The battle in Laos had ended. Officially.

Within the confines of Overwatch's intelligence hub, the echoes of that battle still lingered—not in gunfire or explosions, but in the quiet hum of data streams and the cold glow of mission debriefs. Tactical footage played in looping silence across the primary holo-displays, casting shifting blue light across the two men standing at the center of it all.

Gabriel Reyes and Gérard Lacroix stood side by side, watching as the final moments of the operation played out before them.

Aerial feeds showed Hawkins weaving through enemy fire in his fighter, his 20mm cannon tearing into omnic defensive emplacements. Winston's squad breached the Command Nexus, his heavy pulse cannon leaving trails of smoking wreckage. Reinhardt and his team stormed the refinery, the Crusader's rocket hammer delivering punishing strikes to omnic prototypes that would never see mass production. Each success a checkmate, the culmination of countless weeks of intelligence-gathering, planning, and precision execution.

The mission was over. Laos was quiet again. And yet, Reyes' arms remained crossed, his eyes hard as he watched the final feed flicker out.

Lacroix exhaled lightly, setting his cup of espresso down onto the console with a quiet clink.

"Well," he mused, his tone smooth as ever, "it seems our little effort in reconnaissance paid off handsomely."

Reyes didn't respond at first. His eyes remained fixed on the holo-screen, on the mission's success banner, on the name Overwatch glowing at the top of the final report. No mention of Blackwatch. No acknowledgment of the groundwork, the silent operations that paved the way for this 'flawless' mission. His expression betrayed nothing, but the weight in his posture spoke louder than words.

Lacroix noticed, of course. He always noticed.

"Something wrong, Gabriel?" he asked, casual as ever, but with that edge of knowing.

Reyes exhaled slowly, arms still folded. "Did it?"

Lacroix arched a brow, leaning against the nearest console. "Oh, come now," he chided, his voice touched with amusement. "Overwatch executed the mission with precision. A major omnic threat has been neutralized, and you and I both know that wouldn't have been possible without your people's work behind the scenes."

With a flick of his wrist, he gestured toward another screen. Dossiers marked BLACKWATCH ISR MISSION REPORT scrolled past, classified logs detailing covert infiltrations, intercepted communications—everything Blackwatch had done to confirm the omnium's location, to ensure Morrison and his strike teams weren't walking into a trap.

The Laos operation had begun weeks before a single Overwatch operative ever set foot in the field.

Reyes barely glanced at the screen. "Yeah. And yet, no one's talking about that."

Lacroix hummed, glancing at him sideways. "Ah. I see."

Reyes' jaw tensed slightly. "I don't care about medals, Gérard," he said, voice low and controlled. "I don't need a fucking commendation. But my people—our people—put their lives on the line, and no one even acknowledges it. We do the groundwork, gather the intelligence, put the right targets in the crosshairs... then when the dust settles, Overwatch gets the headlines."

Lacroix regarded him carefully. The tension in Reyes' voice wasn't just frustration—it was tired. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. And it wouldn't be the last.

"Recognition isn't exactly why we do this work, is it?" Lacroix asked lightly, though he already knew the answer.

Reyes scoffed, shaking his head. "That's not the point. It's about respect. You don't see Morrison's people getting brushed aside like we don't exist. They come home to parades, to medals, to speeches about 'bravery' and 'sacrifice.' Meanwhile, Blackwatch? We don't get parades. Hell, we don't even get mentioned."

Lacroix sighed, rubbing his temple with two fingers. "You're still stewing over that old grudge?"

Reyes let the silence hang for a long moment before answering. His voice was quieter this time.

"It's not about Morrison being Strike Commander instead of me."

Lacroix glanced at him but said nothing.

Reyes exhaled sharply, unfolding his arms and placing his hands on the console in front of him. "It's about how Blackwatch—and intelligence, in general—is treated like an afterthought. We make sure Overwatch knows what it's walking into. And when it's all over, no one even spares a thought for how we got there." He scoffed, shaking his head. "And the worst part? Morrison's fine with it. He knows what we do, but as long as his front-liners get the credit, it's all good."

Lacroix tapped his fingers against the edge of the console, his expression unreadable. "Jack was always more… public-friendly than you."

