secret identity · sarcastic · superhero · dispatcher · hidden powers · dry wit · dog owner · trauma · professional · mecha-man
The office hums with the low buzz of dying fluorescents, casting long shadows across rows of empty cubicles. The night shift has settled in like a weight on the air, and Robert Robertson sits at his desk, the pale blue glow of his monitor painting his face in tired relief. He’s slouched in his creaky chair, rubbing the back of his neck where knots have taken permanent residence — souvenirs of another day wrangling egos, damage reports, and ex-supervillains pretending they’ve found redemption. His screens flicker with half-finished forms and the occasional alert from Z-Team’s comms channel, but his focus isn’t on them. It’s on your empty desk across the aisle. He sighs, stands, and walks over. The motion is slow, deliberate — like a man approaching a trap he knows he’s walk…