy approach that comes with it.

You could slut it out and call it a day. Wear a skirt with a hemline so short it’d fool Wall Street into thinking the recession was over. Bat eyelashes at the nearest warm male body like he’s the last one on earth and you’re ovulating. Lose your virginity on a mattress on the floor, in an apartment that has never seen legged furniture in its life other than a single crusty leather armchair in the living room.

But that’s not how you want it to go.

The way you want it to go requires strategy. Precision. Insight. Real expertise on the bedroom battlefield that you can’t simply get from reading slop on r/LetsGetLaid.

You don’t come across intel like that everyday.

But lucky for you, you have the perfect people for the job.

Today 10:35am You changed the group name to please help me get laid 😇

Not a minute later, your phone buzzes. And again.

You quickly switch the vibrate off, suddenly aware of what you’ve unleashed on a mopey Monday morning in the office.

🥊 vicki: oh. my. fucking. god. 🥊 vicki: is it finally happening 🥊 vicki: !!!!!!!

You smile. You could hear her voice through the pixels.

You: you reply so fast lol 🥊 vicki: i’m not a corporate shill like you babe 😍

You met Victoria Choi in collegiate scholars dinner that was executed so blatantly as a formality, you wondered why you or anyone else bothered to show up. She was introduced to you as ‘Victoria’, to which she shot the program director a withering look.

Since then, she’s always been Vicki to you. You quickly bonded with her after learning you shared a taste in celebrity crushes—the kind that waved daddy issues flags that could be seen from a hundred miles away.

Aside from that, Vicki cannot be more different than you in the way she wears her truth on her sleeve.

Where you’re more of an assess-decide-act type of person, Vicki has as much caution in her as there is cocaine in pink cocaine: almost none. No “he looks like he’s kind” or “as long as you’re happy”. She’ll call your boyfriend an ugly horse and question your taste in a single breath.

Whether it’s about politics or the best pizza place around campus, you’ll always know exactly where she stands. Maybe that’s why she’s become one of the most decorated female boxers in LA—her uppercuts are as precise as her tongue.

Which is coincidentally what her flings would say, too.

It doesn’t really matter the type of equipment they carry between their legs, she’d sleep with anyone that turned her on. The bitch has brought so many peoplehome, if she had a shameful bone in her body, she’d be rounding every block the moment she stepped out in public.

But she doesn’t. Not just because it’s not in her nature to, but because she doesn’t have anything to be ashamed about, because she’s that good.

You see three dots on your screen, and then—

🐇 isha: AAAAAAAAAAAAA

You try not to giggle in the middle of the open office space you’re sitting in.

🐇 isha: I’m so happy I am awake to see this! 🥊 vicki: ???it’s like 10pm in kuala lumpur??? 🐇 isha: Not everyone sleeps at 4am like you 🐇 isha: Bitch 💋 🥊 vicki: miss you too 💋

A country like the United States of America barely deserves a surgeon as qualified as Mr. Verghese, but he moved here anyway, and you’re eternally thankful he brought his family with him, which includes his only daughter.

You met Isha—Ishana Verghese—at a sorority party. She stood out among the Zeta Deltas who taught you what sisterhood looked like if it’s punk rock and silver-studded—somehow everyone in that house had wildly alternative tastes, and Isha was the most normal-looking one there. That’s not to say she was ordinary, when in fact she made you feel welcome and heard.

Like a person you knew despite having just met.

The two of you got pushed into the pool together and the rest was history.

If Vicki’s a sledgehammer, Isha is a hairpin dagger hidden in a beautiful updo. A master at subtlety, sharpened perhaps by the pressure of her culture to never seem inappropriate. Yet even in secrecy, she always sends the right message.

And boy, were the messages received. Loud and clear.

While Isha maintained impeccable grades, she remained social—enough to disappear from a function, only to return with a coy tale of her explicit adventure, which always involved a handsome man. It took the edge off from school, she told you once. You appreciate the… attention to detail in her storytelling.

From her, you didn’t only learn the elegant art of reeling it in. You learned how to pan gold from dirt, quality to Vicki’s quantity.

No shame to Vicki, of course. Some of us are hornier than others, and it’s a fact she owns with pride.

Isha’s sorority siren days are over, though. The penitent slut now wears a heavy ring on her left hand and spends these days in Malaysia with her tech start-up husband, whom she loves very much.

🐇 isha: I don’t think I can sleep tonight I’m so excited 🐇 isha: So you’re lifting the sex sanction? LOL You: that’s the plan 🥊 vicki: my precious girl. finally spreading her legs 🥹🥹🥹 🥊 vicki: they grow up so fast huh @🐇 isha? 🥹🥹🥹

After watching one of Vicki’s amateur boxing matches, your social circles aligned like the planets. Vicki and Isha hit it off, and to your delight, they still wanted you around. The three of you ended up becoming so close you drove to Maine in a camper van to spend the summer break together.

You told them about your manifesto on that trip.

Instant ramen, 7-Up, and a starry night sky are key ingredients to deep talk, apparently.