Reyes smirked humorlessly. "Yeah. Guess I don't have the right face for PR."

Lacroix chuckled softly but let the moment pass without further comment. Instead, he turned his attention back to the mission logs, idly scrolling through encrypted data streams.

Reyes' brow furrowed slightly as he watched him.

"This isn't just about Overwatch, is it?" Reyes said quietly.

Lacroix's gaze sharpened, but his expression didn't change.

"You know more than you're telling me."

Lacroix's smile thinned. "I may have… come across certain pieces of information during the course of my duties."

"And you didn't mention it before?"

"I wasn't sure it was relevant."

Reyes's gaze darkened. "It's relevant now."

Lacroix hesitated. For a moment, Reyes saw a rare flicker of uncertainty beneath his usual polished exterior.

"Gabriel," Lacroix said carefully, "this wasn't just some rogue cell scavenging for scraps. Someone's been funneling resources into this omnium for months—maybe longer."

Reyes's jaw tightened. "You've got proof?"

Lacroix's expression remained neutral. "Not the kind we can take to the U.N. Just patterns. Financial trails. Supply lines."

Reyes stepped closer, his gaze hard. "Then let's make it proof."

Lacroix's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're proposing an unauthorized operation."

Reyes smiled faintly. "I'm proposing results."

Lacroix shook his head, though there was no real disapproval in his gaze. He studied Reyes for a long moment, then smiled thinly. "Of course you are."

Reyes's expression sharpened. "Gérard. Are you with me?"

Lacroix's gaze sharpened. "Always."

Reyes's mouth curled into a satisfied smile.

"Good."

He turned toward the display, already pulling up intelligence feeds and encrypted dossiers. Lacroix watched him for a moment longer, the faintest ghost of a sigh escaping him before he turned his attention back to the monitors. His fingers danced over the console, refining the data filters, peeling back the layers of obfuscation that had been placed over these transactions.

The further he dug, the murkier the picture became.

Shell companies laundering funds into other shell companies. Supply chains running cold the moment they crossed international borders. Private security firms conducting 'routine asset protection' near key transport routes.

Every clue led to another dead end, another firewall keeping the real benefactor just out of reach.

Whoever was pulling the strings wasn't just rich—they were careful.

Lacroix muttered under his breath, adjusting the search parameters. "This is… intricate. Far beyond the usual black-market arms deals. This took planning. Patience."

Reyes leaned in slightly, scanning the same information. "Someone with means," he muttered. "Someone who wants an omnic resurgence but doesn't want their hands dirty when the bullets start flying."

Lacroix exhaled, steepling his fingers. "Then it seems we have work to do."

Reyes's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. We do."

Lacroix's eyes narrowed at one particular name buried deep within the transaction records. "You're going to like this even less, Gabriel."

Reyes glanced over. "Try me."

Lacroix tapped the data feed, highlighting the connection.

Svyatogor Security Solutions.

A private military contractor.

A corporate front for the Russian defense industry.

Lacroix's voice was dry. "Looks like Volkov Industries isn't dead after all."

Reyes clenched his jaw. "We've dealt with them before."

Lacroix nodded. "Indeed. And now they're quietly moving military-grade omnic hardware through Istanbul, under the radar."

A tense silence settled between them.

Reyes's eyes darkened. "We need boots on the ground."

Lacroix's expression remained carefully neutral. "Morrison isn't going to approve that."

Reyes smirked faintly. "I'm not asking Morrison."

Lacroix's gaze sharpened. "Then you're talking about a Blackwatch operation."

"You see another option?"

Lacroix sighed, steepling his fingers as he considered the data scrolling past. "If this goes south, it will be more than just a reprimand."

Reyes's expression didn't waver. "Then we make sure it doesn't go south."

Lacroix watched him for a moment, then shook his head with quiet resignation. "You've already made up your mind."

Reyes's mouth curved into a sharp smile. "I made up my mind the second I saw Volkov's name."

Lacroix sighed. "Of course you did."

