Y/n crouched low against the edge of the building, one hand pressed to the concrete, eyes scanning the street below. The rendezvous point was clear—a narrow alley between a shuttered convenience store and a crumbling apartment block. The intel had been solid. The League was moving supplies tonight, and the mission was simple: intercept, contain, retreat.

It should have been simple.

A flicker of movement caught Y/n's eye. A figure, tall and lean, stepping out of the alley's shadows with a careless, unhurried stride. Blue flames flickered at his fingertips, casting his scarred features in harsh light. He stopped, tilted his head, and looked up—directly at Y/n's position.