Everyone had probably heard of his name—Xander Moreau. Eight years ago, his name spread like wildfire. "The traitor," they whispered. To most, he was the villain who betrayed his team. But the truth wasn't as simple.

Xander had been part of one of the elite teams, the kind trusted with mid to high-level raids, the kind of team that cleared missions many couldn't touch. So, when they were assigned to infiltrate an enemy base and eliminate a whistleblower, something should have felt off. He should have known something was wrong—it was too easy.

The intel was too perfect, the mission too clean. No one questioned it, though. Not at the time. They were soldiers, trained to follow orders without hesitation, to trust that the higher-ups knew best. They moved in with precision, as they always did, and took down the target without a second thought.

It wasn't until after the mission was over that they realized the truth. The secret the whistleblower had been hiding—it was too dangerous. They had been sent in to eliminate him, yes, but also to bury the truth he carried. The mission had been doomed from the start. No one was meant to survive. Not with the intel they had uncovered. The higher-ups had orchestrated it as a suicide run, a clean way to silence anyone who knew too much.

But by the time the truth dawned on them, it was already too late. The explosion hit them hard, a brutal attempt to wipe them all out. It was meant to be the end of the line for everyone involved. But two of them made it back: Xander and Emmett.

Xander tried to expose the truth. The secrets they had uncovered needed to be known, no matter the cost. Emmett, on the other hand, made a different decision. He stayed silent. He didn't fight back when they told their story, he didn't speak out when the higher-ups tried to bury the truth. He agreed to keep quiet, to protect his family, his future, at any cost. His loyalty had shifted—from the mission, from the truth, to those he loved.

Despite Emmett's silence, Xander didn't back down. He fought. He tried to tell the truth. But the world wasn't ready for the truth. The higher-ups had too much power. And in the end, Xander was the one who took the fall.

They branded him a traitor, the man who had abandoned his team— a clever move. Afterall, who would believe the words coming from a traitor's mouth? They painted him as the one who had sold them out, the one who had turned on them in their final moments. Emmett's silence sealed it. The world believed the lie.

In the end, Xander gave up. He never bothered to clear his name. Not because he believed the lie, but because it was easier. There was no point in fighting anymore. They had made their choice. The truth didn't matter. What mattered was the story, and Xander was no longer a part of it—except as the villain.

***

Xander didn't stop joining raids.

Even after the branding, after the whispers and the stares, he kept showing up, kept fighting. He wasn't welcomed, not really—most squads took him on reluctantly, like holding a blade they didn't trust not to turn. But he took the missions no one wanted, the dangerous ones, the hopeless ones. Maybe because he didn't care if he came back. Each battle was a kind of penance. Or maybe a distraction. No one could say for sure—not even him.

In every squad he joined, every new face he met, there were always whispers. 

He didn't fight the rumors. Didn't correct the stories. It was easier this way—if they thought him guilty, they would stay away. If they believed him to be a monster, they wouldn't expect anything of him. It gave him a kind of distance, a freedom from the constant pressure of trying to be something he wasn't. Let them think whatever they wanted. He didn't owe them anything, least of all an explanation. The truth was his burden to carry, and that's how it would stay.

Even after eight years, the taint over his name hadn't fully faded.

It clung like smoke—thinner now, but still there. Whispers still followed him into briefing rooms. Glances lingered a little too long. Some of the younger ones didn't even know the full story, just the name: Xander Moreau—the traitor. A cautionary tale in worn-out armor.

No one said it to his face anymore, but they didn't have to. He could feel it in the way they kept their distance, in how they rarely looked him in the eye. Time had dulled the edge of the scandal, but not the stain it left behind.

***

He had long given up trying to build connections with others.

After everything, it was easier that way—safer. People didn't stay. They whispered, they doubted, they left. So Xander kept to himself, spoke only when necessary, kept his distance like it was armor.

Until that day he met Sébastien...

It was a mid-tier raid. Sébastien was filling in for a squad missing a vanguard, and that's where he first met Xander.

The moment Xander stepped into the prep area, the mood shifted. Conversations died down. A couple people turned away. No one greeted him. He carried the air of someone used to it—silent, aloof, with eyes that had seen too much.

Sébastien had heard the rumors. Everyone had. "Xander the Traitor," they whispered—something about a massacre during a failed mission, a team wiped out under his lead. They called him cursed, dangerous. Said it was a miracle he hadn't been banned from the guilds.

Sébastien didn't buy it.

What he saw wasn't a monster—it was a man dragging a past no one had bothered to ask about. He watched how Xander moved: careful, efficient, aware of everyone's position even when no one acknowledged his.

During the raid, their group got ambushed. The formation fell apart instantly. People panicked. But not Xander.

He stepped in front of a collapsing flank, hammer steady, movements clean. Covered two teammates who didn't even realize they'd been moments away from being gutted. And then Sébastien saw it—not rage, not recklessness, but control. He fought with clarity, like someone who'd trained in the chaos.

After the raid, while everyone avoided Xander like a ghost, Sébastien approached him.

"You fight like someone trying to keep everyone alive," he said, blunt.

Xander looked at him, surprised.

"I mean that as a compliment," Sébastien added.

"...Thanks," Xander muttered, caught off guard. It was probably the first kind word he'd heard in months.

That was the beginning.

From then on, Sébastien vouched for him when no one would. Invited him on raids. Stood beside him in the field without flinching, without doubt.

And slowly, Xander started speaking more. Laughing, even. Because Sébastien hadn't just given him trust—he'd given him a place to belong.

One day, after a long raid and a quiet walk back under a bruised sky, Xander finally asked the question he'd been holding.

"Aren't you afraid of me?" His voice was low, almost lost to the wind. "You know what they say."

Sébastien didn't stop walking. He just glanced over, calm as ever.

"I don't care what people say you did. I care what I see. And what I see is someone who fights like hell to protect others despite everything."

Simple. Unshaken. Like it had never been a question to him at all.

And for a long moment, Xander had no words. Just a breath he didn't know he'd been holding—released.