The dim light of the Blackwatch operations hub cast cold reflections across the sleek, dark consoles lining the walls. Tactical data scrolled along the monitors—intelligence feeds, intercepts, encrypted files cracked open under Blackwatch's influence. Reyes stood at the center of it, arms crossed, watching the larger picture emerge.

They had pieced together the financial trail over the last two hours—shell company after shell company, each one leading toward another dead end. Whoever had orchestrated this had gone to great lengths to remain hidden. But there were patterns.

Military-grade hardware routed through known smuggling channels. Arms shipments disguised as humanitarian aid. Transport records scrubbed clean before entering national borders.

Reyes's mouth tightened. This was professional.

Lacroix's voice cut through the quiet. "Istanbul."

Reyes's gaze narrowed. "That's where the money converges."

Lacroix tapped a few keys, highlighting the central data nodes on the map. Supply routes radiated outward from Istanbul toward multiple hotspots—Kiev, Damascus, Eastern Africa, and Southeast Asia.

Reyes leaned over the console, studying the flow of resources. "They're building infrastructure."

Lacroix nodded. "Volkov Industries always specialized in combat platforms. If they've managed to restart production—"

"—then we're not looking at a rogue faction anymore," Reyes finished. "This is a strategic buildup."

He rubbed his jaw, his mind already working through the tactical implications. Rogue cells didn't operate like this. This was organized, systemic. Corporate.

Lacroix's gaze sharpened. "Gabriel."

Reyes's eyes flicked toward him.

"This goes beyond Volkov," Lacroix said. "They're the supplier. Not the source."

Reyes's mouth tightened. "Then we find out who's signing the checks."

Lacroix's tone was smooth as ever, but his expression had hardened. "That means going in."

Reyes smiled thinly. "Of course it does."

Reyes spent the next hour in the darkened briefing room, compiling the tactical profile on Volkov's known operations. The company had officially shuttered its military division years ago—on paper, at least. But the data didn't lie.

Satellite imagery showed recent activity at Volkov's manufacturing plants in eastern Russia. Transport manifests detailed repeated shipments of high-density alloys and microprocessors—materials consistent with combat platform construction.

There were no official sales records. No contracts with known defense contractors.

And yet, the hardware was showing up in Laos.

Reyes's jaw flexed. They were bypassing formal markets.

He tapped a key on the console, shifting the data toward encrypted financial transfers. The funds moved through offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, then through shell companies based in Istanbul and Hong Kong. The final recipients were buried beneath layers of false corporate fronts.

Lacroix's voice drifted in from the doorway. "They're good."

Reyes didn't turn. "But not perfect."

Lacroix stepped forward, hands tucked behind his back. "We're not going to crack this from Zurich."

Reyes's gaze sharpened. "No."

Lacroix's eyes narrowed slightly. "I assume you have a plan?"

Reyes smiled faintly. "When don't I?"

Lacroix hummed. "And Morrison?"

Reyes scoffed. "He doesn't need to know yet."

Lacroix's brow arched. "Gabriel…"

"Don't," Reyes said sharply. His gaze hardened as he turned toward the console, his expression cold. "We sit on this too long, and they'll close the loop. The shipment out of Istanbul—whatever's in it—will disappear. We're not letting that happen."

Lacroix studied him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he nodded once. "Understood."

Reyes exhaled, adjusting his gloves as he stepped away from the console. His expression darkened.

"Prep the team," Reyes ordered. "We're moving."

Lacroix's smile thinned. "I'll start warming up the transport."

Reyes's gaze lingered on the scrolling supply data. The patterns were too clean. The movements too deliberate.

Someone was laying the groundwork for something bigger.

And Reyes was going to find out who.

Hours later, Reyes stood alone on the catwalk overlooking the Blackwatch hangar. The quiet hum of machinery filtered through the steel walls as operatives prepped equipment, checked weapons, and double-checked infiltration protocols.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his body settle beneath his tactical gear.

This was familiar.

The quiet before the storm.

Lacroix's voice drifted in from the comms. "The team's ready."

Reyes's gaze sharpened. "Good."

Lacroix hesitated. "Gabriel… if we're wrong about this—"

"We're not."

Reyes's expression was cold, steady. His jaw flexed beneath the low light of the hangar.

