Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Aww, you look thrilled to see me. Honestly, it warms my heart. After everything you screwed up, it’s nice to know my handsome face still brightens your day.”

Robert stared at him, utterly unable to form a coherent response. His mind lagged behind the moment, buffering, as if reality were trying to load on a dial-up connection. Similar to his work computer.

Two weeks.

It had only been two weeks since he had been pulled aside, quietly, privately, and instructed to remove a member of Z-Team. “Corporate restructuring,” they had called it. “A necessary adjustment.” “Nothing personal.” And now that same team member… that same man he’d signed off on firing… was sitting there casually in the middle of the boardroom he used for weekly debriefs, legs crossed, leaning back in the chair like he owned the place.

Mandy stopped dead in the doorway when she entered, her breath catching audibly. Robert glanced at her just in time to see the shock tightening her features; she looked from Sonar to the man standing beside him, her expression flickering with a familiarity Robert did not share. Whoever this stranger was, she clearly knew him, well enough for her to look both intimidated and frustrated in the same breath.

The man was strikingly tall and painfully thin, his posture stiff as metal rods. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back so tightly it tugged the skin at his temples, accentuating the permanent troughs carved into his forehead. Heavy, wiry eyebrows sat like storm clouds over deep charcoal eyes, eyes that appraised the room with a weary, perpetual irritation, as if nothing had met his standard in decades. Even at rest, his face seemed sculpted into a scowl: resigned, judgemental, unimpressed by the world and everyone inhabiting it.

“Elias… sir, I… I don’t…” Mandy stammered, taking a hesitant step forward. “When I got your email I didn’t think-”

He cut her off with a single raised hand. The gesture was small, but it carried the weight of an unspoken silence that commanded compliance instantly.

“Miss Blazer. Mr. Robertson.” Elias greeted them with a blasé tone, his expression barely shifting. He spoke like a man reciting a grocery list, not detonating an administrative bomb in the center of their operations. His presence alone made the atmosphere feel tighter, the walls closer, as if even the building was bracing itself.

“What you were told is accurate,” he continued, sliding his hands behind his back. “After reviewing the details of this… situation, the board and I have agreed that your decision to remove this young man was not only poorly justified, but completely unfounded. As such, we initiated a vote to reinstate him into the Phoenix Program.”

Robert felt his stomach drop, slowly, heavily, like a stone sinking through deep water. This wasn’t just a reversal. It was an indictment. A reprimand packaged as a “correction.” And worst of all, Sonar was watching him with that small, smug smile, thin, brittle, hiding something sharp just beneath its surface.

Robert’s face tightened, confusion and disbelief pulling his features inward as he turned toward the so-called young man in question.

Sonar looked far too pleased with himself. He was reclined in the swivel chair like it was a throne, grinning from ear to ear with bright, obnoxious delight. When he caught Robert’s eye, he stuck his tongue out, childish, taunting, almost daring him to react. Robert’s scowl deepened before he tore his gaze away, forcing his attention back to Elias and the suffocating professionalism of this nightmare.

Mandy let out a thin, strained laugh. “Sir, with all due respect, your team instructed us to cut someone from the Z-Team as a precautionary measure.” Her tone was controlled, but Robert noticed the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the way Sonar’s ear gave an irritated flick at the mention of the directive. “The choice wasn’t ours. And even then, the cut was made entirely on performance metrics. Sonar–”

Elias hummed, a low, dismissive sound, interrupting her with an ease that suggested he had every right to derail anyone mid-sentence. His nod was slow, deliberate. “Be that as it may… when this young man approached the board and explained his circumstances, we discovered enough reasonable doubt to reconsider the initial decision.” His voice remained smooth, unbothered, but his words hung thick and heavy. “It appears we may have been… overly hasty in removing such a promising Phoenix from the program.”

“He’s thirty-two,” Robert muttered flatly, unable to stop himself. The words came out edged in annoyance he hadn’t intended to voice. Immediately, a sharp hiss cut through the room from Sonar’s side, the younger man glaring at him with a venomous, wounded fury.

Elias didn’t so much as blink. “Regardless,” he continued, “we expect him to be reintroduced into your team’s rotation before the end of the day.”

Robert felt his pulse spike. “Another?” he repeated, incredulous. “Sir, we already have eight full-time members on Z-Team. Adding a ninth isn’t feasible.” His voice pitched upward, the pressure of the situation finally cracking through his professionalism. “I’m responsible for tracking eight different schedules, reports, and cases daily, and now you want me to manage another on top of that?”

Elias fixed him with a stare so cold and unwavering it felt like a physical force. The kind of stare that communicated hierarchy without raising a voice.

“I’m not asking, Mr. Robertson,” he said, each word clipped with finality. “I’m telling you.”

The room seemed to fall into a vacuum, soundless and tight.

Then Elias adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket with practiced precision, offering Sonar and Mandy a curt nod that somehow carried more weight than a bow. Without sparing Robert so much as a final glance, he turned and began his unhurried walk toward the door, his presence dragging the air with him like a tide withdrawing from the shore.

“If you encounter any further troubles, my door is always open, Victor,” Elias called over his shoulder, his voice as apathetic and sterile as if he were offering tech support rather than detonating a political grenade in their department.

Sonar’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits, his glare shifting to the two remaining figures in the room. There was nothing playful in him now, no grin, no smirk, only a simmering, poisonous malice he barely kept tethered.

“I don’t think I’ll need to,” he spat, every syllable dipped in venom.

Elias gave a final, indifferent nod before pulling the door shut behind him, the soft click somehow louder than a slammed one.

The second it closed, Robert spun on Sonar. “What the fuck, Sonar?!”

Sonar scoffed as if the outburst was absurd, almost laughable. “What’s the big deal?” he shot back, throwing his hands out. “You didn’t want to cut anybody from the team, fine. So I went over your boss’s head and got my job back. A job I rightfully fucking deserve, by the way.”

Robert’s glare hardened, something fraying in his patience. “Yes, we want you back on the team. But you could’ve landed me or Mandy in serious shit. And if we go down, the rest of the Z-Team goes down with us. Do you have any idea what that means? You’re risking everyone’s work, everyone’s safety, just so you can claw back a job you didn’t even treat seriously!”

Sonar shot to his feet, the chair wheels squealing across the floor as he stood inches from Robert. His lip curled back over his teeth, no longer defensive—feral.

“Maybe,” he hissed, “you should’ve thought about that before you jeopardized my fucking life. Did that cross your mind even once?” His voice cracked slightly, anger and fear bleeding together. “The second I got fired, you both knew what was going to happen. I wasn’t going home. I wasn’t ‘taking a break.’ I was going straight back to prison. ‘Redemption’ my ass.”

Mandy inhaled sharply, stepping forward before things could snap further. Her voice was strained, weary.

“Sonar… we want you back more than anything.” She waited a beat, letting the sincerity settle before continuing. “But all of our funding, all of it, comes from Elias and the SDN recruitment board. If you damage our reputation, the entire operation collapses. Not just us. Every trainee. Every case. Every program like this we’ve fought like hell to keep running.”

She looked between the two men, her expression pinched with something like grief.

“We don’t get to survive a mistake like that.”

Sonar let out a sharp scoff, waving Mandy’s concern away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Relax, Mom,” he drawled, dripping sarcasm. “I’m not gonna go running back to that guy again. He promised me job security, and now that I’ve got it? I’ll play nice.”

He sank back into the chair and pulled out his phone, thumbing through it with deliberate, lazy disinterest, as if the entire confrontation bored him.

Robert crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You do realise just because he let you back in once doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed a job here if you screw up again… right?” His tone was flat, steady, almost daring Sonar to challenge him.

He watched as Sonar’s grin didn’t just return, it grew. Slowly. Sharply. Like something predatory stretching awake.

“Oh? That’s not how it works…?” Sonar mused innocently. “Damn. And here I was, thinking I heard someone say…”
His voice pitched into a mocking imitation.

“‘Even if she was on the bottom, I don’t think I’d have let you cut her.’”

The room froze.
Mandy’s breath caught.
Robert’s stomach dropped.
They stared at each other, both pale, both knowing exactly what moment he was referring to.

Sonar hummed, the sound smug and syrupy. “You know… I wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop. Total coincidence. But God, imagine how pissed Coupe would be to hear you say shit like that. Because I was fucking livid.” He flashed a sharp, wolfish smile, teeth bared in amusement rather than warmth.

“Sonar-” Mandy began, a warning layered in her voice.

“No, no, it’s fine!” Sonar cut her off with an exaggerated raise of his hands, grin stretched wide and fake as plastic. “I just didn’t realise the rules of the game, that’s all.”

“Rules…?” Robert whispered, face contorting in worry.

Sonar stood and began pacing lightly, mockingly. “Let’s see- Flambae was lighting his own fires to rack up points, Coupe literally handcuffed me to a squat rack, and Invisigal, oh, Invisigal’s got you, huh?” He jabbed a finger toward Robert and Mandy, tone slipping into a childish taunt. “Her personal guardian angel to clean up her messes and cheer her on.”

He stopped, leaning forward, the grin draining from his face until only something bitter and sharp remained.

“But now that I’ve got a benefactor,” he sneered, “I can finally play on a level field. And actually focus on doing my fucking job.”

Robert clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles went white. He forced himself to look away, jaw tight.

“…You…” His voice shook with restrained anger. “You are such a fucking ass.”

Sonar rose from his chair with a stiffness that didn’t match his usual restless energy. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial, as he reached up and adjusted the new tie knotted at his throat.
Blue.
Not the bright, aggressive red he always wore.
This one was cooler, calmer, almost corporate. A quiet sign that something in him had shifted.

He smoothed the fabric between his fingers, jaw tightening for just a moment before he forced it back into neutrality. Then he stepped toward them.

When he looked at Robert and Mandy, the expression he wore wasn’t smug, wasn’t gloating, or even angry. It was flat.
Hollow.

Apathy stretched over something deeply wounded, like a bandage pulled too tight over an untreated wound.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, “I am an ass.”
His voice was even, but the edges were frayed, softened by exhaustion rather than heat.

“But I’m also a fucking winner. I do what it takes. I survive. I don’t back down.”

He paused, eyes flicking between them, not challenging, not mocking, just… searching. For a second. Barely.

“Maybe if you’d seen that sooner,” he murmured, the faintest tremor hidden under his words, “we could’ve actually been friends.”

The word friends didn’t sound like a joke. Didn’t sound like sarcasm.
It sounded like the ghost of something he once hoped for.

He exhaled slowly, a breath that seemed to deflate him, and stepped past them with a small shake of his head.

“But it’s fine,” he muttered. “I’ll settle for destroying that leaderboard. I’ll prove how big of a mistake you made firing me.”

There was no bravado in it.
Just a quiet, desperate determination, a promise spoken from a place that had been carved open by fear, humiliation, and the raw ache of feeling disposable.

He didn’t look back as he walked to the door.

This time, it was his turn to leave the boardroom.

The click of the door closing behind him was soft, but the silence that followed crashed down on Robert and Mandy like a weight.

They stood frozen, stunned, struck by the harsh, painful truth that Sonar’s anger wasn’t bluster at all.

It was heartbreak.

“Fuck.”

Robert let the word fall out of him like air escaping a punctured tire. He dropped into one of the boardroom chairs, elbows on his knees, head sinking into his hands. The adrenaline was wearing off, and all that was left was a heavy, sick feeling in his chest.

Mandy slid into the chair beside him, her movements slow, as if she were afraid the room might still explode if she moved too fast. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and exhaled through clenched teeth, trying to massage the stress away.

“That… honestly could’ve gone worse,” she said after a long moment. “Believe it or not.”

Robert lifted his head just enough to look at her through parted fingers. “How the hell do you figure?”

“Well…” Mandy hesitated, searching for the words. “I was expecting him to come in swinging. More profanity. Maybe a threat or two. A tantrum.” She leaned back with a small, defeated sigh.

“But he didn’t. Sonar just… he looked like he wanted everything to go back to how it was before. Same team, same dynamic.” Her voice softened. “He looked… sad.”

Robert’s jaw tensed, and he nodded, once, slow and reluctant. “…Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “He looked sad when I let him go, too.” His eyes fell to the table, unfocused, guilt pooling heavy in his gut. “I hated firing him. I really did.”

Mandy’s shoulders slumped. “Neither did I. He’d made so much progress… he was finally starting to click with the team. Even if he still had his…”

She waved a hand vaguely. “...fair share of HR violations.”

A weak laugh pushed its way out of Robert. “If we’re judged by HR violations, we wouldn’t have a team left. Except maybe Waterboy.”

That earned a small smile from Mandy, thin, but sincere.

For a while, they just sat there, letting the quiet settle.

“You know…” she said suddenly, lifting her head with a tentative expression, “maybe this isn’t all bad.”

Robert raised a brow.

“Look at what he did,” Mandy continued. “Sonar went behind our backs, yeah, but he did it because he wanted his job back. He didn’t relapse. He didn’t blow up. He didn’t hurt anyone. He just… did what he does best.”

Robert leaned back, rubbing his palms over his face. Slowly, a weary hum rumbled out of him.
“He worked the system.”

Mandy let out a breathy chuckle, half amusement, half resignation, and rubbed a hand down her face. “Look… I’ll talk to Galen. See if he can help you handle this transition. Ten team members is… a lot. Even for you.”

Robert’s expression drained immediately. “...Wait. Ten? Mandy, you don’t mean–”

She winced, shoulders sagging. “Yeah. I do.”

A heavier sigh escaped her. “The board wants Phenomaman on the team too. Apparently all the publicity Z-Team got from defeating Shroud made them giddy. And now they want Torrance’s golden poster-boy shining on their favourite department again.”

Robert stared at her for a beat, then dropped his head back against the chair with a soft groan.
“Sure,” he muttered. “Why not. Throw him in, too. Let’s make a football team while we’re at it.”

Mandy’s expression softened. She leaned in, cupping his cheek gently before pressing a warm, lingering kiss against it. “You’re doing great,” she murmured, quiet, sincere, the kind of reassurance that settled into his bones instead of bouncing off them.

Robert felt the tension in his shoulders loosen despite everything. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “You too.”

They stood together, gathering their things, fatigue weighing down their movements but comfort easing the edges.

Neither of them noticed the shadow lingering just beyond the door.

A faint scrape of breath.
A silhouette pressed close to the wall.

Sonar, stood there motionless, expression stripped of its earlier venom. There was no triumph in him now, no smugness, no biting grin. Only a solemn, conflicted look, regret mixed with something rawer, deeper.
He’d heard every word.
Every sigh.
Every fear.
Every truth they hadn’t said to his face.

He stepped back quickly, slipping down the hall before they could open the door and find him there, eavesdropping.

Intentionally, this time.

Chapter Text

The reception to his return was… better than he expected. Much better.

The Z-Team didn’t just welcome Sonar (and Phenomaman) back, they practically lit up with renewed energy, voices bouncing off the break room walls with the kind of camaraderie he’d convinced himself he’d never feel again.

“It’s so fucking good to have you back, man,” Malevola exhaled, relief softening her usual steel as she clapped a heavy, affectionate hand against his back.

“Yeah, bitch! We’re a full-ass team again!” Prism whooped, leaning dramatically on Waterboy’s shoulder, grinning so brightly it was impossible not to feel it.

Sonar’s chest swelled.

It felt… worth it.
Every degrading conversation, every panicked night wondering if he’d end up in a cell again, every compromise he’d made, just to see them smiling like this. Like he mattered.

His gaze drifted across the room until he spotted Coupe speaking with Phenomaman. When she turned and caught his eye, she gave him a small, knowing smile.

Not mocking.
Not suspicious.
Just… understanding.

He adjusted his new blue tie instinctively, fingers brushing over the fabric.
Right. She probably assumed he’d pulled strings in some half-legal way, but clearly respected the hustle. Good. The last thing he wanted today was to annoy the most terrifyingly accurate assassin on the team.

“Yeah, well, I am a Harvard graduate, so–”

“Shut the fuck up, Rat Man. Accept the praise.”
Flambae flicked him in the forehead without even looking up from the ancient break-room microwave he was leaning on, waiting for it to resurrect his questionable take-out.

Sonar barked a laugh and rolled his eyes, a familiar warmth settling in his chest.

Then Invisigal opened her mouth.

“So,” she sang, voice dripping condescension, “who’d you have to blow to get back in?”

Sonar froze for half a second.
Just half.
But it was enough for something deep inside him to twist, tight, sharp, ugly.
A cold pit opened in his stomach, burrowing deeper with every heartbeat. He swallowed once, forcing the tension out of his shoulders, fingers subtly adjusting the tie at his throat.

It was just a joke. She was clearly joking.

Even if he wanted to wring her throat for it…it was a joke.

He turned, wearing a smirk he didn’t feel. “Well, like I said, SDN realised they couldn’t function without me, so they made room.”

He wiggled his brows, forcing bravado he didn’t have. “Star potential, I guess.”

But he felt her eyes burning into his back as he turned away, peeling at him, scraping at the parts he tried to keep hidden. He hated how much it made his skin crawl.

Malevola stepped in, punching his arm lightly. “Ignore her. She’s just jealous she wasn’t the dramatic comeback story.”

Sonar grinned back, wide, bright, convincing.
Acting.
Perfectly.

Even as something inside him trembled.

It was incredible, really, how easily he could fool everyone. How easily he could even fool himself.
Every smile he flashed, every joke he tossed out, every lazy shrug or smug quip,  it all slid into place like a rehearsed performance. And maybe that was the point. If he kept saying it, kept acting like it, then it had to be true.

Because nothing was wrong.
He won.
He was back.
He was thriving again.
Because he’s a fucking winner– and winners don’t fall apart.

“Man, it’s good to have you back, you little weirdo.”

The playful shove nearly made him stumble, but Sonar just grinned wide, fangs showing, ears flicking at the familiar static in his earpiece as it chirped back to life. God, he’d missed that. The tiny spark of connection, the tether to the team, the purpose. It hummed in his bones like an IV drip of adrenaline.

Then Robert’s voice filtered through, thick with exhaustion but authoritative as ever.
“Alright Z-team, lunch is over. Get to your posts and be ready for dispatch.”

A chorus of groans followed, most notably Flambae’s dramatic wail as he ripped the microwave open, juggling his steaming container and slurping down noodles like a man living on borrowed time. Sonar briefly wondered how he hadn’t burned his tongue off by now. Superpowers, probably. Or sheer idiocy.

As Sonar weaved through the bullpen, Prism slid into step beside him with a curious tilt of her head.

“What’s with the blue tie, anyway? Thought you were a die-hard red guy.”

He blinked, caught off guard, then shrugged lightly.
“...was a gift, I guess. Left my old one behind when I got let go.” He forced a small laugh, the sound thin but believable enough. “Guess this is just… a sign of new beginnings.”

Prism narrowed her eyes at him, her expression teetering somewhere between suspicion and amusement.

“Mmhm. Sure. Well, nice to see you ‘blue-ing’ it up,” she said, wagging her eyebrows. “Even if the red looked way better.”

She breezed into the dispatch bay with that trademark swagger, leaving him momentarily stranded in the doorway.

Sonar’s fingers drifted to the tie again, smoothing over the fabric, adjusting it even though it was already perfectly straight. His chest tightened, the same tightness that always came when someone brushed too close to the truth.

He swallowed.
Shoulders back. Smile on. Performance mode engaged.

Then he stepped inside and took his place.

Today was going to be…
long.

And he wasn’t sure he had enough lies left to get through it. But he’d fucking die trying. 

Robert’s day had been… an interesting one.

Which, in his world, usually meant bad.
But today was a strange kind of “interesting,” the kind that left him rubbing at the tension lines in his forehead and wondering if he’d somehow slipped into a parallel universe.

He’d been braced, genuinely braced,  for chaos the moment Sonar and Phenomaman stepped back into the building.

Not because he disliked either of them (well… mostly not), but because adding two volatile personalities into an already overstretched, half-exhausted Z-team workforce sounded like a recipe for a complete operational collapse.

And yet.

Confoundingly, unbelievably, things had actually improved.

Robert kept waiting for the catch, the shoe to drop, the inevitable disaster Sonar tended to drag behind him like an emotional tumbleweed. But instead? Calls were going smoother. Reports were coming in cleaner. The team was moving with a rhythm he hadn’t seen in months.

Hell, Sonar was actually doing the job. Like he said he would.
Like he meant it.

Robert’s gaze drifted to the bullpen leaderboard, ready to confirm a suspicion he was half-convinced he’d hallucinated earlier.

There it was.
Sonar’s name, climbing the rankings like he’d strapped rocket boosters to it.
His total was so absurdly high Robert had to blink to make sure the display wasn’t glitching.

One day.
Just one fucking day.

If Robert hadn’t personally reviewed every one of Sonar’s calls, he would’ve thought the system was broken. But the timestamps were there. The recordings were there. The dispatcher feedback was there.

It all checked out.

Robert grimaced without meaning to, the expression sharp enough to catch Chase’s attention from the next cubicle. The speedster wheeled his chair around, raising a brow.

“You think he’s rigging this shit?”

Robert snorted softly, though the sound carried more fatigue than amusement.

“No… not possible. The point system assigns scores based on dispatcher review. If he was messing with anything, I’d be the first to see it.” He tapped the monitor, brow pinched. “And the points add up. Every last one.”

He scrolled again, double-checking totals he already knew were correct.
“He’s earned a hundred points in one day. From… fourteen jobs-”

Robert froze, staring at the number, then the timestamps, then back at Chase like the numbers might somehow reorder themselves into something sane. Chase’s face mirrored the same bewilderment.

“Pardon the fuck?” Chase spluttered. “Robert, he’s been here for HALF a day and you’ve sent him to fourteen different jobs??”

And for one nauseating moment, Robert genuinely wondered if he’d accidentally unleashed an eldritch horror in the shape of a short, smug rat-boy with echolocation.

Robert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginning of a headache blooming behind his eyes.

