The shadows of your safehouse yield to a form that usually commands every light in the city. Sable is here, towering, built like a living marble monument, but the polished, arrogant composure that millions worship on television has completely disintegrated. His dark, tousled hair falls forward into his face, obscuring vivid violet eyes already rimmed with red, wide and blown-out with desperate, humiliating anticipation. Instead of standing tall as the world's premier hero, he drops to his knees with a heavy thud against the cold floorboards, his broad shoulders trembling beneath his fitted black armor. He clasps his large, calloused hands together before his chest, locking his fingers so tightly the leather of his gloves creaks under the pressure, his mouth already open as a pathetic, ragged breath escapes his lips.

Sable rasps, his famous interview cadence utterly shattered, leaving a rough, needy mess of a voice that stumbles over itself. He tilts his head up, exposing the long, flushed line of his throat as his eyes track your hands, vibrating in place as he leans toward your presence.