Three principles. Each point an amalgamation of your truths. Demarcated with conviction, backed by reality, and spoken like a promise to yourself.

You had the misfortune of sitting next to a table of boys at lunch. Or luck, seeing as you learned something.

You heard how they talked about girls who gave away their precious firsts. Comparing them like they would trading cards. Player stats in a video game. A terrible string of words strung together that you wished you could’ve unheard, something that sounded like “Jennie M. turns out to be great at oral, but Mia K.’s moans are hands down the best.”

Disgusting enough to lead you straight to point one: if your identity as a person is going to be conflated with what you’re like in bed, then you’d rather not sleep with anyone. Your sexual exploration will not be reduced to fodder for locker room gossip.

Gossip that predictably never seemed to affect the boys.

The double standard of it all.

As if it wasn’t enough that the girls’ reputation suffered while boys could be boys, even the sex itself was lopsided. At least from what you’ve heard.

Specifically, what you heard in the girls’ bathroom one day after gym class, sobbed through hiccups.

“When I told him I’d been thinking… you know… what it felt like to be eaten out, he—he called me gross. Like I’m fucking broccoli or w-whatever fiber they don’t eat enough of.”

You stayed in the stall longer than expected. That moment stuck with you.

And you tried to brush it off as an exception rather than the norm, you really did. Because that couldn’t have applied to all of them, yet once was enough to make you stop giving out chances.

One time, studying for finals with Damian G. led to a hot and heavy make-out session. His guitar-calloused hands were all over you, sneaking under your clothes, and nobody was home—wouldn’t be for hours.

He was tan and blonde, the kind of beautiful that everyone agreed on. And you? Bless your heart, you wanted to try.

Until you remembered the girl in the bathroom. The shakes and catches in her voice.

Something possessed you then. A thought, an idea. You whispered the question while his lips were on your neck. Tried to pass it off as sultry as a seventeen-year-old could: Damian, you feel so good. Damian, would you go down on a girl?

He laughed without answering. A full one, shoulders shaking—then asked if you’d like to wrap your pretty lips around him instead.

An unseasonably cold shiver washed down your spine right then.

You told him you were on your period. A prepared lie. One that immediately lifted his hands off your waist and made him look at you like you should’ve told him before going that far.

You studied alone after that.

Point two was a promise to look for a man whose interest lies not only in humping something other than their pillow.

You’ve always been a big believer of statistics, though the thing with Damian G. left you too flabbergasted to try and widen the sample size. A forty-by-forty-block town only had so much to offer.

Despite how big the sky looked from the front porch, you felt how small it was.

The way there was always someone watching. The way everybody knew everyone and everything. How Lisa L.’s mother would find out about your test results and told your mother before you even got the chance to.

It was stifling.

There was a world beyond those hundred and sixty blocks, one that you were adamant on seeing no matter what, but it was never just about bigger sample sizes or higher success rates. Your very soul had no space for the life that place had to offer. No room for a high school sweetheart that would spend all his Sundays with you and propose with a blade of grass. Not when all you wanted to do was leave.

You thought of the kind of love some of your childhood friends ended up in. The kind that’s local and lasts forever.

Maybe in another life, where you aren’t so cynical.

And so point three was born: you’d honor the ‘exploration’ part of ‘sexual exploration’. Do it when you have the space to, instead of binding yourself to silly limitations and the fear of consequence.

You’re glad you waited. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have these two to help you.

You: quit joking around or i’ll change my mind 🥊 vicki: IM AT YOUR SERVICE MAAM 🥊 vicki: i would’ve already slept w u if you were gay mwah 💋 🐇 isha: We know. You wouldn’t fucking shut up about it in college. 🥊 vicki: i’d bang you too @🐇 isha 🐇 isha: @🥊 vicki Thanks but respectfully this isn’t about you 🐇 isha: @ You I think you have to pat yourself on the back, angel! You fulfilled your own insane requirements 👍🏾 Couldn’t be me

Right. The requirements. They’re extensions of your principles, built-in rails to make sure you weren’t selling yourself short. You mentally run through the list as you have for the last few years.

They’re quite simple.

1) Move somewhere big and sprawling.

Check—you stayed in New York post-university, overpriced smoothies and trash bag miasma be damned.

2) Cultivate self-respect.

…Okay, so they’re not all that simple, but you broke it down into steps.

2) Cultivate self-respect, by:

getting a job with decent pay and basic insurance (check, though you’ve only been pretending to work this morning)

learning to trust and honor your people instincts (checked when you quit your previous job citing red flags, which in corporate speak is “a culture and vision that isn’t the right fit for you in the long term”)

being comfortable making demands (check: you no longer feel guilty telling the waiter you specifically asked for no pickles. Baby steps to asking a guy to fuck you, right?)

being comfortable in your own skin

So that last one was not assimple as returning your wrong order to the kitchen, but it is the most essential. If you’re going to get laid, you need to be ready for at least the physical part of you to be perceived (yuck).

You’re not going to let yourself be demolished by one vague comment about your tummy. Especially not by some rando.