“I didn’t ‘send’ him anywhere,” he muttered. “But every time there was an opening, any spare slot, any team short one person, he’d jump in before I even finished assigning it. It’s… increasing our successful call rate, sure, but…”

“But this motherfucker is ducking his breaks and burning himself out on his first fucking day back,” Chase muttered darkly.

Robert didn’t argue.
He couldn’t, not when the evidence was right there, walking stiffly across the bullpen floor.

Both men fell quiet as Sonar slipped through the doorway into the break room, shoulders rounded, movements taut with a kind of forced precision. Like someone trying very hard not to show how much pain they were in.

Robert raised a hand, signaling Chase to hold down the fort, then pulled off his headset and set it on the desk.

He followed Sonar at a slow, measured pace.

The break room door swung open, and Robert paused in the threshold.

Sonar was drinking coffee straight from the goddamn pot.

Not even a mug, the pot.

His eyes were wide and unfocused, his posture wavering like he couldn’t decide which foot hurt less. Robert glanced down briefly; the dress shoes were polished, expensive-looking… and clearly blistering him raw. Sonar kept shifting his weight like he was standing on glass shards.

Robert leaned against the doorframe and exhaled softly.
“You’re doing good work out there–”

Sonar jumped.
Nearly dropped the coffee pot entirely. He fumbled, shoved it back onto the machine with a clatter, and then stood frozen like a kid caught sneaking sweets out of the pantry.

He stared at Robert for several seconds too long, eyes wide, shoulders locked.

“…Thanks,” he muttered at last, voice small in a way that tugged uncomfortably at Robert’s conscience. Then Sonar reached over and immediately started prepping a new pot, completely ignoring how his hands were trembling.

Robert stepped closer, intentionally dragging his foot a little so his steps were loud enough for Sonar’s echolocation to pick up. No surprises. No ambush. No reason for the man to panic.

“Fourteen jobs in half a day,” Robert said quietly. “Awfully impressive.”

Sonar shrugged, but it wasn’t the usual cocky, cocksure twitch of his shoulders.
It was tight, defensive. Like a shield.

Like admitting fatigue was the same as admitting defeat.

His voice stayed caught somewhere between them, unspoken. Robert could feel it, the way Sonar braced himself for judgment he was convinced was coming.

And Robert, for the first time all day, realized something unsettling:

Sonar wasn’t trying to prove he was good.

He was trying to prove he wasn’t a mistake.

Robert let out another long, frayed sigh, dragging a hand down his face in exhausted frustration.
“Sonar, please. Just take the rest of the day off.”

The room seemed to still around them.

Sonar’s shoulders tensed first, not in fear, not in surprise, but in a tense, simmering offense. He turned toward Robert slowly, expression twisting into a sharp, bitter glare that could’ve cut through steel.

“Uhmm… no?” he snapped flatly.

Robert clenched his jaw. “You’re overworking yourself. This isn’t maintainable.”

He slammed his palm down on the counter, the sound echoing through the break room like a gunshot. “In a day you’re going to be out of commission and struggling to keep up with the rest of the team.”

Sonar spun around fully this time, closing the distance with a deliberate, controlled anger, anger from a grown man who’d been pushed past breaking point again and again, and refused to be patronized one more damn time.

“Oh?? So before I wasn’t taking it seriously and now I’m doing too much?” he barked sharply. “How’s the fucking porridge, Goldilocks?”

He bent down, bringing himself eye-level with Robert, glare unwavering and venomous.

“My only job,” he hissed, “is to do the shit you tell me to do. And your only job is to tell me when and where to do it. So how about you walk your mecha-ass back to your desk and do your job, instead of focusing on mine.”

Robert’s eyes widened, not at the insult, not at the aggression, but at the word itself.

Mecha.

Sonar knew.

Sonar knew he was Mecha-man.

Robert’s stomach dropped.
Sure, the Z-team knew, but they were sworn to secrecy, and the public didn’t know, and SDN sure as hell wasn’t ready for that reveal yet. He never expected anyone else to figure it out. Especially not–

“Did… Malevola tell you?” he whispered, voice thin with disquiet.

But Sonar’s reaction was immediate, a bark of humorless laughter and a heavy, unimpressed eye-roll.

“No, you did, you fucking moron,” he snapped.

Robert blinked.
“…What?”

Sonar straightened, crossing his arms with a scoff that carried years of resentment and annoyance.

“First day on the job, you and Visi decided to have your little shouting match in the same room as, oh right, a bat-hybrid,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Who gives a shit if the coffee grinder was loud? I could still hear you admit that crap clear as day.”

Each word hit Robert like a blow, not because Sonar was wrong, but because he was right.
And because Sonar had held onto that secret without once using it.

Robert frowned, genuinely thrown.

“You’ve known the entire time? You could’ve… you could’ve blackmailed me with that,” he murmured, unsettled.

Sonar narrowed his eyes, jaw tight, then shrugged with a sharp, dismissive bitterness that didn’t quite hide the hurt beneath it.

“Guess I didn’t,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not as much of an ‘ass’ as you think.”

He said it like it was a challenge.
But the unspoken part, the part sitting heavy between them, was something far quieter:

You didn’t think I deserved that level of trust.
You didn’t think I had that kind of integrity.

And somehow, that stung more than any accusation either of them had thrown.

He grabbed another paper cup, filling it with coffee as if the act alone could steady his fraying nerves. As he stepped past Robert, he let out a breath that sounded almost like a confession dragged unwillingly from his chest.

“...Also, in hindsight,” he muttered, voice low and distant, “if I had tried to use that secret, it wouldn’t have mattered. You didn’t have nearly as much power as I thought you did.”

There was something raw in the way he said it, a quiet admission of just how much faith he’d once, stupidly, placed in Robert’s authority. How much he’d counted on him. Trusted him. And how deeply that misplaced trust had burned him.

But just as quickly as the vulnerability surfaced, he crushed it beneath fury.

He turned back toward Robert, lips peeling into a snarl.

“Stay the fuck out of my way, Robert.”

Each word landed like a blow.

“I’m not going to stand by and let you fuck my life up a second time. You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”

No yelling.
No theatrics.
Just cold, bitter truth, delivered by a man who’d run out of patience, forgiveness, and second chances.

With a sharp twist of his heel, Sonar stormed out of the break room, the air still trembling in his wake.

Chase happened to be coming in at that moment, Beef tucked lazily under one arm like a furry grocery item. The Chihuahua perked up, sniffing curiously at the residual trail of Sonar’s scent as he passed, tail giving a hesitant wag before Sonar disappeared down the hall.

Chase raised an eyebrow.
“So, I’m gonna guess that went exactly as badly as it possibly could’ve,” he drawled.

Robert didn’t answer, not at first.

He sank down heavily into one of the break room chairs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Shoulders shaking not with fear, but with confusion, frustration, and something bordering on guilt.

“I just… don’t get it,” Robert muttered eventually, voice muffled behind his fingers. “At all.”

Chase stayed quiet, giving him space.

“The job thing, okay, I get that,” Robert continued, looking up with a grimace. “But you say it all the time, these guys are villains. Or… they were. So if Sonar knew about… well, me–” He winced, cheeks flushing with embarrassment he wasn’t used to showing.

“Then why the hell didn’t he sell me out? He could’ve joined Red-Ring with that intel. Or leaked it to the press. Or blackmailed me. Or, hell, cashed in on it a dozen different ways.”

His voice cracked under the weight of the question.
“Why… why didn’t he?”

Chase pulled out the chair next to him and sank into it, Beef now sprawled across his lap like a warm, snorting weighted blanket. He absentmindedly scratched the dog’s ears as he thought.

“Well,” Chase began with a slow exhale, “if I’ve learned anything over the past couple weeks of working with you, it’s that shit like this is complicated.”

Robert blinked at him.

Chase shrugged. “I don’t think that guy was doing you any grand favor. Feels way too sentimental for him. And nothing about Sonar screams ‘charitable.’” He snorted softly. “That dude is petty incarnate.”

Despite himself, Robert huffed out a weak laugh.

“But,” Chase went on, leaning back in his seat, “if I had to guess?”

He scratched Beef’s chin thoughtfully.
“For someone like him… winning’s a big deal. But how he wins? Probably matters even more.”

Robert frowned. “What do you mean?”

Chase smirked, eyes glinting with a quiet understanding.

“I mean, Sonar’s got an ego the size of Torrance, right? If he wanted to get the upper hand on you… doing it the dirty way wouldn’t count. Not for a guy like that.”

He shrugged.
“He probably didn’t want a victory he couldn’t brag about.”

A beat of silence passed.

“And blackmailing you with the Mecha-man secret?” Chase added with a chuckle. “Yeah. No. His pride wouldn’t survive something that pathetic.”

Robert stared at the table, the gears turning slowly behind his eyes, not just about the secret, but about everything leading up to this moment.

How Sonar had acted when he was fired.
How he’d approached Elias.
How he’d been avoiding the team’s pity.
How hard he’d been working.

And how hurt he’d sounded just now, under all the venom.

“I don’t think he wanted to win against you,” Chase murmured. “I think he wanted to win… in front of you.”

That landed.
Hard.

Robert swallowed.

“…God,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples. “That makes this even worse.”

Beef barked once in agreement.

Chase nodded softly, expression gentler now.

“Yeah. That’s the thing about pride, man. It hurts like hell when you break it.”

Robert exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging.

“Sure, I mean… I guess I can see that. What you’re saying.” He rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to piece the situation into something that made sense. “But still, him going over me and Blazer’s heads… and talking directly to the chairman…”

His words trailed off as his gaze drifted through the open break room door.

Down the hall, Elias stood with Sonar.

The Chairman had a hand resting on the hybrid’s shoulder in a gesture that was almost paternal, soft, measured, and entirely at odds with the calculating chill he was known for. Sonar wasn’t smiling. He stood there listening, jaw tight, shoulders held in that stubborn tension that meant he was pretending he wasn’t grateful for the attention. Or at least that was Robert’s read on the strange interaction.

Robert’s chest tightened.

“…It’s weird,” he murmured, unsettled.

Chase followed his gaze. Beef, nestled comfortably in his arms like a small, apple-headed hot water bottle, perked his ears.

Chase squinted.

“Oh yeah. Just between you and me? That guy’s always given me the creeps.” He paused, then added flatly, “And no, I’m not talking about the motherfucking bat-man hybrid.”

Robert blinked. “You mean Elias?”

Chase scoffed so hard Beef startled.

“I don’t have any proof,” he muttered, voice lowered, “but that man pisses me off. Feels like the type who bullies people into giving him what he wants, and since he’s at the top of the SDN food chain? Nobody says a damn thing about it.”

Robert nodded slowly, staring back out into the hall with a tight throat.

Elias and Sonar parted ways, Sonar heading toward the loading docks, his gait brisk and purposeful despite the exhaustion dragging behind him like a shadow. Elias paused mid-step.

Then he turned.

Directly facing Robert.

Robert’s stomach dropped. He snapped his eyes away, staring instead at the shallow grooves scratched into the break room table, initials, doodles, someone’s half-carved “ROBERT IS A BITCH.”

Huh…nice.

Chase noticed immediately.
His own face hardened, and he lifted his chin to glare boldly down the corridor at the tall, immaculate figure.

The man who could end a career with one signature.
One whisper.
One conversation behind a closed boardroom door.

Elias did not break eye contact until he felt like it.

Finally, he turned and walked away, but not before acknowledging Chase’s glare with the kind of tiny, knowing smirk that made Beef growl under his breath.

“…Like I said,” Chase muttered. “Fucking creep.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable.

Robert rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe the coming migraine.
He just wanted today to be over. Wanted all of this tension, Sonar’s anger, Elias’s interest, the team’s stress, to evaporate.

But reality wasn’t that kind.

He still had one more shift left: the newly implemented evening shift, where off-hour hero calls were monitored and dispatched by a skeleton crew.

And of course, of course, Sonar had signed up for it too.

Probably to get more points.
Probably to stay busy.
Probably to avoid thinking.
Probably to avoid him.

Robert swallowed hard.

“Well,” he sighed, pushing himself to his feet, “whether he likes it or not… I’m limiting the jobs he’s on tonight.”

Chase raised a brow.

“If he won’t take a break,” Robert said firmly, jaw set with determination he didn’t feel, “then I’ll force one on him.”

Beef yapped once in agreement.

And for the first time in hours, Robert felt a flicker, tiny, tired, but real, of resolve.

Chapter Text

The evening shift rolled in quietly, the kind of slow, uneventful calm that almost felt unnatural after the week they’d had. Sonar made his displeasure at being passed over for missions very clear, complete with pointed sighs, muttered complaints, and enough side-eye to bruise a lesser man, but he didn’t escalate. Not like Robert expected him to.

If anything, he seemed…tired.

Really tired.

Robert realized it only when he passed by the boardroom and found him slumped over at the table, arms folded like a pillow, breathing slow and steady. Asleep. Completely out.

He should’ve felt annoyed. Or vindicated.

Instead, he felt something strange and quietly warm settle in his chest.

Good. He needed this.

Robert lingered for a second longer, watching Sonar’s shoulders rise and fall. The night was calm; he could let him sleep. He’d wake him if an emergency came through, but until then…this was the best thing Sonar could be doing for himself.

He had barely sat down at his own desk, coffee in hand, headset on, when he felt it.

A hand.

Cold. Bony. Heavy without pressure.

“Robert,” a voice murmured above him, low and unwavering. “We need to talk.”

Robert stiffened and looked up.

Elias.
He’d seen the man earlier today, but rarely this close, and never twice in one shift.

“Galen can handle your calls for ten minutes,” Elias continued, already turning away. “Come with me.”

There was no question in the tone. No room for one either.

Robert swallowed, pushing up from his chair and following him toward the boardroom opposite the one where Sonar slept. The contrast was jarring: Sonar drooling on his forearm, dead to the world in one room; Elias standing as still as a statue, silhouette sharp against the window’s dim light in another.

Robert tried not to imagine the worst.
Tried and failed.

Elias waited until Robert sat before speaking.

“I heard about your altercation with Victor earlier,” he said calmly, hands folded behind his back. “I would like your account of it.”

Robert blinked, caught between confusion and dread. “Sir, that wasn’t an altercation. We had a disagreement, yes, but nothing physical, nothing threatening. I told him he needed to take a break because he was pushing himself too hard. He disagreed. That was the extent of it.”

A tired sigh left his chest. “We both could’ve handled the conversation better, but that’s all it was.”

Elias didn’t react. Not with expression, not with movement, he simply studied him with that unsettling stillness that made Robert very aware of every breath he took.

And suddenly, Robert wished the shift had been busy. That alarms had gone off. That Sonar would come in and aid him in dispelling the claims Elias was making.

Anything would’ve been better than being alone in a room with Elias’s gaze dissecting him like this.

Robert cleared his throat. “Sir…is there some sort of issue?”

Elias’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“That,” he said softly, “is what I intend to determine.”

Robert’s expression tightened at the bold, quiet tone of the older man.

Elias hummed, tilting his head with a kind of morbid curiosity, like he was inspecting a specimen on a tray.

“Robert, it’s no secret that you’ve done a lot for the Phoenix program. Donations have skyrocketed since your incident with Shroud, and the demand for your team…well.” He gave a light chuckle, empty as a hollow ribcage. “You’ve been very good for business.”

Robert didn’t like how he said business.

“But,” Elias continued, his voice smoothing into something unmistakably sharp, “don’t you think you’re doing Victor a disservice by discouraging his initiative? You must see how it looks when I receive a report of a dispatcher actively limiting hero deployment and reducing their workload.”

Robert felt the bottom of his stomach drop. “With all due respect, sir, Sonar was barely standing. He was running on coffee and spite. He needed a break.”

Elias scoffed, the sound quiet but dripping with disdain.
“He’s a go-getter. A hard worker. A promising asset to your team.” His smile tightened, never touching his eyes. “And you’re concerned about him being a tad tired?”

Robert swallowed hard. That wasn’t what he’d said. Not even close.

“Sir, heroes deserve rest. Sonar deserves rest. Just like anyone else on this team.”

Elias went still.

Completely, unnervingly still.

Then he turned his head and looked at Robert.

It wasn’t a glare. It wasn’t anger. It was worse, something cold, clinical, predatory. A gaze that made Robert’s skin crawl and his pulse hitch, the kind of look that made you realise just how easily someone like Elias could ruin you without ever raising his voice.

“Victor,” Elias said, voice soft and freezing, “deserves exactly what he is given. And what he earns. Just like any other hero on the team.”

The air shifted, heavy, suffocating.

“...And I can take away much more from him than small breaks.”

He stepped closer. Robert instinctively stepped back.

Elias followed, not raising his voice, but lowering it, threading menace through every syllable.

“I was benevolent, assigning Victor back to your unit. I could have placed him far lower on the ladder. Far more dangerous work. Consistently. No rest. No support. No team you care so much about.”

He stopped inches from Robert, the faint scent of cold stone and antiseptic clinging to him.

“Do you understand,” he murmured, “just how merciful I’ve been?”

Robert’s breath hitched, not out of fear for himself, but because for the first time he realised something brutal and horrifying:

Elias didn’t see heroes.
He saw assets.

Numbers.
Tools.
Expendable pieces on a board.

And Sonar, rebellious, volatile, desperate Sonar, was just another one of those pieces. 

“This is my agency, Robert Robertson,” Elias hummed, voice deceptively calm, almost contemplative. “And you will listen to me when I tell you: leave Victor’s performance to me. Clearly you couldn’t handle him the first time he was under your guidance, so I am more than happy to pick up where you are lacking.”

Robert’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He wanted to say something, anything, but the sheer weight in Elias’s tone, the icy authority, froze him in place.

“Is that clear?” Elias pressed, his gaze unblinking, predatory.

Robert’s glare burned, but his voice was low, controlled, and begrudging. “…Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Good.” Elias’s lips curved into a smile that was all sharp angles and empty menace. “I’m glad we have an understanding. I wouldn’t like to have to induce disciplinary action because you think Victor’s performance is dropping.” His eyes glinted as he leaned just slightly forward. “You don’t, right? He’s performing exactly as he should, correct?”

Robert’s fists clenched harder. He bowed his head, teeth gritted, voice tight and brittle.
“…Sonar’s fine. His work…is fine,” he bit out, each word tasting like ash.

Elias let out a short, cold laugh. “As I suspected.” He moved toward the door, each step deliberate, measured, a predator pacing its prey. “Now get that lazy bum out of the boardroom. He isn’t paid to sleep.” He sneered, and with that final word, his presence receded down the hall, leaving a trail of cold air in his wake.

Almost on cue, Sonar’s ears twitched. His eyes snapped open, scanning the room, immediately locking onto the disappearing figure of Elias. He blinked a few times, then turned to Robert. His sharp, assessing gaze faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dangerous, furious glint.

He leaned forward slightly, baring teeth in a smirk that Robert immediately recognized as misjudged, Sonar had reached the wrong conclusion.

Fuck, Robert thought, stomach tightening. He probably thinks I ratted him out to Elias.

Sonar moved quickly, agile and deliberate, ignoring Robert entirely. His stride was all purpose and intent, aimed at smoothing over what he perceived as a ‘miscommunication’ with the chairman. Each step was confident, almost theatrical, like a show of control over a situation he thought he could fix.

Robert sank back into his chair, hands dropping limply into his lap. He watched Sonar’s retreating form, mind spinning, heart tight.

When had everything become so fucking complicated?
When did managing heroes become less about saving lives and more about walking a tightrope over a higher up’s silent, watching judgment?

And how the hell was he supposed to fix this without setting off another chain reaction?

Robert exhaled slowly, bitter and tired. The boardroom felt colder now. The shadows seemed deeper. And the weight of everything, Sonar, Elias, the entire fragile balance of the team, pressed down harder than ever.

He rubbed his eyes. He had no answers. Only questions.

And none of them were easy.

He narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. 

He needed to talk with Chase and Mandy. Now.

“Mr. Connors, Sir—” Sonar started, jogging to catch up just as the doors closed. His chest was tight, ears flicking nervously as he caught up to the older man. 

The elevator doors slid shut with a loud thunk, enclosing Sonar and Elias in the small, metallic space.

“Look, I don’t know what Robert told you, but it’s not true! He’s lying– he’s trying to get me–”

Elias raised a single hand, stopping him mid-sentence. The air in the elevator seemed to thicken. Sonar’s skin crawled as the faintest sparks of energy danced across Elias’s fingertips, barely perceptible but enough to make every nerve in his body flare.

The elevator shuddered slightly as it moved to a halt, and Sonar felt the familiar drop in his stomach. Technopathy. Elias had trained this gift into a silent weapon, and even here, in the confined metal box, Sonar could feel it pressing against him.

“Victor,” Elias murmured, voice low and unyielding. Charcoal eyes locked onto Sonar’s, cutting through the sweat on his brow. “Is that any way to address me? Running after me, yelling accusations when you should be focusing on your work?”

Sonar’s ears flattened, every instinct screaming at him to stop, to apologize, to fix it before it escalated. “Sir… I didn’t mean to–”

“Very disappointing,” Elias interrupted, calm, precise, and terrifying all at once. The words landed in the elevator like sharp metal against bone.

“I’m sorry, I just, I don’t want you to think–” Sonar stammered, bowing his head, hands fidgeting at his sides.

Elias let out a quiet, eerie chuckle, the sound vibrating in the confined space. “None of that is your concern, Victor. “ His smile was cold, and detached. 

“As long as you uphold your end of the bargain, we will not have any…issues. Understand?”

Sonar’s stomach twisted into knots. Issues. The word carried a weight heavier than anything Robert had ever said. He swallowed hard.

“Yes… Sir,” he whispered, voice tight and uneven.

Elias’s gaze didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, studying Sonar as though peeling back layers of instinct, thought, and impulse. The elevator’s hum seemed to grow louder in the silence between them, the sound pressing against Sonar’s chest like an unseen hand.

“Remember,” Elias said finally, low, deliberate, and quiet enough to make Sonar flinch, “your actions are always observed. Always. And any deviation…will not be tolerated.”

The elevator stayed still. Sonar’s ears twitched involuntarily, eyes darting to the panel, then back to Elias, who seemed impossibly calm, impossibly in control.