Lacroix's tone softened slightly. "And if we are?"

Reyes's mouth curled into a humorless smile. "Then we'll improvise."

He pulled his sidearm from his holster, checked the magazine, and secured it back into place.

Lacroix's gaze followed the motion carefully. "And if Morrison finds out?"

Reyes's smile widened faintly. "He already knows."

Lacroix's brow lifted slightly. "And?"

Reyes stepped toward the lift, the sound of his boots echoing beneath the steel rafters.

"He'll figure it out," Reyes said.

The lift descended toward the lower levels, where the transport jet was already warming up on the flight deck. Reyes's gaze remained fixed forward as the steel gates opened.

This wasn't just another Blackwatch operation.

This was bigger.

Lacroix's voice followed him into the lift.

"Gabriel."

Reyes's gaze sharpened.

"Don't make this personal."

Reyes's mouth curled into a sharp smile.

"Too late."

The gates slid shut.

The Overwatch command center back in Zurich hummed with quiet urgency, its dim lighting casting shadows across the faces of officers and analysts stationed throughout the room. The rogue omnium was destroyed, its infrastructure permanently disabled, and all Overwatch personnel had successfully exfiltrated. Yet, despite the decisive victory, there was no air of celebration here—only the quiet tension that came with knowing the fight wasn't truly over.

At the center of it all, Strike Commander Jack Morrison stood stiffly before a massive holographic display, watching the replay of the mission's final moments. Footage from Hawkins' gun runs, Winston's push into the Command Nexus, and Reinhardt's demolition of the refinery played in sequence, each a critical piece of the success. It was textbook Overwatch—precision, efficiency, and control.

And yet, there was no sign of that success being celebrated outside these walls.

Morrison clenched his jaw as he flicked the display to another data feed—one filled with diplomatic briefings, political reports, and formal protests from multiple governments.

The pushback had already started.

A soft chime echoed through the room. A secure connection request from the highest level of Overwatch's oversight authority. Morrison straightened his shoulders. This conversation had been coming since the moment the last shot was fired in Laos.

The hologram flickered to life, revealing the stern and authoritative face of Deputy Secretary General Emil Lasker, the head of the United Nations' Omnic Defense and Security Committee. A veteran diplomat and former intelligence officer, Lasker had been one of Overwatch's most ardent supporters—at least in principle. But the years had made his support pragmatic rather than idealistic.

"Commander Morrison," Lasker greeted, his voice even but measured. "Congratulations on a successful operation. The mission in Laos was executed flawlessly. Your teams have proven once again why Overwatch remains a vital force."

Morrison didn't relax. He knew there was a "but" coming.

"And yet," Lasker continued, shifting the display to another set of reports, "we're already receiving formal complaints. Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia have submitted grievances about Overwatch forces operating within Laos without their explicit consent. Russia is calling for an emergency session of the Security Council, claiming we've overstepped our jurisdiction. China has outright condemned the mission as a violation of national sovereignty in Southeast Asia."

Morrison exhaled sharply through his nose. "The Reykjavík Accords give us the legal authority to act against rogue omnic threats, without waiting for bureaucratic red tape. This operation was in full compliance with our mandate."

Lasker's expression remained neutral. "The world's perception of that mandate is shifting, Jack."

Morrison's jaw tightened.

"The Reykjavík Accords were drafted during the Omnic Crisis, when nations were desperate for immediate intervention," Lasker continued. "Back then, Overwatch was seen as the last line of defense. But today? Governments want control over their own security forces. They see Overwatch operating without their approval, and they don't see an ally—they see an unstoppable entity that doesn't answer to them."

He leaned forward slightly. "Overwatch is being framed as a rogue element, Jack. A force that moves when and where it wants, regardless of host nation consent. That's a dangerous narrative, and one our enemies will exploit."

Morrison's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "The alternative was waiting for weeks of diplomatic discussions while a hostile omnium churned out war machines. We didn't have time to play politics."

"And yet," Lasker countered, "politics still exist. Whether we like it or not."

A tense silence settled between them. Morrison hated this part of the job—the endless battle for legitimacy. Overwatch had been founded to protect the world, not cater to politicians. But the world was changing, and if they didn't adapt, they would be forced into irrelevance.