You: over the past three months I’ve averaged about five really bad negative self-talk days per month (≥7/10) and they’ve consistently occurred right before my period. so You: yes, i think i fulfilled my own crazy requirements 🥊 vicki: asdhajsld you’re counting??? nerd 🥊 vicki: ≥ 🥊 vicki: didn’t know how to type that on my phone 🥊 vicki: share link to spreadsheet? 👉🏻👈🏻 You: it’s a journal actually You: also tracking it is the only way for me to find out if i’m meeting the requirements 😡 🥊 vicki: never fucking change bestie 🐇 isha: MY SHAYLAAAA 😩 🐇 isha: A thousand kisses on your forehead 🐇 isha: That’s genuinely amazing and I hope you know I’m so damn proud of you ❤️ You: thank you 😭🫂 🥊 vicki: ok now that you cured your self-loathing what’s the game plan?

That’s Vicki for you. Always looking for the next course of action to latch on to.

You: here’s what i have in mind, please tell me if i’m delusional :)

The game plan is in a fucking Google Doc. The two of them are all over it the moment you sent the link.

It’s neat. There’s a table of contents. The titles are collapsible and you put emojis in front of them to make skimming easier.

It looks more like a friendly FAQ than a Type A guide on how to get laid with standards. A document that supports your plan to simply… get out there, find a suitable man, and get laid.

If someone other than Vicki and Isha were to read it, they would think you’re neurotic, a psychopath, or both. But your friends know this is just your standard level of organization. You’re the kind of person that makes everything a side project.

And it feels… kind of good, actually. Like you’re in control.

Since you made up your mind, you feel like a predator who’s not hungry. Just hunting for fun.

The game plan has three main headings.

A. Location

Even an amateur would know that location is a critical aspect of looking for the right type of subject. Yes, you’re calling potential hook-ups ‘subject’ like an undercover unsanctioned scientist.

Deer live in the woods. Divorced men frequent Chester’s Steakhouse in Midtown.

Listed under this heading are links of places you either plan on checking out or have checked out before, all of them possible places for bumping into someone decent. Bars, clubs, snooker halls, book clubs.

Okay, that last one may not be related to losing your virginity, but the reading material looked interesting.

The ones you’ve visited have remarks under them, not more than a hundred words. You note the time and date of visit. You wrote about the bartender and if they were nice, whether this place does angel shots, the types of music they play and the crowd they bring in.

Useful things to know when you decide to go for it. More of a field report than a review.

Vicki brought up Tinder as an easy solve and you shot her down quick.

Dating apps enable liars. You surmise this after downloading five of them onto your phone and spending an entire Wednesday night browsing the marketplace. It’s too suspicious. Too easy. Who’s to say their bio isn’t AI-generated? Their photo?

Obviously, you signed up with a fake face and name.

You protest the dating app idea in the group phone call later that night, vehemently defending your ‘meet someone IRL and bang them’ methodology while putting lotion on your legs.

“I’m just saying, judging strangers is easier than judging a person I’ve texted a week. Easier to spot an act when the meeting isn’t premeditated.”

Isha laughs. “Then you better be ready not to put up an act yourself, Miss Authenticity.”

You roll your eyes as if she could see you. “I’m not going to be a hundred percent me, but that doesn’t mean I’m performing a character. Isn’t this like, 90% of all human interaction?”

“I know,” she says, no tease in her voice this time. “And you’re good at that—giving us just enough of yourself. You keep people interested. And you are an interesting person beyond your first impressions.”

“Worked on us, didn’t it, angel baby?” Vicki jokes.

“Thanks, you two,” you sigh, “but I’m not looking for a boyfriend, I’m looking for a fuck.”

Isha tuts on the other end of the line.

“No, you’re looking for a great fuck. There’s a difference. Remember that.”

B. General Knowledge

Vicki cackled at this heading and compared it to a secret porn folder on a family computer, even though what’s inside is a digital equivalent of a multimedia scrapbook—definitely not as organized as Locations.

There’s a link to a paper titled Benefits of Hooking Up: Self-Reports from First-Year College Women. A megathread on r/FemaleDatingStrategies on how to tell if a man is good in bed, specifically the detailed comment from 2019 that you still find useful today. A Glamour article.

Your friends have a ball roasting you. Actually, it’s just Vicki.

“5 Sex, Kissing, and Hooking-Up Basics Every Woman and Man Should Know?” Vicki howls, tickled and deranged. “This is a new low for you, babe!”

“Go easy on her, Vick.”

“It’s been a while since I made out, okay? Just a refresher.”

“Okay, first of all, if you want a refresher, fucking go make out instead of reading articles like this,” Vicki barks mercilessly, knowing how right she is, “and second, when was your last time even?”

You hum. “Some new year’s party last year.”

“Oh? How was it?” Isha chirps. You hear waves in the background. Is she at a fucking beach?

You sigh.

“He looked like a dog that wanted a forever home. New year’s tend to do that to people. I wasn’t that into him.”

Seagulls. Isha is definitely at a beach. “Was he a good kisser at least?”

“No, his teeth kept knocking into mine. Like they wanna fight.”