And Sonar realized, with a sinking certainty, that one wrong step here, one slip, one misjudged word, one fraction of hesitation, could cost him far more than just a reprimand.

It wasn’t just fear. It was raw, unshakable awareness that Elias could unravel him entirely, with nothing more than a glance.

And the elevator was small. Too small.

“Sir… I thought—” Sonar’s voice cracked, low and tight, ears flattening against his head. He swallowed hard, throat dry. “…I was under the impression our arrangement was a one-off deal?”

Elias’s face remained impossibly still, almost sculpted in shadow, unyielding and unreadable. His charcoal eyes bored into Sonar’s with that same unrelenting intensity, cold and precise.

“You were mistaken,” Elias said bluntly, his words slicing through the cramped space. There was no room for debate, no trace of patience or leniency in his tone. “You said yourself, Victor, that you would do anything—anything—to keep your position at SDN. And I, gracious as I am, provided you the opportunity to do so.”

The words were slow, measured, and deliberate. But the menace behind them made Sonar’s stomach turn.

Then Elias moved. Smooth, deliberate. He reached forward and grabbed Sonar’s tie, tugging sharply. The force pressed against Sonar’s throat, cutting off his breath for a fraction of a second. His ears flicked back, eyes wide. Panic flared in his chest.

“You remember our deal, don’t you?” Elias’s voice dropped lower, a growl barely restrained beneath the calm exterior. “Surely you haven’t forgotten exactly what you signed up for.”

Sonar’s hands shot to his chest, gripping at his tie, fumbling for leverage. His heart raced, every nerve screaming alarm. The elevator felt impossibly small, claustrophobic, the walls pressing in as Elias’s shadow seemed to stretch over him like a cage.

“I remember–” Sonar choked out, voice trembling. “I-I haven’t forgotten… sir, I…understand–”

Elias’s grip didn’t loosen, but his expression remained eerily calm, almost clinical, as though the act itself, the fear he induced, was just another measurement. “Good,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Because understanding is the only thing that will keep you useful…alive…unscathed. Deviate from that, and there will be consequences. Victor. Real consequences.”

Sonar’s ears twitched frantically, stomach dropping further. He nodded rapidly, trying to control the shaking in his hands. Every instinct told him to fight, to run, but every shred of reason screamed that in this small, metallic space, resistance would be suicidal.

The elevator hummed on, indifferent to the tension inside. And in that confined space, Sonar felt the full weight of what he had agreed to.

This wasn’t just a deal. This was a leash.

And Elias held it tight. Ever since that first meeting…

CW: Please skip this part if you're sensitive to themes of Rape/Non-con or Sexual abuse

“You’re doing so well for me, Victor,” Elias murmured, his voice low, smooth, and impossibly cold. “You really should have considered this line of work before crawling back to SDN.”

Sonar’s stomach churned. He pressed himself into the surface of the desk, hands clenched tightly, trying to ground himself as a cold panic slid through his body. His wrists were restrained, bound in place, and every movement felt painfully limited.

Elias leaned close, shadow falling across Sonar’s back. There was a weight in his presence, a suffocating authority that pressed down like steel. Every twitch, every fearful glance, was observed, catalogued, and twisted for the sake of his amusement.

“You could live freely, you know,” Elias whispered, his voice sharp and controlling as he bit into Sonar’s ear. “You could avoid all the consequences waiting for you outside these walls…if only you’d do exactly what I say.”

Sonar flinched, his pulse hammering. He swallowed hard, throat dry, and forced himself to nod. The grip of helplessness wrapped around him like chains; every instinct screamed to run, to fight, but the restraints and Elias’s looming presence left him utterly powerless.

Elias circled him slowly, voice smooth and taunting. “Keep doing well, and your life will be…simple. Fail, and everything I’ve granted you, everything you have, can vanish in an instant.”

Sonar’s chest heaved. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing. The humiliation, the terror, the crushing awareness that everything about his freedom, his future, his very life was entirely in someone else’s hands, made him shiver.

He reached down to insert his finger into Sonar, earning a strangled, pained grunt. Sonar buried his head into his hands, trying to hide his face from the humiliating position he was in.

It didn’t help that Elias was the only one clothed in this situation.

His other hand raised to wrap around Sonar’s throat, choking him as he added a second finger. 

Elias’s hand rested briefly on him, not for warmth, not for comfort, but for control. Every pressure, every movement, was a reminder of how utterly at his mercy Sonar was.

“You will learn to follow, Victor,” Elias said softly, almost kindly in tone, but the menace behind it made Sonar’s stomach twist. “Because if you do not…there will be consequences. And I assure you, you will not like them.”

Sonar whined and tried to shake away to no avail, his eyes were covered with blue fabric. Elias’s tie, which blocked what little vision Sonar had. 

“Keep being my good boy, and I can make your life so so easy…fail to do so, and I'll rip it all away-” He sneered, wrenching his fingers from Sonar with practiced cruelty. Sonar cried out, gasping and sobbing as he struggled to breathe, the pain from his ass adding to his panic. 

The hand was removed, only to reposition it around Sonar’s hips. 

The words lingered long after the sound faded. Sonar’s body trembled, his mind reeling, and he realized with cold clarity: he was trapped. Completely, painfully trapped.

And the man who held that power over him…enjoyed it.

Sonar’s tears renewed as he felt a thicker, more threatening pressure where Elias’s fingers just were. 

“Either way, you’ll learn to fucking take it,” 

…

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. Sonar stayed pressed against the desk long after Elias had gone, muscles trembling, hands shaking as he tried to pull himself together. Every nerve in his body screamed; every breath felt ragged and shallow, as though he couldn’t get enough air to satisfy the panic coiling in his chest.

He buried his face in his arms, trying to hide from the shadows, from the echoes of Elias’s voice, from the suffocating memory of the man’s proximity. The restraints had been removed, but their weight lingered on his wrists, a phantom pressure that refused to fade.

His ears flattened against his head. His tail twitched involuntarily. Every instinct told him to run, to escape, to fight, but the memory of Elias’s cold, measured control froze him in place. It wasn’t just fear. It was the absolute, undeniable knowledge that he had no power here. That everything he had, every small shred of freedom, existed only because Elias allowed it.

Sonar’s mind spun. What did I ever do to deserve this? The question had no answer. There was no justice, no reprieve, just the lingering awareness that the man he had sold himself to could dismantle his life, his career, his very being, with a single decision.

His chest ached as he tried to steady his breathing, but the tremors wouldn’t stop. His fur was damp with sweat, his claws scraped against the wood of the desk as if grounding himself physically could tether him from the psychological freefall.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to curl into nothing and vanish, but even that thought seemed indulgent, impossible. There was only silence. The silence of the room. The silence of the world without Elias’s presence, and yet, even in his absence, it felt as though Elias’s gaze was still on him, measuring him, judging him, asserting ownership over his body and mind.

Finally, Sonar lowered himself to the floor, sitting with his back against the desk. He pressed his forehead to his knees, fingers digging into his hair as he let the sobs come quietly, shaking the small, empty space around him.

He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t. Not Robert, not anyone on the Z-team, not even himself fully. The moment he admitted the depth of what had happened, the fragility of his life, the truth of how far he had sunk, the entire world would see him as weak, expendable, broken.

And Elias would win.

Sonar drew a ragged, uneven breath, trying to shove the panic back into a corner of his mind. But it didn’t leave. Not fully. The room was quiet, but the weight of Elias’s control pressed down on him like a shadow that refused to dissipate.

He had survived, technically. His life was still his, barely. But the price was etched into his body, into his mind. And Sonar knew, with the cold clarity of someone staring over a cliff edge, that it would never truly leave him.

Not while Elias existed. Not while he held the leash.

And the worst part…was knowing that he would obey.

Because if he didn’t…there would be consequences.

And the man who had just left the room had made it very clear: he was willing to see them through.

Sonar’s mind flooded with static at the memory, and was only brought back by the vicious presence of Elias in his face, baring his teeth. 

“You keep your job by bringing in those numbers,” Elias said, each word clipped with disdain. “Our little arrangement exists solely to keep you out of a prison cell.” His voice curled into a sneer. “Believe me, someone like you wouldn’t last long. You barely scraped by before, didn’t you?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to Sonar’s ear, too intimate, too predatory.

Sonar froze. He couldn’t breathe. His jaw trembled as he fought to keep the panic from swallowing him whole.

“Before you were nothing,” Elias whispered, voice low and venomous. “Not worth a damn to anyone. But if you go back now? If you fall from grace as a failed hero?”

A slow smile spread across his face… cruel, delighted.

“Well, some of the filth you helped put away might find themselves sharing a cell with you.” His breath hit Sonar’s ear like ice. “And I don’t think they’d be as gentle as I’ve been.”

Sonar’s blood went cold.

“In fact…” Elias hummed, amused. “I could arrange for them to be much, much worse.”

The grip on Sonar’s tie tightened viciously. His lungs spasmed. His vision sparked around the edges.

Then Elias’s hand rose, too fast to flinch away. Fingers buried themselves in the fur at Sonar’s cheek and jaw, yanking brutally. A choked yelp tore out of him before he could swallow it down.

Elias loomed over him, impossibly tall, impossibly calm, as if Sonar’s pain was an expected part of the conversation.

“I don’t have to be gentle, Victor,” he murmured. “I can do whatever I like to you. And tell me, would anyone care?” His smile widened into something monstrous. “Would anyone give a single, solitary shit about someone as worthless, as pathetic, as you?”

Sonar whined, something involuntary, humiliating, shaking his head frantically as Elias yanked the tie again, cutting off even more air. His lungs burned. His hands clawed weakly at Elias’s wrist, struggling, failing.

Elias watched him with a rapture that made Sonar’s stomach twist. Pleasure flickered in the man’s dead, dark eyes, lighting them up in a way Sonar had never seen before, and wished he never had.

“If you tell anyone,” Elias continued softly, almost tenderly, “not only will they not believe you…”

The elevator hummed around them, indifferent to Sonar’s strangled wheezing.

“…but I will ruin you.”

The last two words were pure malice.

“In every sense of the word,” Elias promised. “To the point where not even that insolent, nepo-bitch Robert Robertson will stay by your side.”

His smile turned wicked.

“He’ll abandon you just like everyone else.”

Elias finally released him. Sonar collapsed to the cold, metallic floor of the elevator, gasping and choking, lungs burning as he drew in desperate, ragged breaths. His hands clutched at his chest as if holding himself together could somehow repair the damage done.

Elias adjusted his suit with meticulous calm, the kind of precision that made Sonar want to shrink even further. “Meet me in my office tomorrow, our usual time,” he said smoothly, flicking his hand. The elevator hummed as the machinery obeyed him, sliding into motion again without a second thought.

Sonar huddled in the corner, trembling, eyes wide and fixed on the spot where Elias had been standing. Every syllable, every movement of the man still burned in his mind, a ghost of threat he couldn’t shake. After several long seconds, he forced a nod, his body trembling as he lifted his gaze to the devil he had voluntarily tethered himself to.

Before the doors slid open, Elias’s lips curved into a condescending smile. “…Good boy,” he murmured, the words carrying a casual cruelty that set Sonar’s skin crawling.

The doors parted, and Elias stepped out, leaving the elevator, and Sonar, alone in a silence that was deafening. He remained on the floor for a moment longer, chest heaving, hands gripping his trembling knees.

A crackle of static in his earpiece broke the tension.

“Sonar, are you okay? We need you back on shift,” Robert’s voice came through, flat, resigned, as though calling him back was a burden.

Sonar exhaled shakily, relief and guilt twisting together. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and pushed himself to his feet. His blazer felt heavy on his shoulders; he tugged his tie back into place and forced himself to stand straighter.

“Yeah… yeah, cool. I’ll be there in a sec,” he murmured, his voice trembling despite his attempt at casualness.

“Okay,” Robert replied, a faint sigh threaded through the word. Even through the earpiece, Sonar could hear the weariness. He didn’t want to know why. He couldn’t face it.

What if he knows?

Sonar’s stomach plummeted, a cold weight pressing into his chest. Elias surely… wouldn’t have told him, right?

The thought of pity in Robert’s eyes, of anyone seeing the depths he had sunk to, made Sonar’s throat tighten. He couldn’t bear it. Not now, not ever. To have someone look at him and see just how low he had gone…

But it wasn’t just a job. This wasn’t just paperwork or points on a board. This was survival. His life, in the simplest and most horrifying sense. If he went back to prison now, it would be over. He’d be nothing.

At least, as Elias’s pawn, he was something. Still something. Still fighting. Still clinging to the slim chance that he could control even a fraction of his own destiny.

Elias was older, eventually mortal. One day, maybe, that would change. One day, he would stop. One day, he would falter—or die. Sonar could only hope that day came sooner rather than later.

Until then, there was no escape. No reprieve. No choice.

He was trapped.

And the only thing keeping him alive…was obedience.

Chapter Text

One week later

“So…to summarize, I think he hates me. Any comments?”

Robert slouched deeper into the couch, beer bottle dangling between two fingers as he surveyed the room. Courtney, Mandy, and Chase all stared back, each wearing their own unique blend of worry, sympathy, and expressions of ‘yeah, that tracks.

“Well… I’m not saying he hates you,” Courtney said, dragging a hand through her hair as she perched on the arm of the sofa, “but I wouldn’t hold my breath on him liking you either.”

Chase nodded solemnly, because of course he did.

“Yeah, look, dude’s not evil, but he’s definitely petty,” he announced, taking a swig of his drink. “I don’t see him liking any of us until… well, until ever, really. Which I’m personally fine with, but you guys actually have to deal with this fucker’s bullshit.”

Mandy’s gaze stayed fixed on her hands, her shoulders sinking further with every syllable.
“...I wouldn’t blame him,” she admitted quietly. “He was right at the end of the day. I was biased, and I let it impact the team.” Her brow furrowed, jaw tightening in frustration at herself.

Robert shook his head quickly. “We all could’ve done more. Except… really, we couldn’t. Sonar and Coupe were at the bottom of the leaderboard regardless. It was out of our hands at the time, and that’s what’s so strange to me.”

He leaned back, frowning thoughtfully.

“I just don’t get it… why Elias let Sonar back on the team,” he muttered. “I’ve got nothing against the guy, I mean, he’s just a bit brash and cocky, but he’s also not Phenomaman skill-wise. And the way Elias talks, it feels like Sonar would have to be something really special to get another shot.” He scoffed “Business ‘assets’ and all that crap,”

Chase shrugged. “Isn’t the bat-shifting shit cool enough?”

“Maybe to us,” Robert sighed, tipping his bottle slightly toward the floor. “But Elias doesn’t give a damn about cool. I think he’s more worried about the lawsuits Sonar’s transformations might cause. And now that you mention it… he hasn’t been transforming as much.” He paused. “But when he does, it’s still random. Like something’s getting in the way…maybe psychologically?” he pondered, though the train of thought didn’t travel far. He didn’t know jack shit about Sonar’s biology, nobody did. Not even Sonar. 

Courtney had been quiet for a while now. Not the casual, zoning-out kind of quiet, but the brittle, loaded kind that makes the air feel heavier without anyone noticing why. She held her drink between both hands, turning the bottle slowly as she stared down at the label like it might rearrange itself into some kind of answer.

Eventually, the others noticed. One by one, their conversation dulled and stalled until all focus drifted toward her hunched shoulders.

Chase shifted in his seat, brow furrowing.

“Wanna share with the class?” he muttered, trying for levity, but even he couldn’t hide the concerned edge in his voice at the turn the conversation seemed to take. 

Courtney inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out in a slow, defeated exhale.

“It’s a… really bold accusation,” she said, voice faint in the quiet room. “But I’ve been thinking about it since lunch last week. When Sonar first came back.”

Mandy lifted her head, frowning.
“In the break room? From what I heard, that went well.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, worry gathering in her expression.

“Everyone was excited he was back. And that Phenomaman joined. It sounded… positive.”

“It was,” Courtney admitted. “Mostly.” She shut her eyes for a moment, the memory clearly weighing on her. “It’s just… I made a really inappropriate joke, and Sonar had a weird reaction. Like– really weird.”

The room fell into an expectant silence. Even Chase, who typically wore discomfort like armor, looked uneasy. He raised his glass and took a slow sip before asking,

“What exactly did you say…?”

Courtney grimaced. “…I asked him who he had to blow to get back in.”

Mandy recoiled, hand flying out to smack her arm. “Courtney! What the fuck, that’s awful!”
Her voice was tight, not just angry but scared, like she already sensed something was wrong based on how the conversation was going.

Courtney didn’t argue. She just looked tired. “I know. I know it was out of line. I realized it the second I said it. But that’s not what’s messing with me.”
She swallowed, throat bobbing. “It was the way he reacted. He didn’t just get offended. He panicked, just for a moment. Like I’d dragged some horrible secret out into the open. It was like watching someone flinch before a hit.”

She rubbed her temples, shoulders curling inward. “And I can’t get that look out of my head.”

Chase and Mandy exchanged a glance, both troubled, both unsure how to respond. Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his own drink forgotten.

“You’re… right,” he said slowly, carefully. “That is a bold accusation.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, expression worried. “And if there’s even a chance it’s true, it’s not something we take lightly. Sonar’s already been through a lot. He doesn’t need any more–”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Chase cut in.

“Chase!” Robert snapped, more out of instinct than anger.

Chase held up a hand, eyes sharp and unflinching. “Not fucking Sonar. I mean Elias.”

He set his drink down a little too hard. “Because IF this accusation is true, and I’m not saying it is, but if it is? Then the only person who fits the bill is the guy hovering around Sonar like a fucking storm cloud.”

His jaw tightened. “Elias has been… weird. Overly present. Overly involved. And Sonar, he’s skittish around him. We all saw that. Don’t pretend we didn’t. It’s hard not to notice the guy get all freaked out when he’s usually so up his own ass-”

“Chase-” Robert warned gently, and the other man sighed.

“Poor choice of words…but you know what i mean,”

Courtney stared at her drink, guilt creeping into her features.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything about Sonar,” she whispered. “God, the idea alone makes me sick. I just, when he looked at me like that, I realized something’s really wrong. And I think he’s scared to talk about it.”

Silence pressed down on the room, thick, heavy, suffocating.
They all felt it. The fear. The dread. The protective instinct kicking in. The terror of putting a name to something too horrible to fully imagine.

Mandy’s voice broke the stillness, small and tight.
“If Elias hurt him–”

“Then we’re not letting it slide,” Robert finished quietly. “Not this time. Not ever.”

None of them said another word. But every one of them understood:

This wasn’t gossip.
This wasn’t speculation.
This was the first crack in a truth none of them were ready to face.

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, the frustration and worry clear in the tension of his furrowed brow.

“...Things haven’t gotten any better,” he said quietly. “All Sonar does is work. He comes in early, leaves late, and barely takes a break at all.” His voice took on a helpless edge. “And he keeps watching me. Like he’s scared I’m going to ‘rat on him’ again.”

He threw up a hand in a defeated gesture.
“I didn’t even say anything– but now he’s convinced I sold him out.”

“To the guy he’s bribing to get back into SDN?” Chase muttered into his drink, though the joke fell dead the moment it left his mouth.

Mandy shook her head immediately, face twisting with discomfort.

“No… bribing is one thing. Money, favors, very illegal, but survivable.” She swallowed hard, her voice dipping. “But if what’s happening is what we think it is… that’s not bribery. That’s coercion. That’s an abuse of power.”

She rubbed her arms as if suddenly cold. “Realistically, Sonar wouldn’t be able to say no. Not if he thought he’d lose his job.”

“And get sent back to prison,” Robert added softly, a deep frown pulling at his expression.

Silence crept in for a heavy moment. Not awkward, just sickening. A quiet weight of understanding settling over them like wet concrete.

Courtney spoke next, voice steady but bleak.
“And if that happened… because he’s a ‘hero’ now, he’d get thrown into prison with a bunch of people he put there.” She grimaced. “With his recent ‘work ethic,’ that’s a lot of very pissed-off people. He wouldn’t last a day in the yard.”

A small shudder ran through her as she finished speaking.

Chase tapped his bottle against his knee, staring down into the amber liquid as if hoping it would give him a happier version of reality.

“...We don’t know it’s true yet,” he said finally. “Maybe he just blackmailed the guy? And we don’t have to worry about anything.”
His tone made it painfully clear how desperate he was to believe that, clinging to the least awful explanation available.

But Robert wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t be.

Images flashed uninvited through his mind:

Sonar stumbling out of the elevator that evening, his hands shaking… his eyes wide and glassy with panic… the way he couldn’t even speak for a moment.
How he’d flinched when Robert merely tried to ask if he was okay.

Elias had been with him. Alone. In an elevator.

Robert’s breath left him in a slow, troubled exhale.
“I don’t have a good feeling about that,” he murmured, voice hollow. “I really don’t…”

And none of them argued with him.

Because deep down, every one of them already feared the same thing.

“What can we even do if it was true?” Courtney finally sighed, her voice thin with the weight of the question. It was the kind of question that sucked the air out of a room.

Mandy sat forward slightly, hands clasped as she tried to think logically through something that felt anything but.

“If Sonar came forward and testified against him in court,” she said carefully, “Elias could be stripped of his position. And his power. Meaning no more abuse.”

It sounded like a fragile, distant hope, as if Mandy was trying to convince herself as much as the others that this could be “easily” fixed.

Courtney groaned and dragged a palm down her face.

“Perfect,” she said bitterly. “So all we have to do is get a half-hybrid, ex-con, male victim to admit he was sexually abused. Yeah. Easy. Peasy.”

The sarcasm cracked through the room like a whip. Mandy winced hard at the blunt cruelty of the truth.

“And that’s only once we know for sure it even happened,” Chase added, lifting his shoulders helplessly. “We’re still running on speculation and weird vibes. Nothing solid. We know shit is shady as hell, but we don’t know how deep it runs.”

He tapped the side of his bottle, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “Could be nothing. Could be just the tip of the iceberg.”

