The sleek black car rolled to a stop outside a modest apartment complex that looked like it had survived one too many budget cuts.

Zane stepped out, stretching with a groan. “Ah, home sweet mildew.”

He turned back toward the window, where Yamada remained stoic as ever behind the wheel.

“I’ll be five minutes. Ten if I see something traumatizing in the fridge.”

Yamada didn’t blink. “Don’t take too long. This neighborhood gives me the creeps.”

Zane paused mid-step, blinking in exaggerated shock. “So you do speak. I was starting to think you were part of the car.”

No reply.

Zane threw up a hand. “Man of few words. Sexy. Mysterious. We should hang out more.”

He turned, jogged up the stairs two at a time, and unlocked his front door with a click. As it creaked open, the familiar musty scent of old coffee greeted him like an old friend.

“Christopher,” he whispered, nodding at his living room armchair. “I’ve returned.”

He stepped inside, dropping his backpack by the door and scanning the space. Everything looked… normal.

Almost.

He frowned.

The coatrack had been moved a few inches. His mug, the one that had been chilling on the counter for a week straight, was now sitting clean in the sink. And the closet—always closed—hung slightly ajar.

Zane didn’t move. “Okay, either I’m finally losing it… or I’ve got a squatter with OCD.”

The silence stretched.

“Yo,” he called, his voice loud but casual. “If you’re here to rob me, please take the cursed blender and the microwave that only works when I punch it. Everything else is sentimental.”

Then came the sound—clap. Clap. Clap.

Slow and mocking.

Zane turned, instinct coiled like a spring, as a man stepped from the shadows at the far edge of the room. The Veteran with heavy boots. Tattered trench coat. Scar curling down the side of his face like it had a story to tell—and you didn’t want to hear it.

“Well, well,” the man rasped, his voice like gravel dragged across concrete. “You sure got sharp eyes, kid. I like that.”

Zane crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t do home invasions on the first date. So unless you’re delivering pizza, I’m gonna need you to un-creep yourself and hit the bricks.”

The man chuckled, cracking his neck. “You’re coming with me, boy. Don’t make this messy.”

Zane blinked. “Okay, first—boy? Wow. I turned 18 like a few days ago.”

The veteran’s grin twitched.

“Second—do you always break into people’s houses and threaten them before dinner? Because if so, your manner sucks.”

The man lunged, fist flying like a wrecking ball.

Zane dodged clean, flipping over the couch and landing in a crouch behind it.

“Alright, Grandpa Doomfist,” he said, hands crackling with dark lightning. “You wanna play? Let’s dance. It’s my first time, by the way.”

The room exploded into motion. Lightning tore through the air as Zane countered blow after blow. The man was fast, but Zane was faster—barely. Still, each punch the stranger threw felt like it could level a wall. And some of them did.

Zane’s apartment was rapidly becoming open-concept against his will.

“You hit like a freight train,” Zane said between breaths. “Did you eat steel bars for breakfast, or are you just built different?”

“You talk too much,” the veteran growled.

"That's what my therapist keeps saying," Zane muttered, ducking another punch.

A punch grazed Zane’s jaw—he rolled with it, sparks flaring across his skin.

After a particularly heavy swing sent him crashing into the bookshelf, Zane raised both hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Time out. Mercy. My joints are unionized. Also, I lied to you is not my first time. Is my second, actually.”

The veteran hesitated.

“I’m being serious,” Zane said, panting. “I’ve got a girl waiting for me. She’s rich, mean, and probably sharpening knives as we speak. I just came back for a clean shirt. Can we call this a misunderstanding? I promise I won’t file a complaint.”

The man’s brow twitched. “Are you high?”

Zane raised a finger. “No, I am not, sir; in fact, I have never done drugs in my life. But I completely understand where the misunderstanding is coming from.”

The man stepped forward, his voice absolute. “I’m taking you in.”

“And I’m saying no, I do not consent. Look, let’s compromise—I pretend this didn’t happen, and you go back to whatever shadowy government program spawned you.”

The veteran took a step closer.

“Kid—”

“Fine,” Zane sighed. “Guess that breather’s over.”

“Third time is the charm.” Lightning surged from his fingertips. He struck fast, landing a clean hit to the chest that sent the man stumbling back.

Without wasting another second, Zane turned, sprinted toward the window, and dove through it—glass shattering in a glittering rain behind him.

Outside, Yamada looked up just in time to see Zane crash-land into a bush with all the grace of a thrown bowling ball.

He rolled out, panting and brushing leaves off his hoodie. “Hey, man,” Zane wheezed, throwing open the car door. “So my place is kinda… occupied.”

Yamada blinked once, then started the engine without a word.

Zane slumped into the seat. “Still not talking, huh? That’s fine. I had a bonding moment with a psychopath upstairs. Honestly, you’re an upgrade.”

The car pulled away, tires squealing slightly as they faded into the city night.