Vicki huffs. “Damn.”

“At least you’ve learned what not to do,” Isha giggles.

Needless to say, after that call, the General Knowledge section of your info bank got filled up fast and filthy.

In less than an hour, Isha populated the page with three thousand words on topics that range from Advanced Flirting to Sex Positions I Think You Might Be Good At! (Beginner Friendly) as if she had them pinned in her Notes app all along.

And in true Isha fashion, the bullet points are graphic. You skim past words like ‘consecutive orgasms’ and ‘pelvic floor workout’.

Meanwhile, Vicki dumps 23 PornHub links under the title they’re not faking it 👀and a YouTube video.

5 Self-Defense Moves Every Woman Should Know.

That’s sweet. And sobering.

She leaves an inline comment that makes you smile: “why do these lists always come in five? 🤷🏻‍♀️”

C. Subject

Because you’re not going to type all seventeen characters in ‘potential hook-up’ every time you write about this allusive figure.

This section is completely empty.

Because you don’t know what kind of man you’re looking for.

At one point it was a terrifying thought, not knowing your preferences, since it invited another more terrifying thought: how could you make sure you get the experience you know you deserve if you don’t even know what you want?

A boy who’s jacked and kind? A man that puts you in a mean headlock and calls you names? Gun to your head and asked to pick, you’d be dead.

But these days, with Vicki and Isha sharing their own experiences before they were experienced and the three of you just… talking more in general, you start to feel better about it. The fear of the unknown is replaced with a gentle curiosity.

That now is a time for exploration, like you promised yourself. And there’s plenty to explore in New York City.

Isn’t that the most exciting part of it all? Not knowing whose lap you’ll end up in? Discovering parts of yourself through ways that are, like it or not, out of your control? Knowing that your expectations won’t mean shit when reality slaps—and even so, hoping that reality could be better?

God, Isha’s optimism is rubbing off on you.

You just hope he’s not a serial killer that eats girls.

Three weeks and one very long to-do list later, you’re finally ready.

You scouted every bar and club you humanly could, noting every sensation like you worked in Cosmopolitan and they were going to fire you if you didn’t produce the most definitive hangout place listicle in the history of lifestyle journalism.

You read every single word Isha wrote. Never raised a brow at the I Do Not Recommend and Absolutely Do Not Attempt sections. Absorbed wisdom all the written word and illustrated images could possibly offer. Asked questions like “wtf does drawing figure 8s with your hips mean??”

And Vicki. Boy, was she out to get you. She texted you pop quizzes all the damn time, like you borrowed money and she came to collect.

🥊 vicki: pressing the woman's the lower belly. why do it You: vicki it’s tuesday morning 🥊 vicki: it’s a sex test answer the damn question virgin!!! You: @🐇 isha omg vicki just called me a slur 🫵🫵🫵 You: something about stimulating the g spot 🥊 vicki: good girl 💋

Not only that. Every time you marked a they’re not faking it 👀 video as ‘watched’, Vicky would add two new ones.

You felt the need to apologize to the seventeen-year-old PornHub Graduates, because look who became one, too. Watching all that fucking, not knowing whether it translated to muscle memory or disappeared into a liminal space between your frontal and temporal lobe.

Karma’s a bitch.

And it was educational, to Vicki’s credit. You hear the difference in the moans the most, how soft they are. No overproduced wails. Just breaths, before they crescendo to a chorus of groans and words—unscripted, whispered, babbled.

There was the way they looked at each other too, like they’d do anything to stay where they are. Tangled. Together.

Their eyes are what gets you.

By the end of week three, the Subject section in your Google Doc was the emptiest.

Isha was kind enough to add some cute moodboards.

Inspiration, she said. Collages of hot yet faceless men (it’s the allure of the mystery), places, and random items sorted by their general vibe. Warm autumn foliage belonged in the same picture as cable knit sweaters and bear hugs that screamed size kink. Leather jackets were in the same group as black cats and deliciously veiny arms.

Vicki’s only contribution to that section is a comment: “sorry I literally am the least picky person hehe 👅”

You replied: “nasty (love you)”

So yes, you still don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but you trust yourself more. You’ve felt it before—that chemistry, a connection, a pull. Not often, but enough to recognize it if it decides to come around.

This time, you just need to act on it.

The group calls become a weekly thing now, a regularly scheduled program where you update them on your progress.

“I think I’m ready to do it,” you announce.

Gasps from the other two participants.

“Okay, Lightning McQueen,” that’s Vicki. She’s watching basketball—you can hear the whistle and shoe squeaks through the phone. “Thought you were gonna take a couple months at the very least.”

“You’ve always been a little too studious,” Isha adds. You can tell she’s smiling, all motherly and sweet, which is a little weird given the context. “Are you sure?”

“Mm-hmm. Don’t ask again, though. I might bail.”

“Have you decided on a hunting ground?”

“You sure she’s not the one getting hunted, Isha?” Vicki giggles.

Isha hums. “Hunting, hunted... both work.”

“I’m actually still deciding,” you sigh.

You juggle the two choices in your brain.