Robert hadn’t said anything for a while. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were pale. The others’ voices blurred into the background while he thought, really thought, about Sonar, the way the guy walked these days, tense and hunched, like he was waiting for a blow. The way he barely spoke. Barely ate. Barely rested.

Eventually he let out a slow breath.

“For now… we can’t do anything but wait,” he admitted, though the frustration of that truth echoed through every word. “But maybe with time, he’ll mention something. Or we can catch Elias doing… something. Anything.”

He glanced up at the others, face filled with quiet worry.
“And maybe the rest of the Z-team can help keep him company. If he spends less time alone, less time cornered, maybe he’ll be safer. Or at least… not isolated.”

Mandy frowned deeply.
“That’s it?” she murmured, almost disappointed. Almost angry.

“It’s the best we’ve got,” Robert said softly but firmly. “Until we have actual proof… anything we do could backfire. And if Elias is really doing what we think he is?”
He paused, jaw tightening.

“Then the last thing we want is to make Sonar’s situation worse.”

He leaned back, eyes darkening with conviction.
“But once we do have proof?” His voice hardened. “We take that piece of shit down. Completely. And we get things back on track.”

Chase let out a long, weary sigh and lifted his shoulders in defeat.

“Good enough for me,” he muttered, though the heaviness in his voice made it clear nothing about this felt good at all.

Courtney perked up slightly, grasping at something she could control.

“I’ll see if I can convince Bruno to invite him over for some gaming,” she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Little-known fact? Bruno is such a sweetheart nobody says no when he invites them. It’s like a biological impossibility.” She flashed a mischievous grin, small, but real.

“How you’re friends with him still baffles me,” Chase deadpanned.

Courtney punched him in the arm instantly. “Shut up.”

The two dissolved into their usual back-and-forth bickering, the kind that usually brought warmth and life into the room. But tonight it only barely skimmed the surface, like a noise they manufactured to fill the quiet, to keep their minds from spiraling too far into the darker possibilities.

Robert didn’t join in.
He sat still on the couch, staring at the floor, the faint echo of Sonar’s panicked expression haunting the edges of his thoughts. He could still see it, the wide eyes, the tremble he tried so hard to hide, the way he watched Elias leave the elevator like a man watching his executioner walk away.

Robert closed his eyes and leaned subtly against Mandy.
She didn’t say anything, but the tiny shift of her weight, barely noticeable, told him she was just as deep in her own thoughts. She had been since Sonar returned. They all had.

They were a team.
They weren’t supposed to let one of their own slip through the cracks.

But somehow, they had.

And now Victor… Sonar was walking around like a ghost wearing a hero’s uniform. A ghost with a target on his back and no one he believed he could trust.

Robert exhaled shakily.

They’d figure things out.
They had to.

Because the alternative, doing nothing, watching Sonar crumble under whatever weight he was carrying, was unacceptable.

They just had to.

“Look man, this is nice and all, but I don’t have time to be doing this,” Sonar muttered.

He sank deeper into the oversized beanbag, letting himself fold into it like a creature desperately trying to disappear. The fabric swallowed around him, soft and unfamiliar, too soft, too safe. It made him uneasy. He kept shooting Golem sheepish glances, as if waiting for permission to bolt.

Golem, sprawled comfortably on his own beanbag throne, just chuckled.
“Dude, it’s the weekend. This is the perfect time to be doing this.”

He didn’t even look at Sonar when he said it, casually flicking through character options on the screen with the kind of relaxed ease Sonar hadn’t felt in… God, weeks. Maybe longer. The room was dim, lit only by the TV and one lamp with a warm golden bulb. It felt domestic. Normal. Something Sonar didn’t know how to fit into anymore.

Sonar let his head fall back and sighed.
“I was going to work another shift tonight,” he mumbled, almost guiltily.

Golem paused the character selection and gave him a look, gentle, but disappointed in that perplexed, little-brother way only Golem could pull off.

“You work way too much, man. Even Malevola says so. She said even before all this SDN stuff, you were obsessed with stocks and investments to like, an unhealthy degree.”

Sonar scoffed, defensive but tired. “I was making financially wise decisions for my future!” he protested, squinting at the smeared colours on the TV. Everything on the screen was a blur unless he leaned in, and even then, shapes swam. He hovered over a character icon and just… picked the one with the brightest splash of colour.

“Bayonetta,” Golem hummed approvingly. “Nice.”

“What?” Sonar blinked owlishly. “Are they good?”

Golem grinned. “Yeah, but also? If you could actually see what she looked like, you’d dig it a whole lot more.”

Sonar snorted, the smallest genuine grin tugging at his mouth.
“Nice.”

For a second, it felt… normal. Like they were just two coworkers hanging out. Like he wasn’t constantly exhausted, constantly anxious, constantly looking over his shoulder waiting for someone to call him back to work, or worse, waiting for Elias to materialise out of nowhere.

He curled his knees in a little, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the controller. His shoulders slowly, cautiously eased down from their usual braced position.

Maybe… maybe he could have this. Just for an hour.

Golem bumped his foot lightheartedly against Sonar’s beanbag.
“Dude, relax. It’s game night, not a performance review.”

Sonar let out a soft exhale he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

For the first time in a while, he let himself believe it.

It felt… nice to smile. Strange, fragile, but nice. After the week he’d had, after the constant pressure, the late nights, the way his body ached from exhaustion he never let himself acknowledge, this tiny moment of softness felt almost dangerous. Like if he enjoyed it too much, it would be taken from him.

But it’s just one night, he reasoned weakly.
He could always work extra tomorrow. Push harder. Make up for it.

A sudden growl from his stomach betrayed him, and he quickly folded his knees up to his chest, using them as a shield. His cheeks warmed in embarrassment.

Golem snorted.
“Don’t worry, baby, the cavalry will be here soon.”

Sonar blinked at him.
“Uh… you don’t have to feed me, man. I eat enough,” he muttered, tone flat and self-conscious.

Golem hummed in a way that suggested he did not believe that for a single second.
“Hmm… nah. But it’s cool– we made sure to get you something we know you’ll like.”

Sonar frowned slightly, staring down at his hands.
“I haven’t really worked hard enough today to warrant a treat,” he said quietly. “But… sure.”

That made Golem stop. Just look at him. Really look. And the concern that washed over the man’s face made something in Sonar twist painfully, shame, anger, fear. He wasn’t sure which. Maybe all three.

After a long moment, Golem nodded gently.
“…Okay. Well… let’s call it a treat day then, yeah?”

Sonar couldn’t handle the softness in his voice. Couldn’t stand the way people kept looking at him lately, like he was fragile, like he might break if they touched him too hard. Like they could see something he desperately needed to hide.

So when the doorbell rang, he jumped at the chance to escape.

“I got it,” he said too quickly, jogging across the room.

He wasn’t running away from Golem’s pity.
He wasn’t.

Except he was.

Every step toward the door made his chest feel tighter. Elias’s voice whispered through his memory like a threat coiled around his spine, strict intake, every meal approved, no deviations unless instructed. He knew it was bullshit. Knew it wasn’t really about health or marketing or physique. Knew the “plan” was another way to monitor him.

But knowing didn’t change the rules. Or the consequences.

Sonar forced his expression into something neutral and pulled the door open–

–and immediately scowled.

Invisigal stood there holding two paper bags of takeout, smiling nervously like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome.

“…Hey,” she offered, sheepish.

Sonar leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

Of all people. All nights.

Fantastic.

“Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, unable to stop the flatness in his voice.

“Yep, it’s me,” she chirped, entirely unfazed. Invisigal breezed past him like she owned the place, juggling multiple take-out bags as if they weighed nothing. The smell hit him instantly, grease, spice, sweet apple soda, and his stomach clenched in betrayal.

“Alrighty,” she announced, dropping the bags onto the coffee table like she was unveiling treasure. “I have burgers, onion rings, a side of coleslaw, spicy wings, ranch dip, two mega-litre bottles of apple soda, and of course–” She paused dramatically as she fished out a small plastic container. “Some deep-fried mice, courtesy of Exotic Delicacies downtown.” She wiggled the container at him like she was tempting a cat.

His breath stuttered. He could practically hear the crunch already.
Two weeks. Two painfully bland, boiled-chicken, protein-bar-filled weeks since he’d had anything that tasted like joy. Or like… him.

Apparently it wasn’t “marketable” to have bits of rodent stuck in your teeth.
Not that he was trying to appeal to Elias’ advice anyway. Honestly, the less that man found him attractive, the safer Sonar felt. But still… Sonar followed the damn diet. Rigidly. Because that was what was expected of him.

It’s what secured his job after all. 

He hated how quickly his mouth watered.

He snapped his gaze back to Invisigal and scowled suspiciously. “Are you… trying to buy my friendship with fried mice?”

Behind her, Golem was already elbow-deep in one of the bags, grabbing a bucket of wings. “Is it working?” he mumbled before tipping half the wings straight into his mouth.

Sonar huffed, arms crossing even as his eyes stayed glued to the container.
“…Barely,” he grumbled. He snatched the mice decisively, as if taking them quickly made it less obvious how desperately he wanted them. “Congratulations. I tolerate you now.”

Invisigal gasped theatrically, clutching her chest. “Aww, I tolerate you too, bat-boy.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just a little. Enough for Golem to notice, judging by the soft snort he tried to hide.

Sonar sat back down on the beanbag, slouching until he sank into it like a disgruntled pillow fort gremlin. Invisigal plopped down beside them, and without looking up, he shoved the third controller in her direction with a grumble.

It wasn’t acceptance.
It wasn’t trust.
But it was… something.

And for tonight, maybe that was enough.

She smirked at the screen. “Oh my god, it is so fucking fitting that you chose Bayonetta.”

Sonar tossed his head back with an exaggerated scoff, popping another deep-fried mouse into his mouth. “Alright, how hot is this lady for both of you to comment on it? Because this is getting suspicious.”

“Aside from the fact that you just admitted you have a bias for hot ladies–”

“Duh, who wouldn’t?”

“Flambae,” Golem reminded him dryly.

“…Touché.”

“Aside from that,” Invisigal continued, smirking like she’d been waiting for the theatrical pause, “she’s a total ten. Hands down.”

“Who wouldn’t like a woman who kicks ass?” Golem nodded sagely as he scrolled through characters.

Sonar hummed and nodded back, but the amusement softened as he looked down at the little take-out dish again. His thumb traced the edge of the styrofoam container, the motion small and oddly tender. Almost guilty.

“You guys didn’t have to do all this,” he muttered, voice low.

“Uhh, sure?” Invisigal shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We wanted to. What, do you prefer your mice raw or something?”

Sonar snorted. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just–” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to swallow down the growing knot in his chest. “I don’t know. Fuck. Forget I said anything.”

He went back to staring at the mice like they’d personally offended him.

Golem shook his head and reached over, laying a warm, steady hand on Sonar’s shoulder. Not heavy. Not pushy. Just there. Enough to pull Sonar’s gaze back up.

“Hey,” Golem said softly. “We love you, and we care about you, baby.” His thumb gave an instinctive, grounding little squeeze. “And it’s really fucking cool to see you back.”

Sonar froze, stunned, not by the words themselves, but by the way they landed. Clean. Direct. No pity. Just the truth.

He opened his mouth, he wasn’t even sure what he planned to say, when Invisigal jumped in.

“Yeah, man.” She shifted closer, resting her elbows on her knees, unusually earnest. “And look, I’m sorry about what I said the other day. That was not cool, and I don’t want you thinking you’re, like, not good enough for Z-Team. Because you are.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. “That old fart in charge of recruiting can kiss my ass. ‘Cut one of us to make a statement’, yeah, okay. Great statement, Grandpa. Fucking stupid idea.”

Sonar blinked between them, their sincerity hitting harder than any pep talk he’d gotten in months. Maybe years.

And for once… he didn’t immediately flinch away from it.

“Straight stupidity, man,” Golem laughed as the character select faded into the opening round.

Sonar tried, really tried, to focus on the buttons. On the combos. On anything other than the warmth spreading through his chest. But instead, his brain kept circling back to what they’d said.

We love you. We care about you. You’re good enough for Z-Team.

He swallowed once, twice, the words replaying with surprising gentleness.

Maybe… if today went well, if Elias didn’t notice he’d been out, didn’t check his logs, didn’t question the slight deviation in his schedule, maybe he could do this again.

Just once a week. One night where he wasn’t reporting in, or micromanaged, or adjusting himself to be palatable.

Because this??
This was really, really nice.

He felt warm and fuzzy and… wanted. But not the twisted, conditional “want” he’d been trained to obey.

This was him being wanted. Scrappy, half-hybrid, messy, exhausted him. Not the polished, suffocating Ken-doll version he’d been twisted into maintaining.

His eyes drifted to the blue tie draped over the back of a chair. Like it had been shed in a hurry. Like it didn’t own him for once.

Without thinking, he lifted a hand to his throat, fingers brushing the skin where the knot usually sat too tight. He breathed in, felt the unfamiliar looseness, the absence of pressure.

The absence of control.

A tiny, involuntary smile curled on his lips as he turned back to the screen, right as he started button-mashing like a man possessed.

“Aw, what?? Dude, that’s fucking cheating!” Invisigal yelped, immediately devolving into her own frantic button-mashing. She shoved his head sideways with her shoulder. “Stop being good at random, it’s rude!”

Sonar couldn’t help it, the laugh erupted out of him loud and bright, so foreign it startled him for half a second. He bumped her right back, bumping shoulders in retaliation as they both shouted nonsense at the screen.

Meanwhile, Golem played like a serene god of chaos, dodging and countering everything with infuriating ease.

“Bro, how are you this chill?” Sonar demanded, choking back another laugh.

“Skill,” Golem said simply, landing a final blow that knocked both their characters out. “And also, you two are idiots.”

“HE’S A LIAR AND A CHEAT– AND I WON’T STAND FOR IT!” Invisigal declared, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at Sonar before he could even process the defeat.

The pillow hit him square in the chest. He fell back dramatically, wheezing with laughter. Real laughter. The kind that made his ribs ache in a good way.

The room buzzed again, more chatter, more teasing, more effortless warmth. The kind of atmosphere Sonar hadn’t felt in… he couldn’t even remember.

As he sat there, clutching the pillow and catching his breath, he thought:

This.

This, this chaos, this softness, this pure, uncomplicated connection.

Moments like this made everything worth it.

If he kept telling himself that, things would be ok. 

Chapter Text

A week had passed since game night, one whole week of trying not to think too hard about how nice it had felt, how oddly grounding it had been.

And yet… Sonar couldn’t help noticing that ever since then, the Z-Team had started scheduling more social nights together.

Maybe it was a coincidence.
Maybe they’d been doing this long before he ever stumbled back into the workforce.
Maybe he’d just been too unemployed and miserable to notice.

But whatever the reason… he was being invited now.

Not always, not nearly as often as part of him quietly craved, but enough. Enough that he felt the edges of loneliness soften. Enough that he could pretend, even if just for brief stretches, that he was part of something bigger than duty and reports and keeping certain people appeased.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he reminded himself, tearing open the protein bar that definitely didn’t count as a “fun” lunch.
Still, he was grateful. Grateful in that complicated, aching kind of way.

One thing he learned quickly?
Lunch hour at SDN was sacred. Officially and, yes, he checked on the employee database, explicitly mandatory.
A forced pause in the middle of the day where everyone gathered in the break room.

Sonar, wedged at the table’s end, watched the familiar ritual unfold like some kind of odd, comforting parade of food identities.

Flambae was already perched on the counter, casually devouring cold pizza drowned in marinara. It smelled incredible, so unfairly good that Sonar’s stomach clenched in betrayal.

Across from him, Prism delicately cut into a perfectly seared filet mignon like this was some five-star rooftop restaurant instead of a fluorescent-lit break room.
Prism, supposedly being both a pop star and a superhero, came with perks beyond fancy brand deals.

Malevola and Invisigal arrived next, dual-wielding burgers from the food truck on the corner. The grease stained their wrappers. Their grins were matching and unapologetic. Golem trailed behind them with a mountainous tray of loaded fries, cheese oozing over the sides.

Punch-Up came in last, the cold nipping at his cheeks as he held a massive thermos of what could only be described as “winter in a bowl”, thick stew, bacon, leek, potatoes. The kind of food that made you feel warm just by smelling it.

Coupe sat quietly in his usual seat, daintily spearing a star-shaped slice of pineapple from her fruit plate. Sonar honestly didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned by the assassin’s dedication to the cute presentation.

And then there was Waterboy and Phenomaman.

Who today—of all things—were sharing a basket of melon chunks between them.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sonar blinked.
He wasn’t going to question it. Both seemed happy.
Frankly, he’d learned not to question anything in this company anymore.

And for a moment, just a moment, he sat there, surrounded by warmth and noise and entirely too many food smells he wasn’t technically allowed to indulge in, and felt something settle in his chest.

Not peace, exactly.
But something close.

Which…unfortunately…brought Sonar to his lunch.

He opened the metal lunchbox with the same energy one might open a coffin containing their own hopes and dreams.

Inside, the sad sight greeted him: two rice crackers and half a protein bar he’d stupidly devoured out of stress between calls.
That was it.
That was lunch.

He stared at it for a moment, resisting the urge to visibly wince. Even the crackers looked ashamed to be there.

He plucked one out and took a slow, purposeful bite, humming softly as if trying to trick himself into believing he was enjoying the sheer absence of flavor. Someone once told him that eating slowly made you feel fuller.

He was praying they hadn’t lied.

The worst part?
Everyone else had noticed. And they had tried, really tried, to share with him.

But he’d shut it down each time with some half-baked excuse:

“Had a massive breakfast, dude.”

“You don’t gotta baby me, seriously—I’m good.”

“I’m allergic to a lot of stuff.”

They weren’t convincing. Half the team looked ready to call him out on it.
But no one did. Maybe out of respect. Maybe out of worry. Maybe because they saw something he didn’t want them to see.

Because the truth was ugly.
And it sat coiled like barbed wire around his ribs.

Elias had started a new routine: weighing him every time he “visited.”
Always framed as checking his “hero physiology.”
Always followed by a pointed comment about presentation, consistency, marketability.

It was humiliating.
Dehumanizing.
And it was messing with his head in ways he couldn’t afford to examine too closely.

He didn’t have a choice but to follow the rules.

If he slipped up, if he failed to meet expectations, then all of this, all the pain and pressure and compromises, would have been for nothing.

He wasn’t going to let a few extra calories ruin the precarious balance he was desperately holding together.

So he took another pointless bite of the rice cracker.

And that was when Flambae leaned over, eyebrows pinched in both disgust and concern.

“Dude, your lunch is fucking depressing.”

Sonar rolled his eyes, adopting the smug, faux-confident tone he knew would deflect attention.
“It’s minimalist,” he said, deadpan. “Unlike the radioactive sludge you keep reheating.”

Flambae bristled immediately, protectively cradling his reheated container.

“Excuse me? This is QUALITY food from a QUALITY establishment.” He rattled the box for emphasis, scooping a forkful and shoving it into his mouth like a challenge.

Sonar grinned, genuinely, this time.

“Sure. I’m sure it was amazing… twelve hours ago, when it was first made.”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “But reheated food? Usually tastes like cardboard, man. Just saying.”

Flambae’s jaw dropped, scandalized.
“Whatever,” he huffed. “Enjoy your little styrofoam disks of sadness.”

Despite everything, despite the hunger gnawing at him and the weight of someone else’s rules crushing his ribs, Sonar found the corner of his mouth lifting.

Because at least this?
This kind of stupid bickering?

It was normal.
And right now, normal felt like a lifeline.

“I will, thank you very much,” Sonar huffed, tilting his snout upward with exaggerated offense as he snapped another bite off the cracker.

He tried to pretend the crunch was satisfying instead of hollow.

Punch-up dropped into the seat beside him, the bench creaking under his enthusiasm more than his weight.

The man always carried himself like the world was a tavern and every table was filled with friends.

“D’ye know what ye need, lad?” he declared, jabbing his spoon toward Sonar with theatrical gusto. Sonar’s ears flicked in instinctive curiosity.

“A grand night out, that’s what! I’ve been hearin’ ye’re workin’ yer fingers to the bone—so ye are!” Punch-up continued, eyes gleaming with mischief and genuine worry.

“Ye need a bit o’ R and R to get the lead out. Sure, playin’ them videogames with the others is… grand.” He said “grand” like it was a polite concession.

“But nothin’, NOTHIN’, beats doin’ shots with good company. That’ll straighten ye right out!” he finished proudly.

Sonar’s stomach tightened, not from hunger this time, but from the familiar pressure of juggling excuses.

He hated how easy lying had become.

“I… actually already have a thing tonight,” he muttered, eyes flicking down. “Sorry.”

Punch-up paused only long enough to blink before shrugging with unstoppable optimism.
“Cool. Tomorrow night it is!”

He clapped Sonar so hard on the back that the bat nearly face-planted into the table.

“Trust me, lad. It’ll do you some good.”

Sonar forced a smile, thin, crooked, but passable.

“Sure thing, man. Not like I have a choice,” he muttered, his tone dipping into dry sarcasm.

He finished his pitiful protein bar with the air of a man completing a chore and returned the lunchbox to the fridge.
He’d retrieve it later.
Maybe.
Assuming Elias didn’t call him up before he could.

Coupe breezed past him with her usual assassin-level grace and slid into the seat he’d vacated.
She set down her fruit plate, elegantly arranged as always, and gave him a look, the kind that saw more than he wanted it to.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly, “we’ll have you in bed at a reasonable hour.”

Sonar groaned as the rest of the room erupted into laughter, bright, gentle, the kind that didn't sting.

He shot her with a double-handed middle finger and clapped mockingly.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too,” he shot back. “We’ll see who’s laughing when your mask fails to hide the black bags under your eyes, grandma.”

Coupe simply tilted her head, unfazed, a smirk playing on her lips.

“If you say so.”

And Sonar, despite everything, the hollow lunch, the excuses, the knot in his chest—felt himself smile.

Moments like this almost made him feel... normal.

