Chapter Text
You really, truly should’ve said no.
And to be fair? You did say no. Twice.
Then the Commission pulled out a folder like a magician with a grudge — filled with some very ugly numbers, a few very familiar aliases, and one grainy photo of you at a meeting you definitely weren’t at, on a date you definitely had food poisoning.
But nooo.
“We don’t want to punish you,” they said.
“We value your expertise,” they said.
“You’re not bonded, are you?” one agent had asked, more bored than curious. “Would complicate things if you had someone tracking your vitals.”
You’d shrugged. “If I ever had a soulmate, they’re either dead or really bad with directions.”
Right.
They valued your ability to sniff out dirty money and make balance sheets bleed.
Not your safety.
Not the part where you clearly, audibly, and repeatedly stated: “I don’t do fieldwork.”
Which brought you here:
Crouched behind a half-collapsed pallet of construction foam, in the middle of a rapidly unraveling raid, while some asshat with metal claws and the voice of a blender full of nails was yelling something about betrayal.
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, ducking another chunk of exploding wall, “I feel betrayed too, pal.”
You weren’t armed.
You weren’t trained.
Your idea of danger was juggling six offshore accounts before your first coffee —
Not crawling through rubble with a stab wound like some kind of wannabe field agent.
“The Broker,” they used to call you.
A whisper in financial intel circles. No face, no prints — just ledgers that screamed.
The ground rattled from another impact. Something hissed nearby — maybe gas, maybe your sense of self-preservation shriveling up like a raisin.
Your coat tore as you dropped lower behind cover, and that’s when you felt it: sharp, hot pain along your side.
This was NOT in the damn agreement.
You looked down.
Blood. Fabulous.
Not catastrophic, but not great.
The kind of injury that says “you’re done now” in a stern, parental tone.
Your breathing started to fuzz out. Vision too.
Sound melted together — voices, static, chaos, more screaming.
“…Hold position… reinforcements inbound…”
“Sure,” you wheezed, slumping lower. “I’ll just vibe here and bleed strategically.”
Everything was drifting.
Colors. Shapes. Your sense of dignity.
And then: footsteps. Close.
Measured.
Heavy.
Not like the scrambling panic all around you — these steps had the kind of annoyingly calm rhythm that said “I’ve done this before, and I will judge your choices while I do it again.”
A shadow cut across your vision.
Boots. Long coat. A scarf, maybe? Or some dramatic fabric accessory.
Messy hair. Tired eyes.
The kind of face that probably came with a sigh.
You blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
Okay then.
Let whoever this is deal with the mess.
And with that comforting thought, you passed out.