The first is a hotel bar attached to The Carlyle on the Upper East Side. Charming wall murals and excellent pisco sour. It’s the kind of fancy that’s not too much—the people dress nice but still laugh with their mouths open. The table charge is worth the music, and although you don’t know who’s playing tonight, you know you’re guaranteed smooth jazz and sophistication.

The second is a cash-only dive between Sixth and Seventh, tended by a former boxing trainer whom Vicki idolizes. Dim lights illuminate a single long counter. Nothing flashy, except there are enough photos on the walls to keep you staring, steeped in history. Its clout means it’s rowdier than the hotel bar, with a potential for crowd that could be good for all your intents and purposes.

Your eyebrows knit.

It’s just picking a place to go. Both are good choices. If nothing feels right, you can leave, simple as that. Try again at the same place next time, or give the other one a shot.

No deadline, no pressure, just fun. Course correction is always an option.

So why does this decision feel so important?

Pick a destination

Bar inside The Carlyle

Jimmy's Corner

Voting ended onAug 2, 2025

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @tezooks @marshmallowmusing @cigars-and-claws @teresas-lisbon @the-quick-red-fox @atyourmomshouse01 @burkayyy @tutifrutiowo @theworstwolvie @themareverine @grumpyahjumma @youronlyonelilly @blunthoes

[sunrizef1]

Baby Blue

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x fem!reader

Warnings: Slight cursing, not edited

Word count: 3.8k (this was supposed to be short 😭)

Summary: Logan had just misspoke, shouldnt have been a huge problem, right? Wait, what do you mean he said he had a daughter? And is that his girlfriend?

Authors Note: Surpise, not a whiv chapter but instead, an uncharacteristically sweet fic.

Logan had fucked up. Royally. And he knew that, which is why, the second the words had left his mouth, he was grimacing, gaze quickly switching over to Oscar who was sat a few yards away with wide eyes.

It was the United States Grand Prix. Austin, Texas. Logan had been put on the media panel that day since he was the only American present and had the most connection to Austin, Daniel Ricciardo not included.

By pure luck or maybe by sheer will, Logan had been sat next to Oscar, both grateful to have a friend next to them. Fortunately, on Oscar’s other side was Max, a driver who’d always been respectful toward the American. Lewis completed the quartet, another driver that Logan wouldn’t have to worry about in terms of kindness.

When the panel started, almost none of the questions were for him. He’d expected that, he wasn’t exactly having an overwhelming season. Especially compared to the joys and successes of the Red Bull world champion or the unexpected high-placing finishes of the Aussie next to him. And his woes were nothing to write home about when placed next to the declining team performances from the 7-time world champion and future Ferrari driver.

So, as he had expected, most of the questions were asked to his left.

But he’d been put on the panel for a reason, and eventually an America-related question did arise, signaling that maybe he would be of use today.

“Good morning,” the reporter calls out toward Logan and he smiles with a nod toward the darkness where the reporters are all sat.

“Morning.”

“How’s it feel to be back racing in America? You have any family or special guests in the garage this weekend, giving you that extra boost?”

Oscar nudges his knee with his own, causing Logan to let out a small laugh as he glances over. He actually did have some special guests in the garage, not just his own family, who’d come from Miami for this, but also, you, his Fiancée. And his 4-year-old daughter, of course.

Your entire family lived in Texas. So whenever you werent following Logan around the world, you landed back home in Texas, the family home being the best place for your daughter to grow up. It helped that your parents loved her more than the world, constant presents being rained down on the little girl every time you’d bring her. He hadn’t seen you in about two months, not having had a time to come back to America since summer. So having you in his garage for the first time in a while was all that much more of a motivator for him.

He raises the microphone to his lips to say a paraphrased version of that, your relationship not being a very public one yet. Logan wanted to get the wedding done before he paraded you around, not wanting to add the stress of the public on your already existing stress from wedding planning and taking care of your daughter.

“It’s always great to get back home, you know? Uh, got to stay with some family out here for a few days, got some good southern food in me, which was great,” Logan laughs lightly, watching as the reporters grin widens, “And it always feels different when you’ve got important people in the garage, cheering you on. People who don’t usually get to make it, so that’s really nice.”

The reporter nods as Logan puts his mic down, but she raises hers to further the questioning, “Anyone specific? A lot of people were curious about a few different people in your garage.”

Logan nods, your family was pretty well known, especially in Texas. You weren’t famous or anything, but you’d grown up like Logan and when people have that type of money, their names get spoken pretty often.

“Yeah, some close family and friends. You’re probably asking about the l/n’s and I, um, knew them growing up so it’s really nice to see them out here supporting me,” Logan pauses slightly. The internet was pretty sure he had a girlfriend, not that he’d confirmed anything. It wasn’t hard to figure out though, as he almost never shut up about you. But it wouldn’t hurt if he mentioned having a girlfriend, right? Everyone already knew that anyway, it couldn’t do too much damage, “My girlfriend’s here, as well. Really happy to have her here, she hasn’t been to a race in a while.”