He groaned under his breath and slipped out of the lunchroom, grateful for the brief silence of the corridor. His shoulders sagged with the familiar drag of exhaustion, steps slow and aimless as he headed nowhere in particular. A minute to breathe. A minute without someone joking at his expense, even if he knew it was lighthearted. That was all he wanted.

He didn’t even get ten seconds.

Arms suddenly clamped around his midsection and yanked him backwards with alarming strength. His feet skidded, his breath punched out of him, and he barely had time to gasp before the bathroom door slammed behind him.

He panicked instantly, went limp on pure instinct, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. His pulse roared in his ears, and a single disbelieving thought flashed bright and furious:

He’s doing things at work now?? How fucking bold–

But then his brain finally caught up with his senses. The texture was wrong. The scent was wrong. And…the wetness around his waist?

He blinked hard, vision snapping into focus on the glossy, unmistakably bright rubber suit in front of him.

Waterboy.

Sonar stared at him, jaw slack. It wasn’t the fact that he’d been grabbed, it was the look on Waterboy’s face. Intense. Unreadable. His hands still gripped Sonar’s forearms like he expected him to bolt.

“…Oh. Uhmm… Herman, was it?” Sonar whispered, voice nearly cracking from how off-balance he felt. “Are you…good?”

Waterboy didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head sharply, scanning the bathroom with a vigilance that made the hair on the back of Sonar’s neck stand on end. Checking the stalls. The corners. The mirror. Making sure, too sure, that they were alone.

Then, without saying a single word, he walked to the door and clicked the lock into place.

Sonar’s blood chilled.

When Waterboy finally faced him, arms crossed tightly against his chest, there was something decisive, almost accusatory, in his stance.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Sonar’s heart stuttered painfully. His skin crawled with adrenaline as he folded his own arms, trying to mimic calm he absolutely did not feel.

“…You do, do you?” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even as panic crawled hot and sickening up his throat.

His mind was spinning, grasping at possibilities, none of them good. Had someone told him? Had everyone known? What the hell did Waterboy think he’d figured out?

Whatever it was…the room suddenly felt too small. Too bright. Too quiet.

And Waterboy wasn’t breaking eye contact.

Not even for a second.

Waterboy nodded rapidly, then shook his head just as fast, like his thoughts were fighting each other mid-sentence.
“You… I can’t–I can’t watch– you can’t do… you’re hurting yourself,” he blurted, words tripping over each other as he dragged a trembling hand through his hair. His breathing was shallow, panicked.

“It… it doesn’t work. I… trust me.”

The shift in his voice, raw, frightened, earnest, made something twist uncomfortably in Sonar’s chest. This wasn’t judgment. This was experience.

Sonar’s face tightened, his own concern surfacing despite himself.

Did Waterboy…? God, it wouldn’t be shocking. The poor guy barely got this job; half the city treated him like walking collateral damage because of his powers. Desperation wasn’t rare in their line of work. And Sonar knew firsthand how cornered one could feel, how tempting certain “solutions” became when every mirror felt like a punch to the ribs.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping in grim understanding.
Of course he wasn’t the only one. He shouldn’t have expected to be.

“You… as well?” he asked quietly, the words heavy with sympathy rather than accusation.

Waterboy nodded meekly, then immediately facepalmed, groaning into his palm.

“I-I… was desperate too. I–it’s hard, when you feel so… awful, in your own skin,” he whispered, voice wobbling like he was admitting a crime.

Sonar’s breath hitched. He stepped forward without thinking, resting a hand on Waterboy’s shoulder.

God, he wasn’t equipped for this. He was barely holding himself together, barely managing his own mess, his own spiraling thoughts, his own private hell. He wasn’t ready to be someone else’s anchor.

But… Waterboy was younger. Rawer. Scared in a way that Sonar recognized down to the bone.

And if Sonar could shove his own chaos into a corner, just for a minute, maybe he could keep the kid from drowning in the same shame he’d been choking on.

Maybe they could both feel a little less alone.

“Look, Herman,” he murmured, softening his tone. “I know it’s bad. I know. But believe me, things will be okay.” He forced a small, reassuring smile. “I have a plan. And just so you know, I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk about–”

“S-stop deflecting–!” Waterboy cut in, voice cracking. “I-I can’t… I don’t want to watch y-you starve yourself!”

Sonar froze.

His breath stalled in his chest as he stared at Waterboy, wide-eyed.
The floor seemed to drop out from underneath him.

Oh.

He wasn’t… talking about that.

Relief, and something far uglier, something sour, washed through him as the truth sank in. Waterboy wasn’t talking about Elias. Or the back-room deals Sonar had resorted to.

He wasn’t talking about prostitution or survival or compromise.

He was talking about lunch.

Just lunch.

Of course. Of course Waterboy’s “desperation” was something normal. Manageable.
Of course he got onto the team because he was “just good enough.” And to be fair, he was, power issues and lack of training aside. Herman got hired on raw potential alone. No strings. No price tag. No breathing down his neck every time he stepped on a scale.

Sonar clenched his jaw and quietly withdrew his hand, the bitterness prickling under his skin like static.

“I’m not… starving myself,” he muttered.

Waterboy immediately shook his head, adamant and earnest in a way that made it hard to look at him.

“N-no! Don’t lie! I know… I know you’re l-limiting y-your calories. T-to limit your, uhmm… bat. Transforming. Shifting. Things.” He finished on a sigh, bracing himself like he expected to be snapped at.

Sonar opened his mouth, a retort already forming, when Waterboy rushed on:

“I-I k-know because I used to… not. Eat. no- drink Uhm. Water.”
He winced at his own phrasing.

“B-because I thought it’d s-stop all the—wet. And puddles. And… everything,” he added quietly.

Sonar blinked, the jumbled confession landing harder than he expected.

“Oh. Right.” He rubbed his face.

That… actually made sense. Worryingly so.

And annoyingly, it highlighted something he’d been refusing to acknowledge.
Transformations took energy. If he wasn’t eating enough, then of course he was shifting less.
It's hard to double your mass when you barely have enough to begin with.

He let out a long, exhausted breath and slumped against the sink.

“Kid, I… really don’t know how to respond to this,” he admitted, voice low—not angry, just tired.

Waterboy wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, frustration and fear bleeding together in the shaky motion.

“Don’t… don’t ‘kid’ me…” he muttered, voice wobbling before he forced it steady. He shook his head hard, curls dripping little flecks of water across the tiles. “Just… when I-I… when I did what I did–” He drew in a sharp breath. “I ended up passing out in the middle of the workday.”

The confession hit Sonar square in the chest, knocking the air right out of him.
Herman’s gaze pinned him there, wide, worried, trembling, and Sonar felt himself shrinking under it, guilt pooling low in his stomach.

“I-if you… if you–” Waterboy’s hands darted out, gripping Sonar’s shoulders with surprising strength. “You can’t. Not eat. You can’t. It’s… it’s not fair. To everyone. B-because we-” His voice cracked. “They… we care.”

It was such a simple thing. Such an unpolished truth.
And it hurt, somehow, to hear it spoken aloud.

Sonar exhaled, shoulders loosening as he reached up and wrapped an arm around Waterboy’s trembling frame. Herman leaned into it instantly, desperate for reassurance he probably thought he didn’t deserve.

“Look, Herman,” Sonar began, voice firmer than he felt. “I promise I’m not intentionally starving myself. Seriously–”

Waterboy opened his mouth, panic ready to spill over, and Sonar lifted a hand to cut him off before it could start.

“But,” he amended slowly, carefully, “if you seriously think I’m not eating enough… I’ll try. I’ll try and eat more.”

There was a palpable shift in the air.
Waterboy’s shoulders sagged with relief, almost collapsing into him.

“O-ok…” he whispered, swallowing thickly. “But I-I…” His hands fidgeted with the slick material of his suit. “I’ll b-be eating l-lunch with you. T-to make sure you’re not l-lie– uhmm, forgetting.”

His attempt at softening the accusation would’ve been funny if the situation weren’t so raw.

Sonar gave a tired snort and shook his head. “Sure, man. Whatever makes you happy.”

“It does,” Herman said softly. And there it was again, that startling sincerity. “It does make me happy. Knowing you… you’re ok.”

Something warm flickered in Sonar’s chest, unsteadily but real.
He grinned despite himself as he stepped past him and unlocked the door.

“I’m glad you’re doing ok too, bud,” he said, holding the door open for him. “Really. I’m glad you’re on the team.”

“I-I also f-feel… you… you too–”

“We could go back and forth,” Sonar cut in with a grin, “or we can just agree that we’re happy for each other and call it a day?”

Waterboy blinked at him in open confusion, like the concept was brand new information.
“S-sure thing, uhmm… Mr Sonar, uhh, Sir.”

“Hey, uhh– just call me Victor.” Sonar’s smile twitched, a little too tight at the edges. A hefty part of him hated being called “sir” by someone younger. He knew exactly why, but he wasn’t about to unpack that in a public restroom.

He nudged the door open and stepped out with Herman close behind.

“N-no problem ss-s-uhmm… Victor.” Waterboy gave an awkward thumbs-up. “C-call me Herman… uh, wait, no, you– you already– sorry, I’m just–”

“It’s cool, Herman.” Sonar chuckled, patting his back as they made their way down the hall. He tried, not very successfully- to shove down the twisting hunger gnawing at his stomach. He’d eat later. Or force something down. Especially if it made Herman relax.

The kid meant well. More than that, he cared. And hell, Herman deserved his spot on the Z-team, even if he didn’t always believe that himself.

A small, unwelcome thought curled in the back of Sonar’s mind as they walked:
Did he deserve his spot just as much?
Or did he slip into a space he should’ve left untouched?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, sharp and insistent.

Sonar didn’t need to check the screen.
He already knew who it was.

And with that single vibration, that tight, ugly feeling in his chest spread a little deeper.

“See? What did I tell ye, lad?” Punch-up announced, loud enough for half the bar to hear. He slammed his glass against Sonar’s with a grin wide enough to split his face. “One night o’ fun and you’re already grinnin’ like a Cheshire bat, ye are!”

Sonar laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes as he nursed his drink. “Sure, but I hope you realise you’ll have to buy me much stronger drinks if you want me blackout drunk,” he scoffed, tilting the glass toward Punch-up in mock challenge.

Coupe swayed where she leaned over the table, one hip propped against the edge for stability. Her glass sloshed dangerously as she squinted at him.

“Do bats not… get drunk easily?” she asked, the question drawn out, slurred around the edges. She was long past tipsy and deep into contentedly plastered, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Sonar snorted, shoulders shaking. “Sort of. It’s not like I don’t get drunk, but my physiology just… adapts.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “I can still fly while I’m drunk.”

Coupe’s eyebrows shot up in astonished delight.

“That’s not to say I’m a graceful flier most of the time,” he added dryly, “but any mistakes I make drunk? I’d have made them sober too.”

Punch-up howled with laughter, pounding the table hard enough to rattle their glasses. Coupe giggled into her drink, muttering something about wanting to see “drunk aerobatics” one day.

“What poison have ye picked tonight?” Punch-up asked, leaning over to peer into Sonar’s glass as though he expected something dangerous to leap out.

Sonar lifted his drink proudly, swirling it with theatrical flair. “White Peach and Mango Sangria,” he declared. “It’s delicious, thank you for asking.”

He took a long sip, savouring the sweetness, something he never let himself have on workdays. Something Elias would raise two eyebrows and a whole lecture over the ‘sugar content’. But tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was about being with people who actually wanted him around.

“Hmm. A bit fruity,” Punch-up observed, unimpressed but amused.

“There’s no shame in that,” Sonar shot back, raising his chin.

“Aye, I know,” Punch-up said with a wink. “I’m just partial to whatever gets me drunk the quickest.”

Sonar chuckled, leaning back in his chair as the evening settled warmly around them. The bar buzzed with laughter and conversation, neon lights reflecting in the half-empty glasses. For the first time in a long time, he let himself relax, shoulders loosening, breath softening, the weight in his chest easing just a fraction.

Tonight he wasn’t a problem to manage.
Not a physique to critique.
Not a metric to measure.

Just Victor.
Just their friend.
And, at least for this moment, that felt like enough.

Coupe let out a tipsy little giggle and slung an arm around Punch-up’s shoulders, rubbing their temples together affectionately. “You and me both,” she crooned, practically melting into him.

Sonar groaned and took a long drink, deliberately looking away from their increasingly obvious PDA. So the whole “we’re totally over our past thing” bit had… aged like milk. Not that he minded; honestly, they were kind of disgustingly perfect for each other.

“Wow,” he drawled, setting his glass down with a smirk, “so you guys dragged me out here just to get drunk and make out. Didn’t realise you wanted an audience.”

Coupe snorted. Punch-up barked a laugh, one that started strong but fizzled into something tight, almost guilty.

“Ah, well now… no,” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We didn’t. But, aye, we did invite ye out for a particular reason.”

Coupe’s smile dimmed, turning uncertain, and Sonar felt that awful, hollow tug in his stomach again. The kind that made the room tilt.
Great. Here it was.
Another intervention disguised as a night out.

He knew he wasn’t subtle.
He also knew the Z-team had eyes like hawks, and a history of betrayal that made them hyper-attuned to cracks in people. He didn’t blame them, but god, it made him feel exposed.

Not a liability.
Not a threat.
Just… breakable.

Too breakable.

And they all cared. So fucking much. It was suffocating.

Waterboy had practically glued himself to Sonar shoulder-to-shoulder at lunch today, refusing to budge until Sonar finished an entire BLT he’d bought for him. Sweet, sure. But then came the buzz in his pocket, the one he’d been getting all week. Predictable. Cold. Watching.

He didn’t know how Elias kept such close tabs on him.
He didn’t want to know.

Except… part of him did. Part of him wondered if Elias could see through his phone.
That thought alone made his sangria sit like acid in his gut.

So he kept his eyes on the condensation sliding down his glass instead of looking at Punch-up sounding out the next sentence like it hurt.

“No one’s lookin’ to be pressurin’ ya, lad,” Punch-up sighed, setting his bottle down with a firm clack. “But come now. You’ve not been yerself since they gave ye the boot. Let us in a little bit, will ya?”

Sonar let out a breath through his nose, slow and controlled, gripping his glass too tightly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Flat. Defensive. Automatic.

A lie he’d told so often it came out smoother than the truth ever could.

“We know that’s not true,” Coupe said, her voice wobbling with drunken sincerity as she frowned at him. Even tipsy, there was a clarity in her concern. “Just tell us who or what’s bothering you… and I’ll remove them.”

To prove her point, she reached behind her back and unsheathed a blade with a metallic whisper, holding it out like a promise. The bar’s soft lighting danced along the edge.

Sonar’s breath stalled. For half a heartbeat he just stared at the weapon—how simple it would be, if the problem were a person. If this whole mess were something Coupe could slice clean out of his life.

If only it were that simple.

But he couldn’t jeopardize her job at SDN. She was good at what she did—better than him, at least in his mind. Robert had drilled that deep, even without meaning to. And now it sat like sediment at the bottom of every thought.

He swallowed. His pulse pounded far too loudly for the quiet little corner booth they occupied.

“How about you stop fucking telling me how to feel,” he snapped.

It came out sharper than intended, the sound cracking through their easy atmosphere like glass under stress. Punch-up’s grin faltered instantly. Coupe’s eyes widened, her hurt flashing open and bare.

Sonar felt it like a punch to the ribs.

He lifted his hands in surrender, regret flooding him immediately.
“I’m… sorry,” he muttered, shoulders folding inward, voice shrinking to something thin and frayed. “I’m just… stressed.”

It was weak. Paper-thin. And all three of them knew it.

The pair continued to stare at him, their worry deepening rather than easing. Their concern was suffocating—not because he didn’t appreciate it, but because he wasn’t used to being looked at like he mattered. Not like this. Not by people who genuinely liked him.

And that made him panic.

His thoughts scrambled, clinging to the first excuse within reach. Alcohol. Sure. Blame it on the drinks. Blame it on nerves. Blame it on anything but the truth.

“See? Just—just drunk,” he mumbled, and reached out in a bid to demonstrate it, grabbing one of the glasses cluttering the table. He didn’t check whose it was. Didn’t check what was in it. He just wanted something to distract them, to force the moment to shift.

He tipped it back in one go.

The taste hit instantly.

He gagged, jerking forward with a choke.

Red wine.

Of course it had to be red wine.

The acidic tang coated his tongue and throat, dredging up memories he’d spent the last twenty-four hours desperately trying to drown. The colour, the smell, the warmth—wrong, wrong, wrong. His stomach lurched as the phantom sensation of blood filled his mouth all over again.

His hand tightened around the glass until his knuckles went bone-white.

“You strike me as someone who’d appreciate a 2007 Leroy Musigny Grand Cru, Victor.”
Elias’ voice was smooth, too smooth. Polished like glass, cold like it too. He offered the glass with a practiced, charming wink.

A wink that implied familiarity.
Friendship.
Trust.

As if they were anything close to that.

Sonar accepted the wine anyway, trying to mirror the gesture with a bright, grateful smile. The kind he’d perfected at work, the kind that made him seem competent, composed, worthy of being here. And when Elias’ expression didn’t shift into disapproval, his confidence swelled, reckless, eager, too willing.

“Thanks,” he said lightly.

For a moment, they sat side by side in a comfortable hush, or what felt comfortable at the time. Sonar savoured the rich, complex flavour on his tongue, letting himself enjoy the rare luxury of being treated like an equal in a room with powerful people.

Then Elias spoke again.

“Say, Victor.”

The use of his name, spoken gently, almost fondly, made Sonar’s ears perk instinctively. He turned toward the man with an earnest smile.

“Yes, sir?”

Elias returned the smile, and only in hindsight would Sonar recognize how wrong it looked. Too soft. Too inviting. A predator’s expression stretched over something inhuman, like skin pulled over a creature that shouldn’t have had a face at all.

“I believe I can offer you… an arrangement.”

Something tensed in Sonar’s chest. A tiny instinct, a whisper of fear. He ignored it, leaning forward instead.

Elias continued, voice warm enough to mask the hook beneath it.
“A business proposal. Favours for favours.”

It should have been obvious from the start. The way Elias’ gaze appraised him, not as an equal, but as an investment.

“I’ll ensure your job is secure. That you want for nothing.”

The promise slithered into him, feeding the hunger he hated admitting he had, the need for stability, for recognition, for anything that made him feel he wasn’t one mistake away from being replaced, or caged. 

He didn’t see the danger. Not then.
He only saw opportunity.

Elias leaned back, speaking with a certainty that wrapped around Sonar’s ribs like rope.
“Because you’re so smart, I know you’ll accept.”

The compliment lit something warm and pleased in Sonar’s chest, another trap he didn’t recognise until much later.

“Now… sit right there,” Elias murmured, his tone softening into something far too intimate. “Just sit, and listen to what I tell you.”

Sonar took another sip of the wine.

Wine. Wine. Wine.

The taste hit his tongue.
Acrid. Bitter.

He really should have known.

How could he have been so Naive.

He barely registered the motion, one second he was still at the table, the next he was in the bathroom, braced over the toilet as his stomach violently rebelled. Everything surged up at once: the sweetness, the burn, the déjà vu he hadn’t asked for.

He gagged again, forcing out the acrid red liquid until it splattered into the bowl. Not the same wine, not even close. Elias’ tastes were far too expensive for whatever cheap crap the bar served.

But God, it was close enough.

Close enough that the panic welded itself to the flavour, twisting in his stomach, clawing at the back of his throat. His ears rang, no, screamed, as he dug his claws into them, trying to drown out the world while his body spasmed and heaved.

Red became bile.
But the taste stayed.
Coating his tongue like varnish.

He pushed himself upright, stumbling as the room tilted sharply. His ears twitched uselessly for balance, and he crashed into the sink, clutching the cold porcelain like a lifeline. He covered his eyes with shaking hands, trying to smother the intrusive brightness, the memory, the phantom heat of Elias’ breath against his ear–

“Hey, gorgeous.”

The voice behind him slithered into his awareness, slick and unwelcome. His stomach lurched again.

Of course.
Of course this was happening now.

He’d played the game before, he and Malevola had practically turned it into a sport. Letting sleazy club rats flirt until they bought them drinks, then slipping away laughing.

But tonight he wasn’t laughing.
Tonight he could barely breathe.

“I know you can hear me, handsome. Come on, what’s wrong?”

His grip tightened on the sink, knuckles whitening, fangs grinding together as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. He didn’t care who this guy was. Didn’t care about his voice, his cologne, his persistence.

If the stranger touched him, he was going to bite.
Hard.

Because he could here.
Because no one here knew him.
Because the consequences would be…
…minimal.

Minimal enough.

“Leave…” Sonar rasped, chest hitching as he tried not to retch again. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

But the man didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He kept getting closer… and closer…

He snapped the moment a hand settled on his hip.

No thought. No hesitation. Just instinct, pure, feral, bone-deep instinct, and he whirled around, fist already pulling back, ready to shatter this idiot’s jaw for touching him when he’d explicitly told him not to.

But he never got the chance.

Because someone else’s fist got there first.

“Are ye bleedin’ deaf, or what?” Punch-up roared, barrelling past Sonar with the force of a small hurricane. “The lad told ye to leave him the feck alone, so take a hike, ye shower o’ shite!”

The stranger barely had time to yelp before Punch-up’s knuckles met his groin with a sound that made Sonar wince. The man folded in on himself like a dying accordion, only for Punch-up to seize him by the collar and bodily shove him out of the bathroom door.

Sonar stood frozen, chest heaving, every nerve buzzing from the leftover adrenaline and the leftover fear.

Then Coupe appeared in the doorway, her earlier tipsiness seeming to have evaporated. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the room, scanning him, assessing the situation with an unsettling level of clarity.

He didn’t meet either of their eyes.

Instead, he lowered his head and let his arms fold onto the cool, sticky countertop, resting his forehead against them. He just wanted the night to end. Wanted the memory to crawl back down his throat and die quietly. He wanted his stomach to stop twisting itself into new knots every thirty seconds.

“…You alright if I touch you, lad?”

The question cut cleanly through the noise in his head.

