#punch up

"Haha," you said, voice muffled through your hands.

There was no sugarcoating it: you looked like shit. Your hair had given up on structure hours ago, sticking out in defiance of gravity and dignity alike. The mask covering the bottom half of your face was upside down—something you hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been in the building for fifteen minutes. The dark circles under your eyes were practically a personality trait now, and your clothes, though clean, screamed, I got dressed in the dark.

At least you’d managed deodorant. Gold star for that.

The reason behind your tragic state? You’d been stood up.

An entire evening wasted—makeup done, hair styled, nerves in overdrive as you sat in a too-fancy restaurant, fiddling with your glass of water and pretending to check the menu like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You told yourself he was just running late. Maybe traffic. Maybe bad signal. Maybe anything other than what it really was.

He wasn’t coming.

You’d spent an hour and a half trying to convince yourself otherwise. Staring at your phone, typing messages and deleting them before they even sent. The waitress had come by three times, and you’d lied every time—Oh, I’m just waiting for someone. You even laughed when she gave you that pitying smile. That soft, Oh honey kind of look.

And then, when you finally accepted it, when you finally let the truth sink in, you walked out. Head down, pretending that your eyes weren’t burning. Pretending you didn’t feel like a total idiot.

Because crying over a guy you’ve never met? That’s pathetic, right? At least that’s what you told yourself the entire drive home. Except it wasn’t really about him. It was about what he represented—something hopeful, something warm, something you thought might be real. A step in the right direction from being an ex-villain. From clawing your way out of the wreckage you’d made of your own life and trying, for once, to just be normal.

And now you were here. In the breakroom. At eight in the morning, running on four hours of sleep and too much embarrassment.

Robert set his mug down and crossed his arms, tilting his head. His brow furrowed slightly, the kind of look that said he knew better than to poke the bear but might do it anyway.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you snapped before he could even open his mouth. “And I’m this close to blowing up the lights. So respectfully—fuck off, okay?”

The words hung there, sharp and electric. For a split second, the overhead bulbs actually flickered, as if testing you.

Robert blinked, then raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received, Sparky.”

You slumped back in your chair, exhaling through your teeth. The static under your skin buzzed like an itch you couldn’t scratch. It always did when your emotions got tangled up like this—an unholy mix of humiliation, anger, and caffeine withdrawal.

After a few moments, you decided to do something productive—like not melt the breakroom appliances. You stood, tugged your crooked mask into place, and muttered, “Bathroom. Gonna make myself look less like a dumpster fire.”

Robert just hummed in response, the kind of low, noncommittal sound that meant he’d seen worse but wasn’t about to say it out loud. You brushed past him, the faint scent of his coffee lingering in your wake.

The hallway outside was too bright, too quiet. Every fluorescent hum felt like a personal insult. You could hear your own footsteps echo against the linoleum, sharp and rhythmic. The air had that sterile chill unique to government buildings and early mornings—too clean, too empty, too still.

You were halfway to the restroom when you collided with someone—shoulder first, solid enough to make you stumble. The impact jolted a small spark through your arm, not enough to burn, but enough to sting.

“Watch it,” you snapped automatically.

Then you looked up—and of course it was him.

Sonar.

Because the universe just couldn’t resist a punchline.

He snarled at the contact—sharp and infuriating. You scowled, shoving your hands against his chest to push him out of your way. “Move it, freak.”

The lights above you snapped—a hard flicker that made the shadows jump across the walls.

You just brushed past him, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You could feel the static crackling faintly around your fingertips.

Behind you, the coffee machine in the breakroom sputtered violently, hissing like it was about to boil over.

“Who pissed in her cereal?” he muttered, stepping into the breakroom.

After you fixed yourself from being a hot mess, you walked to the entrance of the building and sank onto the cold metal bench beneath the overhang, the shade wrapping around you like a sigh. The air outside was thick with humidity, that faint electric tang that always lingered after a storm—or after you. You tipped your head back against the wall, feeling the faint hum of the circuitry within it respond to your pulse. Everything buzzed a little louder when you were upset.

You couldn’t afford to break anything else in the office. Not after last week’s incident with the copier.

“This is what I get for being a hopeless romantic,” you muttered, the words dragging out on a breath that trembled somewhere between exhaustion and irony. Above you, the morning light splintered off the glass tower across the street, stabbing through the air in shards of gold and white. Too bright. Too clean. Too much like the day everything went wrong.

You could still smell it sometimes—the scorched metal, the ozone, the scream of voltage crawling through your veins like a living thing. That moment, trapped between death and rebirth, when the world went white and your body became a conduit. People called it an accident. You called it the reason you never looked down from high places anymore.

A small spark jumped from your fingertip to your thigh, harmless but persistent. You drew lazy circles against your jeans, watching the faint blue static dance beneath your skin. Across the street, the power lines hummed back—a low, thrumming reply that made the corners of your mouth twitch. The city was loud in a way most people couldn’t hear, but you could. It was always talking to you, whispering in wires and current.

“Maybe I should stick to books,” you said softly, half a laugh, half a confession. Books didn’t flicker when you touched them. Didn’t hum when you got emotional. They were quiet, safe—paper and ink instead of chaos and charge.

Then again, your smut collection did have great source material for stress relief.

"Did you have to break the coffee machine?" Coupé’s voice sliced through your thoughts as she twirled one of her knives between her fingers, the blade catching the light with a faint metallic hiss.

Punch Up followed close behind, posture perfectly upright as always, broad shoulders and beefy arms flexing like they usually do.

"That was an accident," you mumbled, crossing your arms. "Blame Sonar."

"Ah don’t get it," Punch Up grumbled, running a hand through his mustache. "Two o' the smartest people on the team an’ they fuckin’ hate each other."

"You know why I despise him."

Coupé rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

"He put dead mice in my lunch," you pressed, voice rising slightly. "Multiple times!"

Coupé twirled her knife with a little more flair, glancing between you and Punch Up. "Anyway," she said, cutting through the tension, "what happened with that date last night? You looked like someone shoved a lightning bolt up your ass this morning."

You groaned, leaning back against the bench, eyes squinting at the sky like it might offer some answers. "Guy was a no-show."

"Big shock there," Punch Up snickered, shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.

You shot him a soft glare. "Thanks for the sympathy, Punch Up. Really. Top-notch," sarcasm dripping in your tone, deadpanned.

Coupé smirked, flicking her knife lazily. "Ooooh, a no-show, huh? That’s rough. Bet you looked adorable sitting there, all dressed up and ready to swoon."

"Shut uuup," you exhaled, shoving your face into your hands.

Punch Up leaned against the railing, arms crossed, a grin stretching across his face. "Ah, come on. You’ve survived worse. Besides," he added, voice low but teasing, "the guy clearly didn’t deserve you. Not worth your sparks."

You peeked through your fingers, squinting at him. "Sparks? That’s the best you’ve got?"

Coupé laughed, spinning her knife one last time before tucking it away.

Punch Up tilted his head, eyebrows raised, grin widening. "So… why don’t ye just hook up with someone who actually shows up, eh?"

"No," you said firmly, voice steady. "Absolutely not. I am not doing that."

"Ah, fair enough," He shrugged. "Didn’t think ye’d go for the easy fix."

"Easy fixes are boring," you muttered, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

"I don’t know about thaaat," Coupé said, sending a knowing glance to Punch Up. "Knuckles."

"Knives," Punch Up, his voice dropping an octave, and an uncomfortable rumble surged in your stomach.

"Please spare me the details about your guy’s first encounter slash sex story to Swan Lake," you said, standing abruptly. "I might puke."