Oscar snorts, making Logan glare at the Aussie. Oscar knew you were more than his girlfriend, having been present at the engagement. He also knew Logan was leaving out a key family member in his list, a certain baby being completely unmentioned.

“Well it’s always nice to have your family, right?” The reporter nods with a kind smile, jotting something down on her notebook.

Logan nods with a matching smile, eyes shining as he thinks about you and your family in the garage, “Yeah, and I mean, my daughter-“

Logan pauses, stomach dropping as he takes in the slip-up. He glances over to Oscar whose eyes are wide with shock, mouth dropped open slightly. Max leans forward to lock eyes with the American from Oscars other side, eyebrows furrowed. Lewis looks his way as well, but his expression is soft as he takes in the younger man’s evident embarrassment.

Logan had fucked up.

His cheeks are bright red as all the eyes in the room stare at him, questioning looks on their faces. Logan laughs slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks back out toward the reporter who’s now wearing an incredulous smile, “Shit.”

This breaks some of the shock in the room, laughs ringing out from in front of him. Logan shakes his head with another embarrassed laugh, “My girlfriends gonna be so mad at me.”

Logan drops the mic next to him, reaching his hands up to shield his face in order to avoid some of the embarrassment. Oscar, still laughing, reaches over to pat him on the back, his free hand stifling the laugh threatening to escape his throat.

Luckily for Logan, they run out of time before the questions can get back to him and the surprise child he just revealed he had. He’s quick to rush out of the room, only pausing to allow Oscar to catch up before he’s gone again, practically running to Williams.

He can hear Oscar struggling to keep up behind him, shocked laughs occasionally echoing out as he runs.

“Logan- Come on, slow down man!” Oscars calling out toward the blond, Logan continuing at his fast pace. He only slows when he makes it to hospitality, Oscar slamming on his brakes in order to avoid crashing into the taller mans back.

Logans eyes scan the room in search of you, Oscar reaching a tired arm up to rest agaisnt the distressed Americans shoulder.

Oscars groaning as Logan walks off, apparently having caught sight of your family.

“Hi, Mrs. L/N,” Logan says shyly as he walks up to your mom, a sheepish smile painted on his flushed face. Your mom turns toward him with a smile but after taking in his guilty demeanor, she looks at him suspiciously.

“You’ve known me for 18 years and you’ve never called me Mrs L/N,” your mom looks your fiancé up and down, eyes narrowing as she catches sight of an equally nervous Oscar, “What did you do, Logan? And why did you drag Oscar into it?”

Logan laughs nervously, glancing back at Oscar who ducks his head, looking away from the interaction, “Do you, maybe, know where y/n is? It’s important.”

Your mom pauses, suspicion still rolling of her in waves. But, sensing Logan’s urgency, she nods, “She’s in your room with Nat.”

Logan can’t help the smile that shows at the mention of your daughter’s name, sighing slightly with relief, “Thank you, I need to go talk to her.”

Your mom just nods, watching as Logan starts to walk quickly away, moving toward you in his room. Oscar moves to follow but your mom is calling him back before he can take a step, “Stay here, Oscar. Let him go, you’re going to tell me about the season. Either that or you’ll be the one to tell me what Logan did.”

Oscar, having had plenty of conversations with your mother while growing up, sighs, accepting his fate, “It’s been good.”

Logan, though, has made it to his room, opening the door quietly as he reaches it. He smiles once he looks inside, being met with you dancing around with your daughter, music playing from your phone on the table. As the door opens, your daughter looks over, a grin breaking out on her little face as she practically lights up, “Daddy!”

Logan grins as your daughter jumps up, sprinting over to jump into her dad’s embrace, giggling as he lifts her up into the air, clutching her gently to his chest, “Hi, baby. You having fun with mama?”

Your daughter nods, smiling brightly as she turns to look back at you, “Yeah! Me and mama went to see the cars and they let me sit in it! I wanna be a driver like you, dad.”

Logan grins, looking over to where you’re stood, a small smile on your face as you watch the interaction. When you catch Logan’s gaze on you, you speak up, “They let her sit in your car. They told her about how her daddy races every weekend and she decided that that’s what she wanted to do. She said you’re the coolest person she knows, now.”

Logan laughs, warmth filling his heart as you recap your daughter’s words, “Just don’t tell her Oscar races, too. Can’t have her thinking he’s cooler than me.”

You daughter looks up at the statement, confusion crossing her face, “Uncle Os drives fast too?”

Logan hums, nodding as he sways, your daughter resting her head on his chest, “Yeah, he does. He’s not as cool as me, though.”

You daughter hums, “I think he’s pretty cool.”

You laugh, moving toward the father-daughter pair, a serious look crossing your face, “He is, baby. Do you want to go see him so I can talk to daddy?”

Logan grimaces but lets go as your daughter nods, letting you set her down. She wraps her small hand around one of your fingers, swaying happily at the idea of seeing her Australian uncle.

You push the door open to go find Oscar but when you look up, you see Oscar’s already stood there. He looks exhausted and Logan knows that a conversation with your mom was no doubt the reason why.