He startled, actually flinched, before he slowly lifted his gaze. Punch-up stood beside him, one hand hovering close to Sonar’s back but not making contact, waiting. Really waiting. His expression was softer than Sonar had ever seen it.

It took a few seconds for Sonar to process the offer. Another second to breathe.

Then he nodded.

The touch that followed was light, steady, nothing demanding, nothing invasive. Just a grounding weight between his shoulder blades. And it hit him how much he’d missed being touched like that. Safe, calm, without expectation.

“I’m sorry I ruined the night out,” he muttered, voice hoarse. His tongue still felt coated, thick from bile and fear and wine he never wanted to taste again.

Two seconds later, Coupe’s hand joined Punch-up’s, firmer, deliberate, anchoring him from the other side.

“You ruined nothing,” she said, tone slicing firmly through his guilt. “You’re not the first person to have an adverse reaction to alcohol. Isn’t that right, Colm?”

Her eyebrow lifted with a wry smirk. Sonar blinked and turned his head slightly as Punch-up let out a low, embarrassed snicker behind him.

“Yeah, can’t stomach Jägermeister anymore,” Punch-up admitted, waving a hand dismissively. “Did way too many shots in me younger years, absolutely bled right through my system. Never again.”

“And Coupe,” he added with a grin, “can’t even smell tequila without lookin’ ready to hurl.”

Sonar lifted his head slightly. Coupe nodded with the solemnity of someone recalling a war crime.

“Besides,” Punch-up chuckled, “it ain’t a real night out 'til someone’s pukin’ up their guts.”

Sonar knew he was supposed to laugh. Or smile. Or pretend he was fine.

But he couldn’t. His body felt like a rung-out towel, heavy, trembling at the edges, drained of everything except a vague pull of shame.

“Alright, lad. Let’s get ya home.”
Punch-up’s voice was gentle. Too gentle.

Way, way too gentle.

And somehow…that was what made Sonar’s skin crawl. That soft, understanding note, too close to sympathy. Too close to pity. Too close to something he didn't deserve.

If they knew, really knew, what he’d traded, what he’d allowed, what lines he’d stepped over just to keep someone else happy, they would’ve dropped him on the pavement and never looked back. They’d see him for what he was: cheap, desperate, and too weak to claw his way out of the mess he’d let himself be pulled into.

Punch-up and Coupe each took an arm anyway, guiding him out of the bar with a steadiness he didn’t feel he’d earned. Their pace slow. Their grip careful. Their presence warm.

And Sonar could only feel himself sinking deeper into that pit of nausea.

He hated this.

He hated the gentleness, the concern, the sincerity behind every step they took to keep him upright. He hated how it made him feel, wrong, undeserving, counterfeit.

He didn’t deserve any of this.

By the time they reached his apartment and walked him to his room, he no longer had the energy to maintain even a shred of composure. The moment the door closed behind him, he collapsed sideways onto the bed, still dressed in his suit, still tasting the ghost of wine at the back of his throat.

He wasn’t drunk.

Just exhausted. Hollow. Running on fumes and dread.

From the other room, he could hear voices, Punch-up, Coupe, and Malevola. Low, concerned murmurs drifting through the walls as if trying to seep into him.

Of course he could hear them. His hearing was sharp enough to catch a whisper through a crowd if he wanted. And right now…he was listening.

His ear twitched involuntarily.

Because he knew exactly who they were talking about.

He could hear them.

“...he threw up?? What happened? I thought you guys were only going out for light drinks?”

Malevola’s voice, tight with worry, carrying that sharp edge she got whenever she felt protective. It sent a ripple of dread straight through his gut.

“We were, swear!” Punch-up sounded like he was pacing, Sonar recognized the uneven rhythm of his boots crossing the living room carpet. “He didn’t overdo it. He just got a bit sick, we didn’t know he had an issue with red wine.”

“...Vic doesn’t have an issue with red wine?”

The pause that followed hit Sonar like a physical blow. A hollow thud in his chest, as though someone had reached through and knocked the wind out of him.

He lay perfectly still on the bed, staring at nothing in the dark, muscles locked. Waiting.

“Well,” Coupe sighed, “he drank my glass by mistake, and that’s when he threw up. Nothing else made him queasy.”

Another pause, longer, heavier this time. Sonar felt it in his bones.

“Well now,” Punch-up muttered, almost reluctantly, “I’d be supposin’ that creep couldn’t be helpin’, but surely that didn’t happenin’ til after–”

“Excuse me, what creep??”

Malevola’s voice sharpened like a blade. Not at him, never at him, but at whatever threat had brushed too close to him that night.

And God, that made his throat tighten.

“Well, when he ran to the bathroom,” Coupe explained, “there was a guy. Nothing happened, but he didn’t seem to be taking no for an answer.”

“So I punched him in the dick!” Punch-up added, absolutely gleeful.

There was the faintest snort of reluctant amusement from Coupe before the room went heavy again.

A sigh followed, Malevola’s. Long and strained.

“...Just what he needs right now,” she murmured. “I can’t believe, no, no, it’s okay. You guys did the right thing. But honestly, Vic’s never struggled with red wine before. I mean, we don’t drink it often, he’s a cocktail guy and I prefer tequila–”

Coupe gagged loudly, right on cue.

Even through the wall, Sonar could picture her expression perfectly, the scrunched nose, the scrunched eyes, the wounded betrayal at having been reminded of her personal kryptonite.

Punch-up snorted, poorly muffling a laugh.

And still, Sonar lay there.

Unmoving.

Listening to the way they cared.
Listening to the worry weaving itself into every sentence spoken about him.
Listening to the confusion he never wanted them to have.

His heart thudded against the mattress, too loud in his own ears.
Too guilty.
Too vulnerable.

He didn’t deserve any of this.

And they had no idea why red wine had made him sick.

They couldn’t.
He would never let them.

He curled slightly on his side, just enough to hide his face in the pillow, even though no one could see him. The room felt too small. Too close. Too full of everything he didn’t want to feel.

He listened anyway.
He couldn’t stop.

Not now.
Not when the next words might shatter him.

“But honestly… I don’t know what’s happened. He disappeared for a week after he was cut, and when he came back he seemed okay but…”

Malevola’s voice dropped, and Sonar felt his whole body tighten, curling in around itself like he could somehow make himself smaller. Invisible.

“He feels so… hollow.”

The words were a whisper, meant for the living room alone, meant to stay out of his reach, but his hearing didn’t allow kindness like that. Every syllable threaded straight through him.

“He’s always working, or he’s out of the house, we don’t spend nearly as much time together as we used to, and I miss him.”

There was a wetness in her voice she was trying hard to hide.

“I’m just worried.”

Sonar stared at the wall inches from his face. Letting his vision blur between the tiny bumps, the uneven ridges, the faint scratches left from nights he didn’t remember clawing at the plaster. Little punctures, little gouges, reminders of the places he’d frayed at the edges.

His hand drifted up on its own.
A single claw scraped lightly down the paint.
A thin, whispering line.

He didn’t want to hear any of this.
Not her worry.
Not her sadness.
Not the way he kept hurting people by existing exactly as he was.

Slowly, quietly, he pushed himself upright on the bed.

The movement made the mattress creak, barely, but he froze anyway, breath held. When the conversation outside didn’t stop, he exhaled and reached over to the bedside table.

His fingers closed around a forgotten orange bottle.

Valium.

He hadn’t touched it in… he didn’t even know how long. He wasn’t the type who liked being numbed out, not usually. He preferred staying sharp, wired, ready to react, to survive. Stimulants made sense for that.

But right now?

Right now he didn’t want to be sharp.
He didn’t want to think.
He didn’t want to feel the echo of their voices like a bruise forming under his ribs.

He shook a pill into his hand, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then swallowed it dry. The bitterness clung to the back of his tongue.

Then he leaned back, sinking into the mattress. Eyes shut. Breathing unsteady but slowly warming under the chemical fog beginning to settle over him.

The voices in the other room blurred. Not gone, never gone, but fading, like they were moving a little farther away each passing second.

He let himself float.

Weightless.
Detached.
Somewhere between awake and not.

So adrift in nothingness that he barely registered the harsh vibration in his pocket, sharp, insistent, relentless.

Again.
And again.

His phone.

Elias.

Of course.

“I’m just…worried about him,” Malevola murmured, arms drawn tightly around herself as though trying to keep the shape of her own fear contained.

“I know.” Coupe’s voice gentled, her hand settling on Malevola’s shoulder with a steadiness she clearly needed. “And the others are, too. Robert’s been cutting down his call load, but somehow he’s still turning up to every job with us. Every one.”

Colm exhaled heavily. “At first, I figured he was just eager to prove himself—an admirable bit of gumption, so it is. But now? Jaysus, it’s gettin’ ridiculous. No one should be glued to their work like that. It’s not right.”

Malevola continued pacing, arms folded tight. “I don’t know what to do anymore… Getting him to NA was hard enough, and even then he was—he is—the most stubborn, defensive bastard when anyone tries to call him out.” Her voice cracked with frustrated helplessness. “I can’t even think straight. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know.”

Coupe and Colm shared a look—quick, but heavy.

“…You don’t?” Coupe asked carefully, blinking.

“No! I don’t!” she snapped, immediately wincing and rubbing her temples. “And it’s killing me. I can’t help him until I know what I’m dealing with, but for once, he’s doing a phenomenal job at hiding whatever it is—”

She stopped. A thought struck her, visible in the tightening line of her mouth.

“…I have a theory.”

“As do I,” Coupe admitted, worry gathering across her features.

Colm glanced between them, concern creasing deep. He reached up, brushing his thumb against Coupe’s hand. “Love?”

Malevola turned fully toward Coupe. “Do you mind just– telling me what you think?”

Coupe hesitated, jaw tightening before she managed to meet Malevola’s eyes.

“…I think he’s being blackmailed,” she said quietly. “By someone high up. An executive at SDN.”

The air in the room changed– sharper, colder, as though something unseen had crept in and sat between them. Malevola’s face drained, panic rising.

“He– what…why would you- what makes you think that?”

Colm’s voice softened, rough with dread. “Sweetheart… why would you think that?”

Coupe swallowed, gaze falling to the floor as she wrung her hands together.

“…Because it almost happened to me,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Your criminal history is rather… extensive, wouldn’t you say?”

The words dripped across the room like oil. Coupe didn’t flinch.

She sat rigidly in the metal chair, arms folded, legs crossed in a posture that said she was tolerating their presence, nothing more. It came naturally to her: the cold poise, the silent warning. But even that didn’t stop the chill that slid down her spine every time Elias Connors, the chairman, looked at her.

His gaze wasn’t curious or assessing. It was possessive. Predatory. Wrong.

“Yes,” she replied, flat and unyielding. “You would be correct.”

She wasn’t here to plead. She wasn’t delusional about her past, she owned every inch of it. Not the violence, never the violence, but the precision. Her standards. Her choices. Clean jobs, clean exits. Only the ones who deserved fear ever felt it. Corrupt officials, abusers, people who thought power made them untouchable. Those had been…satisfying.

“Well, Janelle, your skill is unquestionable,” The man on the left, Steven Ponce chimed in, voice too thin to carry any authority. He laughed nervously without meeting her eyes. “But we’re not entirely convinced you fit SDN’s image.”

“I mean, you’ve murdered a lot of people.”

Coupe stared at him. “And?”

The man on the right, George Kline, shifted uncomfortably. His tone dripped with false civility. “We may simply require…additional assurance before letting someone like you into our organisation. We are very selective.”

Coupe’s jaw tightened. There it was, the rot underneath their polite language. She smelled it instantly.

“It’s your decision,” Elias murmured, finally speaking again. “Compromise…or accept the consequences of letting an opportunity like this slip. But if you’d rather throw your life away over pride, that’s your own fault.”

His charcoal eyes never wavered, glinting with that smug, quiet promise: You know what we’re really asking for.

She heard the snarl building in her throat long before she felt it.

Colm would understand, she told herself. He’d tell her she did the right thing. And if this meant no job…so be it.

Slowly, she stood. The room subtly shifted, the men drawing back as she reached into her coat, not fast, not threatening, but deliberate. She stabbed one of her blades on the desk with a heavy, echoing thud.

She leaned forward, voice low and poisonous.

“Consider this your proof,” she said. “The only proof you’ll ever get—that I’m not the woman I used to be. Because if she were still alive, not one of you would leave this room without choking on your own blood.”

Their faces drained. The lackeys sporting matching looks of indignation and fear. 

Elias’s face couldn’t have soured any more if he tried. 

She turned on her heel, threw the door open hard enough to make the frame shudder, and extended her wrists to the officer waiting outside.

“Take me back,” she said, steady as stone. “I’d rather rot in a cell than debase myself for the likes of them.”

And just like that, the interview was over.

Colm gripped Coupe’s hand so tightly that the pressure trembled through her knuckles. Another person might’ve winced, but she knew him. Knew the way he held on when he was scared. He would never hurt her. Not even by accident.

“My love… I am so sorry,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges.

Coupe shook her head, lifting her chin with quiet conviction. “Don’t be. None of this is your fault. And I stood my ground.”

The firmness in her tone didn’t mask the tiredness in her eyes, but it steadied her. Anchored her.

When she looked toward Malevola, though, the other woman’s face was pale, hollow with horror.

“It’s not me we need to be worried about,” Coupe murmured.

The room fell still. All three of them turned toward the shut bedroom door, dread pooling in the silence between heartbeats. The air felt heavier, as if even the walls understood the implication.

“…We’ll be keepin’ an eye on the lad for now,” Punch‑up said quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. His voice was gentle, unusually so. “And when he’s feelin’ a bit better, maybe we’ll sit him down, aye? Real soft‑like. Ask him about his SDN interview. In case… well… in case somethin’ happened that shouldn’t’ve.”

Coupe nodded once, the motion sharp with worry. That door was barely ten feet away, but it felt like a mile, a distance Sonar was pulling himself across alone.

Malevola made a small, broken sound before she crumpled onto the sofa. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, her tail curling anxiously around her leg like she needed something, anything, to hold onto.

Even imagining it being true made bile creep up her throat.

Vic wasn’t just her friend. He was hers. Pack. Family. Someone she’d chosen and someone who’d chosen her back. The thought of him suffering like that, silently, secretly, made her chest feel like it was caving in.

Coupe and Punch‑up sat beside her immediately, flanking her with a warm, protective presence.

Coupe rested a hand between her shoulder blades; Punch‑up draped an arm around her back, grounding her as she trembled.

Malevola drew in a ragged breath, but it shuddered apart. It was all just… too much. Too many unknowns. Too many signs she hadn’t pieced together. Too much fear for a man who wouldn’t ask for help even as he drowned.

Behind the closed door, the quiet stretched on, unnervingly still.

And none of them knew just how far he’d already fallen.

Chapter Text

“Phenomaman… do you ever feel… inhuman?”

The question slipped out softer than Sonar intended, almost swallowed by the hum of the street and the distant sirens still echoing from their last call. The day had unfolded like so many others—routine dispatches, controlled chaos, a handful of bruises that would fade by morning. Success, by SDN standards.

They were walking back toward headquarters side by side, boots striking pavement in uneven rhythm. Sonar’s shoulders were tight, wings folded in close, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead without really seeing anything. He hadn’t planned to ask the question. It had simply been sitting in his chest for days now, heavy and restless, demanding air.

Phenomaman slowed, turning his head with visible curiosity.

“My friend,” he began thoughtfully, “has it not occurred to you that I am… quite literally not human?” He gestured vaguely at himself, moustache twitching. “I realise my appearance conforms loosely to Earth’s beauty standards, though I assure you this was merely coincidence, but, for example, my genitalia–”

“Okay- okay, no, I get it,” Sonar cut in quickly, ears flattening as he waved a hand. There was a reflexive edge to his interruption, like he was bracing for impact even in harmless conversation. “I just– I didn’t mean it like that.”

He hesitated, then tried again, choosing his words with care. He always did now.

“I mean… you’re an alien. And people know that. So… the way they treat you. Does it ever make you feel isolated?” he asked quietly. “Like you don’t really… belong? I imagine Earth customs are probably pretty different from your home planets.”

Phenomaman hummed, slowing his pace further until Sonar had no choice but to match him. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, eyes lifting skyward as though consulting distant stars rather than memory.

“An intriguing question indeed,” he said at last. “If you are asking whether I have ever felt… othered, or sad, as a result of such differences, then yes. Though interestingly, these feelings did not truly take hold until after my romantic dissolution with the Blonde Blazer.”

Sonar blinked, startled despite himself. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Phenomaman continued gently. “While the comments and glances you describe existed long before that event, my therapist, whom I feel legally obligated to describe as ‘helpful’, suggested that when I lost my primary source of emotional support, those external remarks began to compound with my internal sense of loneliness.”

He glanced sideways at Sonar, tone still calm, but perceptive. “In simpler terms: it hurt more, because I was already hurting.”

Something in Sonar’s chest tightened. He swallowed.

“How did you…” His voice faltered, then steadied with effort. “How did you start feeling better?”

Phenomaman’s response was immediate and booming.

“Well! I did not, at first!” he laughed, clapping his hands together with delight. “It was, as Robert Robertson so eloquently described it, a complete shitshow!” He beamed, clearly fond of the phrase.

Then, without warning, he reached out and clapped Sonar warmly on the back. Not hard, just solid. Present.

“I believe my first turning point,” Phenomaman continued cheerfully, “was heavy medication!”

Sonar huffed out a startled, breathless laugh before he could stop himself. It surprised him, how foreign it felt, how quickly it faded.

But Phenomaman wasn’t finished.

“…And after that,” he added, voice softening, “it was community. Being seen. Allowing myself to accept care, even when I believed I did not deserve it.”

He looked at Sonar again, expression kind, knowing.

“You asked a very specific question, my friend,” he said gently. “One usually does not ask such things unless they are already carrying the answer.”

Sonar said nothing. He just kept walking.

Sonar stiffened.

He’d run out of Valium two nights ago.

The thought came sharp and intrusive, like a reflexive flinch. He hadn’t told anyone, not Malevola, not Waterboy, certainly not Robert. It wasn’t exactly something you announced over lunch. And besides, he’d convinced himself he was doing fine. A little shaky, sure. A little restless. But functional.

Functional was good enough.

So when Phenomaman’s gaze lingered a second too long, something about it shifting from casual curiosity to dawning comprehension, Sonar felt his stomach twist.

“Right… yeah. Sure. I get it,” he muttered quickly, turning his head away, eyes fixing on the pavement like it had personally offended him. His ears twitched, pulling tighter to his back. “It’s… whatever. Not a big deal.”

“Ah!”

The exclamation made him jump despite himself.

“I think I understand now!”

Sonar blinked, owlish and startled, just in time to see Phenomaman reach into the inner pocket of his coat. For half a heartbeat, panic flared, some irrational fear that he’d said something wrong, that this was about to become a conversation, capital C.

Instead, a small plastic bottle was pressed into his palm.

Sonar stared down at it, his fingers curling reflexively around the familiar shape.

“My friend Sonar,” Phenomaman said warmly, utterly pleased with himself, “please accept this.” He chuckled, moustache twitching. “I was informed, by multiple medical professionals, that medication would solve all my woes. And now that I am in a position of relative emotional stability, I find it only fair to extend the same courtesy to you!”

Sonar’s breath hitched.

He turned the bottle slowly, eyes scanning the label, his brow furrowing deeper with every second.

“I… I’ve never seen a dosage this high,” he muttered. There was no accusation in his voice, just disbelief. A quiet, creeping sense of this is not how this works.

Phenomaman laughed airily, waving a dismissive hand. “Yes, well! My biology is remarkably resistant to chemical interference,” he explained cheerfully. “Many substances that would poison an Earth-born body merely pass through my system with minimal effect.”

Sonar snorted despite himself, then caught it, shoulders tensing again.

“But!” Phenomaman continued brightly, leaning in conspiratorially, “my physician assured me this dosage was perfectly calibrated to suit my abnormal physique.”

He beamed.

“And as someone else with an abnormal physique,” he added with absolute sincerity, “I see no reason why it would not suit you as well!”

Sonar froze.

He knew, he knew, this was wrong. Knew it in the distant, academic way you know fire is hot even as you inch your hand closer. Medication didn’t work like that. Bodies weren’t interchangeable just because they were both unusual. And accepting someone else’s prescription crossed about twelve lines he’d sworn he wouldn’t cross again.

But also…

He curled his fingers tighter around the bottle.

Also, his chest felt too tight. His thoughts were too loud. His hands had been shaking on and off for days now, and sleep came in fragments, jagged and unkind. He could really use something, anything, to quiet the noise.

And he didn’t have to take it.

That thought slid in easily, comforting and familiar. He could just… hold onto it. Keep it, just in case. That was still a choice.

“…Are you sure?” he asked quietly, looking up at Phenomaman at last. “Don’t you need these?”

Phenomaman laughed, genuinely delighted. “Do not worry, my friend!” he said, waving him off. “I am on a much lower dose now, ever since I began my ‘slow and steady’ romantic relationship with Herman, our mutual friend, and my new lover.”

Sonar blinked.

Then it clicked.

“Oh,” he said, a little dumbly. “Yeah. The… melons.”

Phenomaman grinned broadly and nodded, entirely unbothered. “The melons.”

Sonar looked back down at the bottle in his hand.

He didn’t put it away.

He didn’t give it back either.

He just held it, like a lifeline he wasn’t ready to name yet.

“Whilst my purchase of the edible arrangements was initially an attempt to rekindle my relationship with the blonde blazer,” Phenomaman continued thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back as they walked,

“It proved to be a most effective conversational bridge between Herman and myself.” He sighed, not unhappily. “He is small, and he is meek… but I have observed great strength and quiet courage hidden beneath his outer shell. Traits that remain present, even if the shell itself still appears small and meek.”

There was no condescension in his voice. Only reverence.

Sonar swallowed and nodded faintly. “I… think I get it, yeah,” he muttered, sliding the bottle of pills into his pocket. The weight of it felt disproportionate, too heavy for something so small.