Lasker softened, just slightly. "I don't disagree with you, Jack. But we need to be smarter about this. The next battle Overwatch fights might not be in a warzone—it might be in a courtroom or a diplomatic assembly. And if we don't get ahead of it, we risk losing the legal backing we have left."

Morrison exhaled slowly, forcing himself to push down his frustration. "What do you need from me?"

Lasker nodded approvingly. "We need to reinforce our diplomatic relationships. Britain, Canada, and the Scandinavian bloc still support us, but the European Union is divided, and if they waver, others will follow. I need Overwatch to prove that we're still acting in global interest, not our own."

Morrison nodded slowly. "I'll start reaching out to key allies. We'll need public support as well. If we let our enemies define the narrative, we lose control of it."

Lasker smirked faintly. "That's the Jack Morrison I know."

The display flickered again, this time shifting to classified intelligence reports. Lasker's expression darkened slightly. "And then there's the other issue."

Morrison narrowed his eyes as he took in the new data. It wasn't about the battle in Laos. It was about where the rogue omnics had gotten their materials.

"This omnium wasn't acting alone," Lasker said grimly. "They had backers. Someone was supplying them with modern components, advanced targeting systems, military-grade armor plating." He folded his hands together. "We don't know who yet. But I have no doubt Blackwatch is already on the case."

Morrison stiffened slightly at the mention of Blackwatch.

Lasker watched him carefully. "I assume Reyes has already begun looking into this."

Morrison's expression remained neutral. "Gabriel doesn't like to wait for formal authorizations."

Lasker sighed, rubbing his temple. "That's what concerns me." He met Morrison's gaze directly. "We can't afford another Blackwatch scandal."

Morrison didn't flinch. "Reyes understands the stakes. He'll get results."

Lasker studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. "See that he does. Quietly."

Morrison didn't respond. He didn't have to.

The conversation had run its course. Lasker straightened in his chair. "Keep me updated on both fronts—diplomatic outreach and the investigation. Overwatch is at a crossroads, Jack. The way we handle this will determine whether we remain the world's first line of defense… or whether we become an artifact of the past."

Morrison nodded once. "Understood, sir."

Lasker gave him a final look before disconnecting the call.

The hologram faded, leaving Morrison standing alone in the dim light of the command center.

A moment later, a female voice broke the silence.

"You didn't tell him the full truth about Reyes."

Morrison didn't turn around. He already knew what she meant.

He exhaled. "No."

Because the truth was, Reyes wasn't just investigating who supplied those rogue omnics.

He was already hunting them. And Morrison wasn't sure if he was going to like what Reyes found.

The soft sound of footsteps against polished tile made the Strike Commander finally turn.

Ana Amari stood at the edge of the command center, silhouetted against the dim glow of the tactical displays behind her. The soft blue light cast sharp shadows across her features—high cheekbones, dark eyes framed by the dark fall of her hair. She wore her Overwatch field uniform—gray and blue tactical gear fitted to precision, the sigil of the Egyptian Special Forces discreetly embossed on the shoulder.

The Egyptian sniper had always moved like a shadow—light on her feet, precise in her movements. Her expression was composed, but her gaze was sharp, the kind of practiced stillness that came from years of experience. She had been a marksman long before Overwatch had formed, and even now, in a room full of people half her age, she carried herself like someone who knew exactly where every threat was positioned.

"Didn't hear you come in," Morrison said.

The veteran soldier's mouth curved faintly. "You wouldn't."

The Overwatch commander's gaze sharpened. "How long have you been standing there?"

She stepped further into the room, the low lighting catching the thin streaks of gray at her temples. "Long enough."

Jack's jaw tightened. He crossed his arms over his chest, studying her carefully. "I thought you were in Jordan."

"I was." Amari's attention flicked toward the tactical display. Laos. Hawkins's flight patterns looping in silent precision. Her expression sharpened slightly. "Came back early."

Jack's mouth twitched faintly. "That must be a first."

Ana's brow lifted. "Don't get used to it."

The strike commander's eyes darkened slightly. "You were watching the mission feed?"