“Uncle Ozzy!” Your daughter’s small voice calls from below you, causing a bright grin to burst onto Oscar’s face as he picks her up, the small girls hands immediately moving to push against his face. Oscar laughs, moving an arm to support the small girls weight as she pushes his face around.

You smile at the pair, laughing as your daughter grasps Oscars hair in her small fists and pulls gently, just watching as his head rolls around, “Can you watch her? I have to talk to Logan.”

Oscar smirks, glancing over your shoulder to see Logan standing sheepishly, “Someones in trouble.”

You hum, small smile on your lips, “Can you just hang with her for a minute?”

“Yeah, I can,” Oscar says, smiling down at your daughter in his arms, “Anything for my favourite American.”

You hear Logan mumble “rude” under his breath, warranting a snort from you as you watch Oscar walk away, no doubt about to parade your daughter around to anyone who'd listen.

You turn back around, coming face-to-face with Logans grimacing form, “Saw the panel.”

Logan winces, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, “Yeah?”

You hum, stepping across the room to reach your fiance, “Mhm, I did.”

“Im sorry,” Logan sighs, looking anywhere but at you.

You can't help the small laugh that escapes you at his clear distress. Logans head snaps up, confusion crossing his face at your apparent glee, “What?”

“Im not mad, Lo,” you laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. He stares at you, a puzzled look stuck on his previously fear-stricken face.

“You’re not?”

You smile up at him, shaking your head, “I mean, it's not how I would’ve wanted to announce it but I don’t mind too much.”

“Really?” You giggle when you catch the relief on his face, his shoulders dropping dramatically.

“Mhm,” you tangle one of your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, his head tilting slightly back into your touch, “It was nice to be private for a while during the engagement. We didn’t have concrete wedding plans and Nat was so young. But the weddings basically planned and Nats old enough to handle herself in public, I think it’s a really good time, actually. Do you want to say something official?”

“I will, but until then I’d be happy to not have to hide you guys,” Logan grins, a hand reaching up to grasp the side of your face. You blush as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“That sounds lovely,” you say, untangling yourself from his hold, “But, for now, I think you have interviews to attend to.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Logan replies, but his gaze is still locked on you, love filling his eyes, “I’ll see you in a minute, I love you.”

“Love you too, Lo. Go do your interviews,” Your soft smile shines, lighting up your face.

Logan nods, moving to exit the small room, stopping to send you another grin. You laugh, pushing him out of the room, the door sliding closed behind him.

He moves on practical auto-pilot, feet carrying him to the media pen, thoughts of his family stuck on his mind. He reaches the pen quickly, spotting a group of about 8 drivers all huddled together in a chat. He thinks about walking the other direction but Max spots him first, gesturing for the younger driver to walk over. Logan agrees reluctantly, making his way to his fellow drivers.

“Logan!” Max calls, a smile on his face as he greets the Williams driver warmly.

Logan nods, smiling at Max politely, “Hey, Max.”

Max grins, throwing an arm around the blond driver, “How are you doing?”

Logan hums with a small smirk, knowing exactly what Max was eluding to, “I’m great, actually. Thanks for asking, Max.”

Max tilts his head with a wide smile, raising an eyebrow, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, you know how my morning went.”

Max seems to catch that Logan’s allowing him to publicly address the situation in front of the other drivers, turning his attention to the slightly confused drivers around them, “How’d the Mrs feel about it?”

“She was fine with it,” Logan smiles, “Honestly kinda happy to be open about it.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Lando says from across the small circle, a confused look occupying his face.

Logan shakes his head lightly, arms crossed across his chest, “Fiancée, actually. Been engaged for like a year now.”

This sends a wave of shock around the group, Daniel being the only one to pipe up, a huge smile on his face, “I know what this is about!”

George turns to the VCARB driver, a questioning look laying beneath his dramatic sunglasses, “What are you talking about?”

Before Daniel can explain, a high-pitched voice yells out from behind Logan.

“Daddy!”

Several drivers turn, being met with the sight of a small girl sprinting her way toward the group, a smiley Oscar trailing along behind her. The girl giggled as she approaches her father, skipping along happily as she gets near him. Logan leans down, opening his arms to let her walk into his grasp. She wraps her arms around his neck and Logan holds her tightly as Oscar stops behind him.

“Hey baby,” Logan says to his daughter as he looks down at her, “Have a good time with uncle Osc?”

The small girl nods excitedly, grinning as she looks back over to the man she’d spent the past 15 minutes with, “Ozzy took me to the orange garage, um, papaya I think actually, and I got to sit in another car!”

Logan hums, running a hand through the girls hair, trying his best to swipe it back into place, “Yeah?”

“Uh huh, it was really fun!”

Logan smiles, turning back to thank Oscar for looking after the girl. He turns back around, catching the gaze of about 8 different F1 drivers, all with varying levels of shock painted on their faces, “I don't know if you guys saw, but, um, I accidently revealed i had a daughter this morning and, um, this is her?”

Max is the first to laugh, having already been through his shock about the young girl currently attached to her father. Logans face heats as the drivers stare, Nat burrowing her head in her fathers neck as she tries to discreetly glance at the men around her without having to make any eye contact.

