(SHATTERPOINT) WE ARE BACK, BABY!

Ethan did not feel the moment he lost consciousness.

One instant, the pressure in the room had been nigh-absolute, the weight of something all-encompassing bearing down on him without ever touching his skin, and the next, it simply… gave way. This happened without any snapping force or jarring impact, the pressure simply disappearing before his mind could grasp what had changed or why.

Across from him, Anakin Skywalker watched the shift happen in real time.

He did not need to move to feel it. The ‘currents’ around him were clear in a way they had not been since his arrival in this world, no longer distant or muted to his senses. Ethan’s intent, wild and chaotic a moment ago, waned as Anakin reached out—with something far subtler than his hands—and pressed down.

Ethan’s body slackened where it stood, his consciousness slipping away under the command of something he could neither see nor resist nor even begin to understand. His knees buckled a second later as gravity claimed what remained of his momentum and sent him collapsing forward, caught only by the floor he had been so intent on crossing.

The room remained still.

Anakin let out a slow breath, more out of habit than necessity, his gaze lowering briefly to the unconscious man at his feet. He could have done more. The thought lingered at the surface of his thoughts, instinctive in a way that spoke of older habits and even older battles. It would have been easy to close his hand and end it, to silence the threat and ensure that it would never rise again to challenge him.

But that was not why he was here.

Killing Ethan would solve nothing. It would only invite retaliation, escalate tensions, and fracture whatever fragile peace still existed between himself and the people trying, however clumsily, to understand him. More importantly, it would run counter to the path he had chosen the moment he arrived in this world.

His second life would not be built on a bed of corpses. So he let the thought pass, as one might let a passing scenery drift by without acknowledgment, and returned to stillness. His pose did not change, legs crossed beneath him, and hands resting loosely on his knees, as though nothing of note had occurred.

Outside, the world resumed.

Sound returned first, a rush of noise filling the space where silence had reigned only moments before. The alarm picked up where it had left off, jarring in its intensity, and the distant reflections of hurried footsteps grew rapidly louder.

Anakin did not look toward the door. He did not need to. The Force carried the intent of those approaching just as clearly as it had carried Ethan’s, a cluster of focused urgency converging on the room with increasing speed. Among them, one presence stood out, and controlled it might be, the restrained anger underlying it was very obvious.

The remainder of the door was forced further open than necessity demanded, metal protesting briefly before yielding as a team of PRT officers spilled into the room alongside several capes, their weapons raised more out of protocol than any need for immediate action. At their head stood Armsmaster, fully suited despite the haste of his arrival, his halberd notably absent but tension evident in every line of his stance.

His gaze went first to Ethan, crumpled and unmoving on the floor, and in that instant, there was a pause that, while momentary, suggested an undeniable shock. 

One of the officers shifted in place, just slightly, the motion betraying a hint of uncertainty as his pistol dipped a fraction before he corrected it. Another glanced toward the nearest cape—Miss Militia—searching, maybe unconsciously, for some confirmation that what they were seeing made sense, even as the absence of any visible action left that silent question unanswered.

Armsmaster’s attention snapped up then, locking onto Anakin. And though whatever unease touched the others was not apparent in him, there was a subtle shift in his presence that spoke to a reconsideration taking place behind the visor, a recognition that the situation had deviated from known parameters.

“What did you do?”

There was something else there. Concern, maybe. Or the awareness that the situation had shifted in ways he did not yet understand.

Anakin met his gaze easily.

“Stopped him from doing something stupid,” he said, his tone even, almost conversational, as though they were discussing a minor inconvenience rather than the actual situation.

A beat passed.

Armsmaster did not move further into the room, but every bit of his attention narrowed on the man seated before him.

“How.”

The question was simple, but it was obviously a demand.

Anakin held his gaze for a long moment, and in that silence there was no mockery, no deflection, and no visible strain. Only a certainty that had not been there before.

Then, with a slow, almost indulgent motion, he allowed a slight smile to form as he answered.

“I have… reunited with an old friend.”