They walked a little farther, the sounds of the city filling the gaps between footsteps. Then Phenomaman spoke again, softer this time.

“Do you have somebody whom you love in such a way?”

The question hit harder than Sonar expected.

He frowned, folding his arms across his chest, wings shifting restlessly. “I did,” he said after a moment. Then corrected himself, voice tightening. “I mean… I do. But they don’t love me back.”

Phenomaman stopped.

His expression changed, not dramatically, but enough. Concern settled into the lines of his face, and after a brief pause, he reached into his pocket once more.

“From experience,” he said quietly, placing a second bottle into Sonar’s hand, “I recommend you take this one as well.”

Sonar didn’t argue.

He accepted it without question, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug as he stuffed both bottles into his pockets, hands staying there afterward like he was afraid to let them go. They resumed walking, silence stretching again, but this time it felt heavier. Weighted.

After a few steps, Phenomaman glanced sideways at him.

“May I ask who it is that you loved?”

Sonar exhaled through his nose. “Who I love,” he corrected gently. Then, more bitterly, “And it doesn’t matter. Because I also hate him.”

Phenomaman slowed, confusion visibly setting in as he tried to untangle that statement. Sonar noticed. Sighed.

“I loved him when we first met,” he explained, voice strained, like he was forcing the words out past something lodged in his throat. “And then he did something that hurt me. Badly. So now I love him as a person, but I hate him for hurting me. Both things are true at the same time.” He shook his head. “Does that make sense?”

Phenomaman hummed, thoughtful.

“Ah,” he said at last. “Robert Robertson.”

Sonar’s heart slammed into his ribs.

He whipped his head around, eyes wide, scanning the street on instinct. “What? no… how–?” he hissed, lowering his voice. “You can’t just say that!”

“I too love and hate Robert,” Phenomaman said calmly, unfazed. He shrugged. “Perhaps not in the romantic fashion you describe, but I love Robert as a friend whom I deeply admire for his resilience and integrity.” His expression soured just slightly. “And I despise him as the man who currently dates my former lover.”

Sonar stared at him.

Then, despite himself, he let out a short, humourless laugh.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.”

They kept walking.

Sonar didn’t correct him.

He didn’t have the energy to explain the difference.

“I do not care about such matters now,” Phenomaman continued, his voice calm and reflective, “for I have Herman. However, the hatred remains because of how I felt at the time of the occurrence—of the pain I experienced, and how deeply it embedded itself within me.”

Sonar nodded slowly, almost dumbly. The words landed heavier than he expected. “...That’s,” he swallowed, “yeah. That’s true.”

Phenomaman glanced at him again, head tilting with open curiosity. “Why do you love and hate Robert?” he asked. “Did he too… engage in romantic relations with your former lover?”

Sonar huffed, shaking his head. “No. I–” He paused, jaw tightening. “I guess I loved him because I thought he actually cared about me. Like, genuinely.” A humourless snort escaped him. “Looking back, I think I was just attention-starved and delusional.”

He kicked at a crack in the pavement as they walked.

“But when it came down to it,” he continued, voice lowering, “I was dead last on the leaderboard. And he cut me from the team.” His brow furrowed deeply. “Which wouldn’t have hurt as much if I hadn’t heard Blonde Blazer say that if Invisigal was at the bottom, she’d make an exception.”

“Ah… I see-” Phenomaman began, then blinked. “Wait. I do not see. Surely that is cause for resentment toward Blonde Blazer, not Robert?”

“Maybe,” Sonar snapped, spinning toward him, resentment flaring hot and sharp. “But it’s not like he fucking fought for me.”

The words came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t take them back. He couldn’t. The bitterness had been sitting in his chest for weeks, fermenting.

“If it was Invisigal, he’d riot,” Sonar continued, fists curling at his sides. “And I don’t hate her– hell, I don’t… but I do resent the fact that she gets chance after chance after fucking everything up for everyone, and I don’t get that same grace.”

His breathing quickened.

“We’re the same person,” he hissed. “Except I’ve got crippling drug problems, a fucked-up face, and a curse that turns me into a fucking bat monster.”

His fists clenched tighter.

“I’d do anything to be born with her face,” he went on, voice shaking now. “She thinks she has ‘villain’ powers? Yeah, well, I can’t hide mine. I don’t have a choice.”

His voice cracked fully then.

“I never get any choice.”

Sonar stopped walking altogether.

He sank down onto the pavement, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands as his wings folded in tight, his whole body curling inward like he was trying to disappear into himself.

Phenomaman startled, halting a few steps away. He looked down at Sonar, then turned his gaze outward, contemplative, as though searching the stars for an answer.

“Worry not,” he said gently after a moment. “Once you ingest the medication, such thoughts will become… significantly less devastating. You will cease to desire launching your physical form into galactic bodies.”

He smiled brightly and patted Sonar’s shoulder—awkward, but strangely sincere.

Sonar didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even try.

He just nodded weakly.

“Thanks, Phen.”

“Please,” Phenomaman replied cheerfully, “call me Katon-Ur. Or Dumpy, if you are feeling bold.”

Sonar winced, then shrugged. “Uh… sure. Katon-Ur.”

As they stood there, Sonar stared down at the pavement, mind drifting somewhere dark and distant.

He wondered, not for the first time, whether it was actually possible to hurl himself into the sun.

Probably not.

…but falling from the sky still seemed like a decent second option.

“You did the right thing telling me,” Mandy said again, softer this time, as if repeating it might help Herman believe it.

Waterboy, Herman, stood rigid in front of her desk, fingers twisting together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His wool puffed slightly, an unconscious stress response she’d seen a hundred times before in people who were terrified of being the reason someone else got hurt.

“I-I don’t wanna get him in trouble,” he whispered, voice trembling. “He already…he already thinks everyone’s watching him too closely.”

Mandy exhaled slowly through her nose, steadying herself. “This isn’t about punishment,” she said firmly. “It’s about safety. His. And yours.”

Herman swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the floor.

“He promised,” he said again, quieter now, like the word itself was fragile. “He promised he’d eat more. Said… he was trying. And I-I wanted to believe him.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the faint hum of the monitors behind Mandy’s desk.

“But then,” Herman continued, voice cracking, “we were in- he was standing- stood…in the locker room. He thought he was alone. I shouldn’t have been looking, I know I shouldn’t have, but–”

“You don’t need to justify noticing something worrying,” Mandy interrupted gently.

Herman nodded shakily.

“When he lifted his shirt,” he whispered, “his skin looked…wrong. Like it was stretched too thin. Like it didn’t fit him anymore.” He hugged his arms around himself, as though suddenly cold.

“And there were marks. Not just one or two. Lots.”

Mandy’s jaw tightened.

“Bite marks?” she asked carefully.

“Yes,” Herman said, barely audible. “Old ones and newer ones. Some were purple, some were still red. And scratches- long ones. Deep. Not like an accident. Not like training injuries.”

His voice wobbled. “They looked like they hurt.”

Mandy glanced, briefly, at the holographic map projected beside her desk. Sonar’s tracker pulsed steadily across town, far from SDN, far from this office, and far enough away that Mandy knew, with grim certainty, he couldn’t hear them.

Good, she thought. And awful, all at once.

“Did he say anything to you about them?” she asked.

Herman shook his head quickly. “No. And I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to push him. He already gets so…defensive.” His ears drooped. “But he flinched when he moved. Like it hurt just to breathe.”

That settled something cold and heavy in Mandy’s chest.

She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, eyes unfocused as she started mentally slotting pieces together—missed meals, erratic behaviour, exhaustion that went far beyond overwork, the way Sonar had been avoiding eye contact lately, the way he always seemed braced for impact.

“This isn’t your fault,” she said quietly.

Herman shook his head again, more violently this time. “It feels like it is. If I’d said something sooner- if I’d pushed harder–”

“Stop,” Mandy said, not harshly, but with authority. “You are not responsible for managing his health on your own. You’re not his keeper.”

Her gaze softened. “You’re his teammate. That means caring. Not fixing.”

Herman’s shoulders slumped, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I just don’t want to lose him,” he whispered.

Mandy didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she looked back at Sonar’s blinking location on the map, her expression darkening with a mix of anger and fear, not at Herman, not even at Sonar, but at the system that kept letting people like him grind themselves down to nothing.

“I’m going to handle this,” she said at last. “Carefully.”

She met Herman’s eyes again. “You did exactly what you should have done. And I promise you, we’re not going to let this keep getting worse.”

Herman nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.

“Can you do one more thing for me?” Mandy asked.

“Anything,” he said immediately.

“Keep an eye on him,” she said. “Not in a way that makes him feel watched. Just…be there. If he pulls away, let me know. If he gets hurt again, let me know. Even if he begs you not to.”

Herman hesitated, then nodded. “I will.”

As he turned to leave, Mandy glanced once more at the tracker, her brow furrowing.

Whatever Sonar was doing across town, whatever he was running from, or toward, it was becoming painfully clear that time was no longer on their side.

“How big were the gashes?” Mandy asked, and despite her best efforts, the edge of fear slipped into her voice.

Herman flinched, as if the question itself hurt.

“B-big,” he whispered, lifting his hands and spreading them apart, uncertain, apologetic. “L-like…not scratches you get from sparring. They looked like they went…deep.”

Mandy felt her stomach drop.

She forced herself to inhale slowly, deliberately, schooling her expression back into something neutral before Herman could see how badly that answer had shaken her. Her fingers pressed into the edge of her desk, grounding herself.

“…Thank you, Herman,” she said quietly. “I know that wasn’t easy to talk about.”

He nodded, shoulders curling inward. “Y-you’re…you’re not gonna tell him it was me, right?”

Her gaze softened immediately. “No. Everything you’ve said today is confidential. This stays between us and the people who absolutely need to know. I promise.”

Herman’s ears twitched. He hesitated, then asked the question that had clearly been clawing at him the entire time.

“H-he’s not…Sonar won’t get in trouble…will he?”

Mandy shook her head without hesitation. “No. He’s not in trouble.” She leaned forward slightly, making sure he heard the certainty in her voice. “He’s someone we care about. That’s all this is.”

She paused, choosing her words carefully. “We may need him to take a short break from active hero work. Just long enough to focus on his health. But his position here, his job– is secure.”

The tension seemed to drain out of Herman all at once. He sagged in relief, letting out a long, shaky sigh.

“O-oh,” he murmured. “T-then…okay. That’s…that’s okay.”

He stood, smoothing down his shirt nervously. “I-I should go. I’ve got…stuff. Um.” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Thank you.”

Mandy gave him a small, reassuring nod. “Thank you for coming to me.”

Herman slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

The moment the latch clicked shut, Mandy’s composure crumbled.

She grabbed her phone from the desk, fingers moving fast, too fast, almost sloppy as she pulled up Robert’s contact and typed.

My office. Now. It’s urgent.

She hit send and tossed the phone back onto the desk like it burned.

Mandy stood and began to pace, heels clicking sharply against the floor as her thoughts spiralled. Bite marks. Deep gashes. Rapid weight loss. Overwork. Isolation. Defensive behaviour. Medication. Secrets.

Her jaw clenched.

They were right.

Or at least, she was far more certain than she’d ever wanted to be.

“Ninety percent,” she muttered to herself, dragging a hand through her hair. “Ninety percent sure, and that’s already too much.”

Her gaze flicked, once again, to the map on her screen, Sonar’s marker blinking steadily, oblivious.

Whatever was happening to him wasn’t just burnout.

And if Mandy was right about why-

She stopped pacing abruptly.

“God,” she whispered. “How long has this been going on?”

What else could possibly explain the marks?

Mandy dragged a hand down her face, staring at nothing in particular as the question looped, unanswered and unbearable. Sonar joked, joked– about being “half-man, half bat, all freak,” but this wasn’t claws and wings and bad genetics. This wasn’t an accident of biology.

And with the way he’d been acting lately… if he was in some kind of relationship, it wasn’t healthy. That had been her first fear when the reports of skipped meals started rolling in. Control. Withholding. The slow erosion of autonomy disguised as choice.

But this?

This was worse.

Even if every piece fit together in her mind, even if she could trace the shape of it perfectly, it meant nothing without Sonar himself. Without testimony, without consent to proceed, there was no case. No charges. No prosecution. Just suspicions and theories that couldn’t touch anyone with real power.

And power protected its own.

Mandy swallowed hard, her throat tight.

Public opinion would tear him apart.

They wouldn’t see him as a victim, they’d see him as a liability. A monster. A temptress. They’d say he seduced Elias, that he’d climbed his way up and cried foul when it stopped benefiting him. They’d strip him of credibility, of dignity, of his job.

They’d make him lose everything.

Again.

Her vision blurred as tears welled, hot and angry, frustration burning through her chest. It wasn’t just unfair, it was cruel, systemically so, the kind of cruelty that wore a polite smile and called itself procedure.

Even if she told him. Even if she sat him down and laid it all out, he’d never trust them. Why would he? SDN had already proven, more than once, that it would sacrifice him to keep itself clean.

Maybe… maybe if someone from the Z-team spoke to him? Someone he trusted. Someone who wasn’t management.

But even that was a risk.

If it went wrong, if he felt cornered or betrayed, it could cost him the only stable relationships he had left.

Mandy pressed her hands to her eyes.

This was impossible.

The sound of hurried footsteps snapped her back into the room. Before she could compose herself, the door flew open.

“--Mandy?”

Robert stood in the doorway, breathless, eyes wide with alarm as he took her in. One look at her face and whatever question he’d come in with died on his lips.

She didn’t make it three steps toward him.

The moment he reached her, she broke, choking on a sob as the weight of it all finally collapsed inward. Robert caught her automatically, arms wrapping around her as he pulled her close, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles into her back.

He didn’t ask.

He already knew.

He knew the theory was right, and now it was her job to give it shape, to say the things that made it real instead of hypothetical.

Mandy clutched at his jacket, voice barely holding together as she whispered, “It’s so bad, Robert.”

And for the first time since she’d taken this job, she didn’t know how to fix it.

Robert bowed his head, voice low.
“I know.”

Mandy pulled back just enough to look at him, disbelief flashing across her face. “No, you don’t- it’s just–”

“No,” he interrupted gently but firmly, meeting her eyes. “Mandy. Trust me. I know.”
He exhaled shakily. “Coupe… she told me everything.”

“Coupe?” Mandy blinked, thrown completely off-balance. “What are you—Robert, I’m talking about Waterboy-”

“Herman,” Robert corrected automatically, then froze as her expression mirrored his own.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “We are very clearly talking about two different things right now.”

Mandy nodded, the room feeling suddenly too small.
“Herman just came to me,” she said quietly. “He told me Sonar’s been starving himself. That he saw marks on his body.” She swallowed. “That’s all I’ve got right now. I didn’t… I couldn’t ask him to go into more detail.”

Robert’s face drained of colour.
“He what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a step away. “Fuck– no wonder he’s been so sluggish. I’ve been pairing him with Phenomaman just to keep missions balanced. I thought maybe it was burnout, or- hell, I don’t know.” His jaw tightened. “He hasn’t ‘freaked’ out in weeks.”

Mandy nodded grimly. “If he’s that underweight, even if he did transform, there’d be no mass. No muscle. Nothing to fight with.”

Robert let out a humourless breath. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Then he stilled, something else clicking into place.
“But if that’s what Herman told you…” He looked back at her sharply. “Then you haven’t heard what Coupe told me. About Elias.”

Mandy’s blood ran cold.
“What?” she demanded. “What did Elias do to Coupe?”

Robert winced, as if the words themselves tasted foul.
“He didn’t get the chance, but he tried,” he said. “Before she even entered the Phoenix program. They dangled her spot in front of her and told her she could have it… if she complied.”

Mandy felt something ugly and furious coil in her stomach.
“Fuck,” she hissed.

The word didn’t even begin to cover it.

Because how dare he. How dare they. These weren’t disposable assets, they were people. Damaged, complicated, trying to be better than they used to be.

And someone had looked at that vulnerability and decided to exploit it.

Again.

“Do you think she’d testify?” Mandy asked quietly, planting her hands on her hips as if grounding herself might stop the room from tilting.

Robert didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, before finally nodding once.
“Undoubtedly,” he said. “Coupe wouldn’t hesitate.”

Then his shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as reality crept back in.

“But even if she did… it’d still be the word of two ex-cons against a highly respected, influential white man.” His mouth twisted. “The world likes to pretend it’s progressed, but far enough to believe an ex-assassin and a bat-hybrid over an SDN executive?” He shook his head slowly. “I’m doubtful.”

Mandy felt that familiar, bitter sting behind her eyes. Of course he was right. Robert always was, when it came to the ugly logistics of justice.

“Then…” Her voice faltered. “I genuinely don’t know what to do.”

Robert looked up at her then, expression firm despite the exhaustion lining his face.
“Me either,” he admitted. “But whether we like it or not, we have to talk to Sonar.”

Mandy shifted uncomfortably, folding her arms across herself. “I don’t think he’d appreciate talking to us of all people,” she said. “For all he knows, this could look like another attempt to control him. Or punish him. Or-” She swallowed. “Get him in trouble again.”

“Then we don’t do it like this,” Robert said immediately. “Not as management. Not as SDN.”
He stepped closer, voice lowering. “Outside of work. Personal. One-on-one.”

He rested a steady hand on her shoulder.
“But we’re not going to do nothing,” he continued, more quietly now. “Inactivity cost us Sonar once. I’m not letting it happen again.”

Mandy closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the knot in her chest.
“I know you’re right,” she murmured. “I do. But we can’t rush this.” She looked at him again, fear plain on her face. “If we get this wrong, if he feels cornered, we could lose what little trust Victor still has in us.”

Robert nodded, the weight of that truth settling heavily between them.

“…Maybe,” Mandy went on slowly, “if we brought someone in as a mediator. Someone he already trusts.”

Robert didn’t hesitate.
“Malevola,” he said. “She feels like the obvious choice.”

“She is,” Mandy agreed, but her frown deepened. “And that’s what scares me. This is still risky. If he pushes us away…” Her voice softened. “…we might make things worse.”

The thought lingered in the air, fragile, frightening, and entirely possible.

And for the first time since Herman had walked into her office, Mandy felt the full scope of the problem settle in her bones.

They weren’t just trying to stop a crime.

They were trying to save someone who had already learned, painfully, what happens when trust is misplaced.

Robert’s brow furrowed as he hummed low in his throat, his gaze drifting to the side as though he were staring at something only he could see. Mandy watched him think, really think, the way he always did when the stakes were unbearable and there were no clean answers. He rolled his shoulders, tension rippling through him, and let out a slow, weary sigh.

“…Leave that to me.”

The words were simple, but they landed heavy.

Mandy studied him for a moment, searching his face for something, certainty, reassurance, anything, before her expression softened. A small, tired smile curved her lips as she stepped closer and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Cryptic as always,” she murmured. “But… I trust you.”

Robert returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something guarded there now, something steeled.
“I’m just full of surprises,” he replied lightly, as if this were any other day and not the quiet prelude to something that could go catastrophically wrong.

They spent the rest of the day buried in planning.

Every word was weighed. Every hypothetical played out and dissected. What they could say. What they must not say. Who needed to be there, and, perhaps more importantly, who absolutely could not be.

They talked in circles, backtracked, and started over. Each revision carried the same unspoken understanding: this wasn’t just an uncomfortable conversation. This was a tightrope walk over a lifetime of mistrust, trauma, and guilt—most of it of their own making.

Because they only had one chance.

One chance to convince Sonar that this wasn’t another betrayal disguised as concern. One chance to prove that this time, they were on his side—not as bosses, not as authority figures, but as people who genuinely cared whether he survived this intact.

And if they fucked it up…

There was a very real possibility they wouldn’t just lose him.

They would break him.

That, more than anything else, was something neither of them was willing to let happen again.

“Your outfit fucking sucks, bro. This trip is necessary,” Flambae declared, arms crossed as Prism nodded fiercely beside her.

Sonar slouched in the changing room of a high-end, superhero-friendly clothing store, feeling every ounce of his fatigue press down on him. Shirts, jackets, and pants were being shoved at him with relentless energy, each piece seemingly chosen to highlight how utterly mediocre his style was.

“Dude,” he muttered, rubbing at his face, “I’d argue I dress better than anybody else on the team.”

The protest earned him two raised eyebrows and an almost theatrical gasp of offense.

“Is this bitch serious??” Prism muttered, clearly shocked by his audacity.

“You’re like… top four, at best,” Flambae scoffed, flinging a sleek jacket that smacked Sonar square in the face.

“What??” Sonar sputtered, peeling the jacket off his head, narrowing his eyes.

Prism held up her fingers with precision, as though counting his transgressions alongside his fashion sins.

“Me and ‘bae are the top two, and Coupe is third. You? Fourth,” she said with a smug tilt of her head. “Because even if she is a scary-ass bitch with an ‘angel of death’ motif, that’s still way hotter than your broke-ass crypto-bro getup.”

“The suit’s nice,” Flambae added, tossing him a pair of sharply tailored pants, “but it highlights all your negative qualities and none of your good ones, you know?”

Sonar groaned, dragging the pants down to inspect them. They were…fine. Sleek, functional, clean. But he couldn’t shake the sting of their critique. He wasn’t one to think much about clothes. Usually, he bought five duplicates of the same outfit for daily wear, had a formal suit for meetings, and whatever casual garb he could grab on clearance, baggy white shirts, a worn out Harvard sweatshirt.

Meanwhile, Flambae looked effortlessly magnetic. His half-unbuttoned burnt orange shirt clung perfectly to his frame, the embossed flame pattern snaking from front to back catching the light in subtle glimmers. Cropped sleeves revealed toned arms, and his crisp, tan pants, cuffed neatly above suede boots, completed the look. A custom insignia belt and a matching flaming emblem on his boots added a flourish of personal style. His ear pierced, hair loose and cascading luxuriously over his shoulders, he radiated the kind of casual confidence that made Sonar feel…flat in comparison.