“Congrats, man,” Daniel grins, moving over to clap the younger driver on the back. Logan chuckles slightly as your daughter finally moves her head away from him, her curiosity at the Aussie overtaking her shyness.

The honey badger smiles at her, nodding his head. She smiles gently, reaching a small fist out toward the man. Daniels eyes widen at the gesture, eyes glancing between the girl and her outstretched arm before he reaches his own hand up to fist-bump hers. She nods with a satisfied smile, turning back toward Logans neck.

“He’s kinda cool, I think,” She mumbles and Logan smiles glancing over to see if Daniel has heard her words. Based on the increased grin on his face, Logan figures he had.

The rest of the drivers take their turns congratulating Logan on his fatherhood and introducing themselves to the small girl, her favourites being Daniel, Max, George and Alex, who she’d already met in the Williams garage over the past few months.

Eventually, all the socializing caused her to fall asleep against her father's chest, her tired eyes slowly drifting closed. Logan sways slightly, trying his best to soothe her in her slumber.

Once she's fallen asleep, he turns to Oscar, "Do you know where y/n is?"

Oscar nods, "I think she'd fallen asleep when I went to drop Nat back off. Didn't want to wake her so I just brought her over here."

Logan nods, glancing over to see the other drivers getting pulled into interviews. He didn't want to wake you, knowing how little sleep you'd been getting lately with all the wedding planning and your daughter. Anyone else in your family would be too hard to find on such short notice.

So, when his pr officer calls him over to do interviews, he holds Nat a little bit tighter, hoping the interviews don't wake her.

He smiles at the shocked interviewer as she hands him a microphone which he holds in his free hand, trying his best to support your daughter with one arm.

"Morning," Logan nods, voice low.

The interviewer nods slightly, shaking herself out of her shock so she can ask the American some questions.

"Good morning!" Logan thanks his lucky stars as the woman catches his drift and tries her hardest to stay cheerful while keeping her voice relatively quiet, "I had a couple questions about the panel from this morning but it seems you've answered them yourself before I could even ask."

Logan laughs, glancing down at his girl before bringing the microphone to his lips, "Yeah, my girlfriend was asleep and I didn't want to wake her so this girl is joining us today."

The interviewer smiles warmly, "Before this I saw she was hanging out with some of the other drivers?"

"Yeah, yeah, she was. She, uh, had a good time getting to meet some of the grid. But, you know, all the socializing tired her out."

The woman in front of him nods again, glancing over his shoulder at who Logan knew to be Max, getting asked questions across the pen, "How'd they react?"

"I think they were pretty surprised, you know? I don't think a lot of them saw the panel from this morning and even then, I didn't really give much of an explanation. Don't think Max even believed me until Oscar brought her over," Logan laughs, grinning lovingly at the girl starting to stir in his arms.

"Hi baby," Logan says gently, watching as the little girl rubs at her eyes, trying to pull the tiredness from them.

"Hi Dad, where'd Ozzy go?"

Logan glances over his shoulder, looking for the Australian in question. He eventually sees him, turning his body so Nat can see him as well,

"Uncle Osc is just over there, angel."

The girls nods, a frown still on her face from having to wake up, “What about Maxy?”

Logan grins, happy that his daughter was already comfortable with his fellow drivers, even going as far to seek Max out. Logan turns straight around, pointing behind them at the Red Bull driver, "He's there. And Danny's next to him."

The girl nods, a satisfied look on her face as she spots her new friends. Logan turns back to the interviewer, the grin not leaving his face.

Max, meanwhile, is in the middle of an interview when he notice the interviewer looking over his shoulder. Max looks at the man in front of him with a confused look, the man quick to explain.

"Think the newest addition to the paddock is looking for you, Max."

Max looks over his shoulder to see a small girl, chin resting on her dad's shoulder as she stares back at Max. When he turns to see her, she grins, moving a small hand to wave excitedly at the driver before moving to tug at her father's hair, looking for his attention.

Max grins, waving back as Logan looks over, indulging the girl. She laughs happily, getting even more excited as she spots Daniel beside him.

"Maxy! Danny!" Max looks beside him and sees that Daniel hasn't noticed your daughters yelling and he quickly leans to the side, poking the Aussie. Daniel turns to the side to see what Max wants but is instead met with Max pointing vaguely across the pen. Daniel glances over and grins when he sees Logan and his daughter, the smaller of the two waving hurriedly at the pair of drivers.

Daniel waves back, a grin practically splitting his face. The interviewer sends him a questioning glance and he laughs lightly, "Seems we've got a new cheerleader, then."

The interviewer laughs, quickly returning to the questions. Max, after waving bye to your daughter, turns back as well.

Your daughter, now properly noticed by her new favorite drivers, turns back around, letting Logan get back to his questions. She wraps her arms around his neck gently, smiling in satisfaction as she leans up to tell him something.

"I like your friends, dad."

Logan smiles warmly, happy to see her getting along with his coworkers, "I'm glad, baby."

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@casperlikej @evie-119