[SHIELD MEDICAL FACILITY - OBSERVATION ROOM 4A]
Light. Again. Always the light.
Darren lay flat, breathing shallow, ribs aching with every rise of his chest.
The pain was still there. Still clawing at his ribs, his knee, the swollen socket around his left eye. But muted. Reduced to a steady hum beneath the skin, like a wound that stopped bleeding but hadn't stopped aching.
His body twitched. Or tried to. Restraints still locked him down. Ankles. Wrists. Chest. The same unforgiving pressure, but it felt less like chains now, more like a tight seatbelt after a crash. Familiar. Smothering. Bearable.
He exhaled slow. Shallow.
The burn in his ribs had dulled, but every breath still prodded the healing bone like a warning.
He didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember waking up.
He was just here.
Click.
The overhead camera shifted. Watched him. Like it always did.
Then:
"Restraints will release upon handler arrival."
That word again.
Handler.
Like he was a dog.
Then:
Hiss.
The door. No knock. Just boots. Heavier this time.
The man walked. Darren couldn't turn his head to see him.
He walked over like he didn't care Darren existed. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
He probably had.
Pulled a chair. Sat.
Didn't speak for five full seconds.
Then:
"You killed him."
That was it.
No buildup. No drama.
Just a loaded truth dropped like a brick.
Darren flinched.
And then came the spiral.
His brain fractured.
Noise.
Pressure.
Diaz's helmet. The crack.
The stillness.
I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I didn't...
You snapped. You wanted it. You didn't stop. You could have stopped.
His pulse hammered in his throat. Chest rising fast now.
Too fast.
He could hear the wet sound of it.
That final crunch.
That moment he stopped moving. His eyes wide. His body slack.
Dead.
It echoed through him like it was happening again.
And again.
And again.
"Shut up," he whispered.
But no one had spoken.
Just him. And the noise.
The accusing crawl of his own voice, turned against him.
The blood on his hands. He felt it in his bones.
His head turned. Slowly. Straining against the restraint. Neck muscles flaring. Vision pulsing from the effort.
He caught only a corner of the man's shoulder, the flash of the Union Jack.
"The girl under the bench," he rasped.
Chapman didn't blink. "She's alive."
That should have helped.
It didn't.
Not even a little.
Darren's vision blurred. His teeth clenched.
He felt the bile rising in his throat. His stomach twisted on itself.
He was going to be sick.
Chapman leaned back in the chair, unmoved.
"I'm your handler. Joseph Chapman. Codename: Union Jack."
Darren blinked. Eyes stinging.
"You're not an agent. You live your life. Go to class. You check in with me every couple days. If something happens in Ireland, you deal with it. If they need you in Europe, you go."
The panic was rising fast now. Cold. Wet. Acid in his blood.
"I didn't mean to kill him," Darren whispered. His voice cracked in the middle.
Chapman stood. "Didn't say you meant to. Doesn't change that you did. So get up. Train. Keep your head down and live with it. Or don't."
He stepped over. Reached down. Click. One of the restraints released. Then the other. Then the ones on his legs.
Darren's arms fell limply to his sides. Heavy. Blood returning like a thousand needles under the skin.
He looked at Chapman for the first time...
Blond hair, cut short. Sharp but weathered face not old, just too much sun and long hours with no sleep. Blue eyes, pale and focused. No expression. He was intimidating tall and built like a soldier broad across the chest, nothing soft, nothing spare.
His suit was Military-grade, but not polished. A dark navy suit with a Union Jack across the chest, muted, worn, and faded like it had been through the wash too many times but still held its shape. The suit had reinforced joints, hardened fabric at the shoulders and knees.
Holster on his hip. Knife strapped to his thigh. Tactical belt with clipped pouches. Gloves thick and scuffed, cracked at the knuckles. Boots heavy, polished once, then left to earn their scars. Every part of him said soldier.
Chapman stepped back. Folded his arms.
"Get up."
Darren blinked again. Swallowed. Everything inside him felt broken.
"If you fall," Chapman said flatly, "I'm leaving you there."
Darren grit his teeth. Shifted.
His ribs screamed. Shoulder protested. His knee trembled.
But he moved.
Sat up slow. Breath ragged. The world spun.
He swung his legs off the table. Planted his feet. Tried to stand.
Pain exploded down his side. His vision darkened. He staggered forward, caught the edge of the table.
Didn't fall.
Chapman said nothing. Just opened the door.
And left.
Darren stayed like that. Bent. Breathing hard.
Alone.
And then it hit him.
Hard.
He gagged. Fell to his knees.
Vomited on the floor. Just bile. And acid. And everything.
Diaz's face came back.
The blood. The scream. The silence.
He clutched his head.
You killed him. What if it happens again?
He forced himself upright, ribs shrieking.
The cold floor stung through the thin layer of gauze wrapped around his knees.
When he stood, his vision pinwheeled. His right knee buckled, almost gave.
He gripped the table.
Didn't fall.
Think of something else.
Think of music.
Something dumb.
Something loud.
But the thought of Diaz came back. Stronger.
You crushed his skull.
He lurched toward the chair.
Each step was a crawl. A grind of pain.
His suit was on the chair.
It was completely different now.
Same shape. Same idea. But everything else had changed.
The fabric was heavier, smoother. Reinforced across the arms and legs like it had bones. Shoulder plating built into the seams. Elbow guards. Real armor. Not taped-on scraps anymore.
The hood was still there, pulled tight around the neck, but the chest was solid now, like a vest hidden under cloth. The symbol had been redone. Larger. Clean lines, sharp and interlocked. A Celtic knot stamped dead center like a warning. Or a target.
The mask was matte black, half-face. Sleek. Tight. Mouthguard fused into it, vents just under the curve of the jaw.
Every part of it was Cleaner.
Tighter.
Sharper.
He touched the sleeve. Cold. New.
Like a suit for a version of himself he didn't recognize.
The words played again in his head. Chapman's voice.
Unshakable:
You killed him.
He tried to think of anything else.
Anything.
Diaz's eyes.
He reached for the Suit. Every breath a struggle
Pulled it closer.
Another skin.
Another version.
He sat slowly, every joint stiff, and lifted the mask from the seat.
It was his. But newer. Cleaner.
The mouthguard was reinforced.
He stared at it for too long. Like it might bite
He pulled it on.
It was a slip, a shift.
Like falling into step with an old rhythm you'd forgotten you knew.
His thoughts didn't stop, but they stopped mattering.
The grief, the guilt, the spiral, still there.
Just not his problem. Not right now.
He stood.
Pain still flared through his ribs, his knee, his eye, but it didn't touch him anymore.
The suit fit.
Better than it ever had.
In the glass reflection, the mask stared back.
Not Darren.
Not right now.
Sentinel.
Darren was somewhere deep down.
Quiet.
Sleeping.