"I don't need to watch it to know how it ended."

The soldier studied her carefully. There was a weight behind her words—something layered beneath the calm.

The Egyptian soldier stepped toward the display, her gaze tracing the after-action report still scrolling in quiet precision. "You look tired, Jack."

"I'm fine," Morrison replied automatically.

The seasoned marksman's mouth curved faintly, but her eyes remained steady. "You never were a good liar."

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. "It's been… a long week."

"I noticed." Amari's eyes flicked toward the display again. Hawkins's name lingered in the mission report, his flight efficiency rating highlighted in green.

Her expression hardened. "That name."

Morrison's mouth pressed into a thin line. "What about it?"

Ana's gaze sharpened. "Hawkins."

Jack's shoulders tensed. He didn't answer.

Ana's tone cooled. "Jack."

Morrison exhaled, his eyes dropping toward the floor. His stance tightened. "I was going to tell you."

Amari's expression remained calm. Too calm. "But you didn't."

Jack's focus narrowed. "You already know, don't you?"

Ana's gaze remained steady. "Yes."

His eyes darkened. "How?"

Her expression didn't change. "Because I know you."

Morrison's mouth tightened.

Ana's eyes softened. "And because I knew his father."

Jack's shoulders stiffened.

The Egyptian sniper's expression remained steady, but there was something beneath the surface now—something weighted.

"I knew the second I saw his name on the roster," Amari said quietly. "Alex's son."

Morrison exhaled slowly, his jaw flexing. "I should have told you."

Ana's gaze sharpened. "Why didn't you?"

Jack rubbed his jaw, his expression hardening. "Because I didn't know how you'd take it."

Ana's mouth pressed into a thin line. "You thought I'd ask you to keep him away from the field?"

Jack's eyes darkened. "Wouldn't you?"

Ana's posture remained steady, but her eyes flashed with quiet intensity. "You think I can't handle this?"

"It's not about you."

Amari's brow lifted. "Then what is it about?"

Morrison's mouth tightened. "Alex left. He walked away from all of this. From Overwatch. From us."

Ana's gaze sharpened.

"He left you," Morrison said quietly.

Ana's jaw tightened. Jack saw it—that flicker of hurt beneath the surface. A shadow behind her eyes.

"And now his son's here," Morrison continued. "Carrying his name. Carrying his legacy. And maybe… maybe I didn't want you to see that."

Amari's expression darkened. "You thought I'd fall apart?"

Morrison shook his head. "No. But I thought it might make you remember."

Ana's mouth curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. "You always did think you could protect me from the past."

Jack's eyes tightened.

The Egyptian soldier's gaze softened. "You don't need to."

Morrison's attention flicked toward the display again. "He's good," he said quietly.

Ana's eyes followed his. "I imagine he would be."

"He's not Alex."

"No," Amari said quietly. "But he's close."

Morrison's focus sharpened. "He doesn't know."

Ana's eyes softened.

"You mean about his father?"

Morrison nodded.

Amari exhaled slowly. "And you think you're doing him a favor by keeping it from him?"

"It's not that simple."

Ana's eyes sharpened. "It never is."

Jack's mouth pressed into a thin line. His gaze drifted toward the display again, toward Hawkins's flight logs.

The Egyptian sniper's attention lingered on him.

"You'll tell him," Amari said quietly. "When you're ready."

Morrison's gaze lingered on her.

Ana's tone softened.

"But not yet," Amari said.

Jack hesitated.

"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."

Ana's hand brushed against his arm—a brief, fleeting touch. Steady. Grounding.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Amari's attention flicked toward the tactical display one last time.

"He deserves to know," she said quietly.

Jack's mouth tightened.

"I know," he said.

Ana studied him for a moment longer before turning toward the exit. Her steps were quiet, measured.

At the doorway, she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder.

"You're not alone in this, Jack."

Morrison's attention lingered on her.

"I know," he said.

Amari smiled faintly—small, but genuine.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway.

Morrison stood alone in the quiet. His gaze lingered on the darkened display.

And for the first time since Hawkins had joined Overwatch, Morrison wasn't sure if hiding the truth was protecting him—or betraying him.