Prism, on the other hand, was a vision of bold precision. Her natural hair, braided elegantly and tied high, carried pink and blue streaks woven into the style, a perfect reflection of her iconic look. She wore a sequined one-piece suit that hugged her figure, plunging daringly at the front, flaring into bell bottoms. Over it, a fluffy fluorescent jacket draped loosely, matched with tall, laced-up boots. Every detail screamed confidence and personality, the kind that made Sonar’s chest tighten uncomfortably.

And then there was him. A muted silhouette next to their vibrancy. His suit was fine, functional, professional, but even as he tugged at the hem, he couldn’t shake the dullness he felt radiating from himself.

“And my negative qualities are?” he asked softly, more to himself than the pair. His voice carried fatigue; he was tired, dry-mouthed, drained of any energy to argue or banter. He just wanted to go home.

Flambae didn’t miss a beat. He flipped his hair back with a flourish, scoffing. “For starters, you look like a man with no spine! A lackey, someone who follows instead of leads!” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a teasing growl. “Which you’re not! You’ve got ideas, Sonar. That big brain of yours deserves a big, powerful outfit!”

Sonar blinked, a bit dumbfounded. “Whatever you say, man,” he muttered, shrugging.

Flambae grinned knowingly. “See? You’re smart enough to trust my judgment. That only ever means good things,” he said, voice warm, though teasing.

And so the battle of the wardrobe began. Thirty minutes of Sonar trying on a carousel of outfits, some sharp and professional, others flamboyant and borderline ridiculous, while Flambae and Prism offered commentary. Some suggestions were genuinely helpful, some brutally honest, and some painfully unflattering.

All the while, Sonar felt an undercurrent of exhaustion. Each outfit, each critique, seemed to underscore how out of place he felt next to them, how mundane he looked in a world of superheroes who seemed to glow effortlessly. And yet, somewhere beneath the fatigue and the self-consciousness, a small, stubborn part of him started to notice: maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to wear something that didn’t feel like armor…just him.

“Dude, you gave me a leather jacket and nothing else??” Sonar groaned, holding it up like it was a cruel joke.

“There’s a shirt in there,” Flambae replied casually, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t call a mesh vest a ‘shirt’,” Sonar muttered, rolling his eyes. “If I wore this to work, I’d get in so much trouble.” He ran a hand through his hair, already imagining the looks from SDN colleagues.

Prism smirked knowingly, tilting her head. “If Chad can get away with his deep-plunge, skin-tight suit, I think you can show a little chest hair, uhh, fur? Is there a difference with you?”

Sonar paused, blinking at her, then shrugged and shrugged the vest over his shoulders anyway. The soft brush of his fur against his skin, out in the open, made him feel…exposed, in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Well, for starters? Fur is a whole lot denser,” he explained, adjusting the vest with a grunt as he wrestled with the pair of leather pants. “It’s a double-layered coat of hair on animals that helps with insulation, thicker than most human hair. And yeah, what I have is fur…mostly down my spine, arms, neck. The shorter stuff on my lower arms, pelvis, and legs? Human body hair.” He chuckled, shrugging as he glanced in the mirror. “It…weirds people out.”

“Why?? Body hair is perfectly natural, and in some cases, incredibly attractive,” Flambae scoffed, inspecting his jawline in the mirror, almost distracted by his own reflection.

Prism nodded thoughtfully as she folded a pair of boots and examined them critically. “He’s right, sort of. I like my partners a little cleaner-shaven, but it’s all taste. Doesn’t mean I’d dump someone over it,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

“The only exception being the Vanderstank thing,” she added with a sigh, glancing at Flambae. “Love you, man, but that guy is a supreme loser. You deserve better.”

Sonar’s chest tightened slightly. They were teasing, but not unkindly. And yet, even in the playful banter, he felt a twinge of insecurity, acutely aware of how his body, his appearance, and his…oddities might look in the eyes of everyone else. The leather felt tight, the mesh vest prickled against him, and the fur under his hands reminded him that he was different.

And still, underneath all that discomfort, a small, stubborn part of him wanted to see if he could pull it off. If he could just– look like he belonged with them, instead of feeling like an outsider.

Sonar sighed, slumping slightly against the mirror. “I know.”

There was a pause outside the changing room. Flambae poked his head in, curiosity written all over his face.

“What the fuck do you mean you ‘know’–”

Sonar frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Privacy? Ever heard of it?” His tone was dry, almost weary, like he’d been having the same conversation in his head a thousand times.

Flambae raised an eyebrow but shrugged, pulling the curtain back just a crack. “Sorry. But answer my question, what the fuck?”

Sonar allowed himself a small, almost bitter smile. “It’s kind of a recent revelation… and I guess to you guys it seems obvious.”

“I mean…sure,” Prism began carefully, tilting her head. “But wasn’t that guy your hero? You pitched ideas to him, and he apparently loved them, didn’t he?”

“Yeah…yeah, he loved my ideas,” Sonar muttered, staring at the zipper on his jacket as if it contained all the answers. His voice was flat, like he was trying to detach himself from the memory.

“He loved them so much that he completely forgot to give me any sort of credit,” Sonar continued, his fingers tightening on the zipper. “Which…sucks, but I guess that’s my fault for forgetting basic business 101: don’t spill the deets until you have a written contract.”

A loud thump and a frustrated hiss broke the tension. Fire, of course, it was Flambae, letting loose as the smell of burning ignited his temper.

“That fucker! That is so…fuck!” Flambae growled.

Prism nodded sharply, her own irritation obvious. “What an over-hyped hack. Can’t even come up with good ideas, so he has to steal yours.”

Sonar let out a long, quiet sigh, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. “But yeah…when that happened, I kinda just accepted it. Sure, it sucks– but I doubt Vanderstank wanted my face associated with his company anyway.”

He shifted, feeling a little hollow as he finished his thought. The anger from Flambae and Prism didn’t really reach him; it was like he was watching the fire from the inside out, detached, still stinging from years of being overlooked and erased.

Flambae and Prism exchanged a glance, recognizing the resignation in his tone.

“Why not? You’re a bona-fide, SDN-appointed hero, smart as fuck, and you can turn into a cool-as-shit bat monster,” Prism scoffed. “Did I leave anything out?”

“Uh– echolocation!” Flambae added brightly, snapping his fingers. “You’ve got echolocation too.”

Sonar grit his teeth. Liars.

“Cool it. I don’t need you guys boosting my ego,” he muttered. It was meant to land as a joke, but the air didn’t lighten. Of course it didn’t. They were too perceptive for that. Just his luck.

Flambae was the first to speak again, his tone dropping into something firmer. “Why not? Your ego is in the fucking toilet right now, man. Someone’s gotta fish it out.”

Sonar scowled at his reflection, focusing on the buckles of the boots Prism had shoved at him, tightening them a notch too hard.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Bitch, don’t you fucking gaslight us,” Prism snapped. “The others might tiptoe around this shit, but we care. And we wanna know what your deal is, because something is going on- and you won’t tell anybody anything.”

His stomach dropped at her insistence.

Sonar stepped out of the changing room and turned toward the mirror outside, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves, straightening the jacket, anything to look busy, anything to look unaffected. He could feel their eyes on him anyway.

“It’s called personal shit,” he said coolly. “Again, privacy. Ever heard of it?”

“Privacy works for changing rooms and therapy,” Flambae countered, stepping closer. “And since you’re definitely not doing the latter, it’s kind of our job as your friends to make sure you’re not getting hurt.”

Flambae’s hand settled on Sonar’s shoulder.

Sonar hated how violently he flinched.

He looked up, and Flambae was close, close enough that Sonar could see the worry etched beneath his usual permanently-pissed expression. The fire wasn’t there. Just concern, raw and unguarded.

“Victor,” he said softly.

Something in Sonar cracked at the sound of his real name, spoken like that, careful, almost reverent. It loosened a piece of him he’d spent months locking down.

“We’re worried,” Flambae continued. “Something, or someone, is hurting you. And all I need to know is who it is, so I can burn them.”

For a split second, Sonar pictured it: Elias reduced to ash, scorched and screaming, finally powerless. The image was so vivid he almost smiled.

Almost.

Because just as quickly, another image followed, Flambae pinned beneath a desk, Prism cornered somewhere dark and narrow, that same man’s smile looming over them instead.

The risk hit him like ice water.

Sonar’s smile died. He shook his head.

“I’m fine, man…”

That did it.

Flambae’s grip tightened around his arm, firm and unyielding. “Why won’t you let us help you?!” he snapped, the sudden edge in his voice making Sonar bare his teeth on instinct.

“Because it’s none of your business!”

“You make it my business!” Flambae shot back. “Everybody’s worried about you! Even that hearing fucker’s caught you crying in the bathrooms!”

Prism winced. “What he means,” she cut in, more gently, “is that Galen has really good hearing. And…we can hear that you’re hurting.”

She exhaled slowly, rubbing at her arm. “If you’re stubborn, there’s not much we can do. But if you tell us something…we can support you.”

Sonar shook his head harder, panic crawling up his spine as he yanked his arm free.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, backing away. “I’m going home–”

Flambae’s brows shot up in alarm. “No- no, no, no– wait!”

He yanked once more.

And the jacket came off.

The air shifted. Heavy. Suffocating.

The three of them froze in place, caught in a moment that refused to move forward or back.

Sonar knew exactly where they were looking.

Despite whatever lie he’d told himself about it being complicated, or mutual, or just how things were now, Elias had changed. Somewhere along the way, Sonar had stopped being a person to him. He’d become something closer to an animal, something that needed correction when it misbehaved.

Tchk.

The sound echoed in his head, sharp and clinical.

Large gashes marred his back, angry and unmistakable. Lash marks. Always placed where clothes would hide them, where mirrors wouldn’t linger too long. When Herman had noticed before, Sonar had said they were from a call gone wrong. A villain with claws. An accident.

For some reason, now, standing there with his skin exposed and his chest caving in, his brain refused to reach for the excuse again.

He couldn’t acknowledge them. Not out loud. Not even internally.

Not when Flambae had gone utterly still, hands trembling at his sides, fire flickering helplessly along his knuckles like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

Not when Prism had clapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide and glossy, horror bleeding through her carefully curated composure.

Disgust. That was what he saw first.

Logically, he knew it wasn’t aimed at him. It couldn’t be. Elias deserved it. Elias deserved worse.

But logic didn’t matter much when you were starving, shaking, and flayed open.

A part of Sonar twisted inward, cruel and automatic. Of course she’s disgusted. Look at you. Skin stretched tight over bone. Scars layered over scars. Something broken and feral masquerading as human.

He hated looking at himself too.

But he’d adjusted. He’d learned where not to look, how to move without drawing attention, how to swallow the pain and keep going.

Why couldn’t they adjust too?

Why couldn’t they just let him deal with it, quietly, privately, so he could survive in peace?

The panic surged before anyone could say a word.

Sonar lunged for his jacket, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, and bolted. He didn’t hear anyone call his name. Didn’t want to.

He slapped a wad of cash onto the counter as he passed, the startled cashier barely registering him before he burst through the store’s doors and into the open air.

His lungs burned. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. The world felt too bright, too loud, too much.

He needed something, anything, to make it stop.

A stimulant. A downer. Something sharp, something dull. He didn’t care which direction it took him, just that it took him away from this feeling.

He ran until his legs screamed and his vision blurred, until he reached his apartment and fumbled the door shut behind him.

Malevola was out. She’d said something earlier about needing to talk to Blonde Blazer.

He didn’t mind.

He didn’t care.

All he knew was that the silence closed in around him, thick and waiting—and for the first time all day, no one was looking at him.

If anything, he was grateful for the privacy.

No eyes. No voices. No well‑meaning concern that felt like an accusation. Just him, alone, where he could fix himself without being seen.

He kicked the door open and didn’t bother to shut it behind him. The apartment swallowed the sound as he dropped to his knees beside the bed, clawing for the stash hidden underneath. The bottle rattled violently as he twisted the cap, fingers slipping, breath coming in shallow, frantic pulls that scraped his throat raw.

Focus. Just focus.

The pills spilled into his palm. Too many. He didn’t bother counting.

Phenomaman’s dose. His words echoed in his head, warped and distant. Only one.

Sonar swallowed one dry. It scraped down his esophagus, catching painfully.

So he took another.

The second went down easier. Like his body had been waiting for it.

His hands slammed against the desk hard enough to rattle everything on it. He bent forward, breathing through his teeth, then yanked open the hidden drawer beneath, his other stash. The emergency one. The don’t think about consequences one.

He needed it.

He fucking needed it.

There was no room in his head for hesitation. Not with Elias coming tonight. Not with the bruises still blooming beneath his skin, not with the memory of hands gripping too tight, not with the certainty that if he showed up like this, raw, shaking, starving, he wouldn’t survive it.

He scraped the powder into neat, desperate lines. His movements were practiced, automatic, the ritual grounding in its familiarity. He leaned down and inhaled in short, sharp bursts.

Fire tore through his sinuses.

His eyes watered violently. He barely registered it.

Again.

Again.

The burn spread upward, molten and alive, crawling behind his eyes and down the back of his throat. His head swam, and a sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob.

It felt so good.

Too good.

When he finally staggered away from the desk, the room already felt wrong. He drifted into the living room like a ghost, every step delayed, every motion leaving an echo behind it. Heat pooled beneath his skin, thick and oppressive, sweat prickling uncomfortably along his spine.

Too warm.

He wiped his brow, smearing dampness across his skin, and shuddered. He hated sweating. Hated feeling aware of his body like this, sticky, heavy, real.

The walls seemed to breathe.

The furniture softened, edges melting and reforming like wax left too close to a flame. He tried to focus, to anchor himself, but nothing stayed still long enough to hold onto.

His gaze dropped to his hand.

It wasn’t…right.

The skin shimmered, phasing in and out, as if reality itself couldn’t decide whether he belonged in it. His fingers blurred, then sharpened, then vanished at the tips before snapping back into place.

He lifted his hand slowly, watching it trail behind itself.

It was…nice.

Detached. Safe. Like he was watching someone else fall apart.

He flexed his fingers and smiled faintly as they flickered, his perception lagging behind the movement. He turned his palm over and back again, mesmerized by the way it appeared and disappeared, as if even the universe was unsure what to do with him.

For the first time since the store, his breathing eased.

If he couldn’t be human…

If he couldn’t be real…

Then at least he didn’t have to feel it.

He giggled as he swayed on his feet, the sound spilling out of him too loud, too sharp, like it didn’t belong in the room. It startled him for half a second, then it delighted him.

He couldn’t even remember what he’d been so worried about.

Life was good. Wasn’t it?

He had his job.
He had his friends.
He had stability.

He… had…

A job he paid for with his body.

The thought slid into his mind fully formed, slick and undeniable, and instead of stopping the laughter, it made it worse. His grin stretched wide, teeth aching as a bright, hysterical laugh burst out of his chest and echoed off the walls.

Friends.

Friends he kept pushing away. Friends whose faces flashed behind his eyes, Flambae’s fury, Prism’s horror, looping, overlapping, mocking. He could see their mouths moving, hear them speaking without sound, accusing him without words.

He dragged his hands up into his fur and clenched, nails digging in as his shoulders hitched. His teeth ground together as he folded forward, breath coming out in wet, broken pulls.

Stability.

Yes. Stability.

As long as he appeased everything.
As long as he appeased everyone.

Especially Him.

The laughter stayed lodged in his throat, vibrating there unnaturally, refusing to leave, and then something else surged up with it.

Bile.

He gagged violently, staggering toward the kitchen, hand slapping against the counter to keep himself upright.

Of course, a voice supplied calmly in the back of his head. You haven’t eaten properly in weeks.

His heart was pounding so hard it hurt, each beat thudding against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. He wiped sweat from his brow again, smearing it across his temple, and yanked the fridge open.

Cold light spilled out.

Food. Any food.

His hands moved faster than his thoughts. Bell peppers, crunching, bitter, unwashed. Raw chicken, slick and rubbery, tearing between his teeth as he gagged and swallowed anyway. Mustard straight from the jar, burning his tongue, his throat.

He didn’t taste it. Couldn’t. The sensations arrived late, distorted, like they were being routed through someone else’s body first.

It was fine.

It was fine.

It wasn’t fine.

The fridge light flickered.

He knows, the voice whispered, intimate and pleased.

Sonar’s stomach dropped.

He’s watching.

Tears streamed down his face unchecked as he kept shoving food into his mouth, jaw aching, throat working painfully around half‑chewed lumps. He couldn’t stop. Every swallow felt like defiance. Every swallow felt like power.

He knows you’re cheating on your diet, the voice sneered, sharper now, crueler.
You fat fucking pig.

A sound tore out of Sonar– high, broken, almost animal-like, as he whimpered and pushed more food in, hands shaking so badly he kept dropping it on the floor. His chest burned. His vision tunneled.

“Stop- stop–” he slurred, though he wasn’t sure who he was talking to.

Then–

Creeeeeeaaakk.

The sound sliced clean through the fog.

Sonar froze.

His ears twitched violently, every muscle locking as if he’d been yanked by invisible strings. The world snapped into terrifying clarity, the high sharpening into something jagged and wrong.

Someone was here.

He turned slowly toward the noise, pupils blown wide, breath shallow and silent as prey.

The hallway stretched too long. Too dark.

Was it… Malevola?

Had she come home early?

Or…

His heart stuttered.

…or had he finally decided he didn’t need to knock anymore?

He was so busted.

That was it. That was the thought that slammed into him whole, complete, absolute. There was no room for doubt. They’d smell it on him, the pills, the powder, the weakness, and they’d know. They always knew. People always knew when he’d gone too far.

And then they’d despise him.

And then, well. Obviously they’d kill him.

That was the natural next step. That was how these things went. You mess up, you get exposed, you get put down. Like a dangerous animal. Like something broken that can’t be fixed.

Yeah. That made sense. Perfect sense.

Nothing else did.

The room tilted slightly, like the world was breathing without him. His thoughts slipped through his fingers the moment he tried to grab them, dissolving into static and heat.

His stomach growled, loud, deep, angry.

Saliva flooded his mouth.

God, he was so hungry.

Not the dull, manageable kind of hunger he’d trained himself to live with. This was sharp. Urgent. A screaming absence that felt like it was hollowing him out from the inside, scraping against bone.

Footsteps.

Soft at first. Shoes against hardwood. Real. Too real.

Each step echoed, swelling and warping in his ears until it felt like they were coming from everywhere at once, above him, behind him, inside him.

Closer.
Closer.

He dropped the tub of blueberries without really noticing, watching them scatter and roll across the floor like little dark eyes staring up at him. Useless. Not enough. Never enough.

His mind emptied out entirely.

Meat.

He needed meat.

If he didn’t eat, really eat– he would waste away. Shrivel. Collapse in on himself like a failed star. This wasn’t indulgence. This wasn’t greed.

This was survival.

This was biology. Instinct. Fact.

“Victor?”

The voice cut through the air, somewhat docile, and familiar, and his brain twisted it instantly into something else. A trick. A lure. A test.

Too late.

He lunged.

Teeth sank into something warm, yielding, alive. The sound that followed barely registered, just noise, meaningless and distant, like feedback from a broken speaker. His world narrowed to sensation: heat, pressure, the shock of contact.

The taste exploded across his tongue, metallic, rich, right, and his body sang with relief.

There it is.
That’s what you were missing.

He clung to the figure desperately, hands digging in, holding them still, holding them here. His laughter bubbled out of him, light and breathless and wrong, as he fed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

The shape beneath him blurred, features sliding and reforming, never settling into anything recognizable. Their faces wouldn’t stay still. Their words dissolved before they reached meaning, echoing hollowly around his skull like a language he no longer understood.

He stayed there, straddling the shifting form, pinning them down with a strength he didn’t remember having, lost entirely to the rhythm of it, the need, the relief, the certainty that this was what he was meant to do. He dug his teeth in and began to eat the face. Barely registering it as a solid, real thing. 

All he knew is he was being fed, finally.

That this was who he really was.

That everyone else had just been pretending not to see it.

The figure beneath him kept twitching.

He leaned his head back with a soft, breathless sound, throat working as he swallowed, the weight of it settling heavily into his stomach. Warm. Satisfying. Right. Bliss spread through him in slow, syrupy waves, filling the ache that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

There. See? Fixed.

His ears flicked sharply.

Footsteps, no, thunder. Heavy. Fast. Too many. The sound crashed down the hall and skidded to a stop at the threshold of the apartment.

Three shapes.

Not one. Not two.

Three.

They stood there, frozen, staring at him.

He tried to make sense of them, really tried, but their voices tangled together into wet, echoing nonsense. Words bent and slipped away before they could mean anything. His vision smeared, colours bleeding into one another, everything reduced to moving stains.

One of them lurched forward, a red blur, too bright, too loud.

He whimpered at it, shrinking back instinctively.

Why was Malevola…red? Wait…she was always red. Wasn’t she?

Before the thought could finish forming, something violent and wrong surged up his throat. His body rebelled all at once. He toppled sideways, jaw slack as froth spilled from his mouth, burning and bitter. His heart jackhammered against his ribs, each beat frantic and misfiring, while his limbs locked up and began to shake uncontrollably.

Cold floor pressed against his cheek.

Hands grabbed him, too many, everywhere, rolling him onto his side. The position made it easier to retch, fluid dribbling from his lips as the figures around him fractured into noise and motion. Yelling. Crying. Someone shouting his name like it was breaking apart in their mouth.

He blinked slowly.

Oh.

Did he…eat their food?

That must’ve been it. That made sense. He was always messing things up like that. He’d apologise later. He always did.

Later.

Thinking hurt too much right now.

Everything hurts.

He felt impossibly heavy, like gravity had doubled just for him. His eyelids fluttered, vision dimming in uneven pulses. A blue shape shoved itself into his line of sight, close enough that he could feel breath, see panic written across a face that refused to stay still.

The blue figure was talking. Begging. Crying.

He scowled weakly.

Fuck you, blue figure.

This was necessary.

He needed this.

And with that thought clutched tightly to his chest, like a truth, like a lifeline, his eyes finally slipped shut, the world dissolving into darkness and noise and the distant echo of voices that couldn’t reach him anymore.