AGENT SOLARIS // VALORANT x Male Reader

Chapter 2 // Initiated (⭐️)

I
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Desperation.

You've seen it so often that it no longer startles you. It lives in the hollowed eyes of bystanders, in the frantic trembling of a mother clutching her child, in the silence of a man who's lost everything and has no more tears left to shed.

It's everywhere in places like this — burned-out neighborhoods and back-alley battlefields where law is a joke and mercy is currency. Desperation sticks to the skin like soot.

But sometimes, sometimes, you get to peel it away.

Emerging from the burning husk of the building, your arms cradle an elderly woman, her skin pale and sagging under the weight of years and heat. Her coughs are wet and rattling in your ears, her breath shallow and wheezing through scorched lungs. Behind you, the building howls its fury, flames clawing at the sky in a final, defiant cry.

She doesn't thank you.
Not with words.
She doesn't have to.

Her family does, though — sprinting forward with frantic shouts and trembling hands, tears streaming down soot-smeared faces. To them, you're not a hero. You're something else. Something out of place in this world — part myth, part nightmare. But in this moment, you're a guardian. That's all that matters.

You think of the Radiants you freed just days before. How they collapsed into the arms of their loved ones like lost children come home. How their sobs carried more weight than any medal. You don't do this for praise. Never did. The thanks is just a reminder — fleeting, but necessary — that the fight isn't always in vain.

Sirens cut through the heat, wailing like steel angels.

The firefighters come sprinting in, boots pounding against cracked pavement, dragging hoses and barking orders. You can hear the desperation in them too, but it's a different kind — practical, trained. They're here to clean up what they can. You're just here to end it.

"Let's move! Same formation!" shouts the captain, pointing toward the inferno.

You smile at him, not to mock him, but because it warmed your heart to see that there were people who still tried to do good.

Stepping back toward the blaze. Your hand drops to your side, fingers curling around the grip of your revolver. The cannon's weight is familiar —warm, heavy, yours. With your other hand, you reach toward the fire.

It responds.

The flames twist and spiral like serpents, drawn into your palm by invisible threads. Gasps erupt from the crowd. Even the firemen stop. The inferno shrinks before their eyes, pulled inward like a tide reversing.

You don't stop there.

The energy coalesces into a burning orb above your hand, pulsating with heat and power. When the last of the fire is drawn out of the house, you clench your fist. The orb shatters into spirals of golden flame, which wrap around your body before being siphoned into your revolver.

The metal glows. A soft, beautiful, radiant gold.

You raise the cannon. No urgency, no showmanship — just raw purpose. The barrel points skyward.

And then —

You pull the trigger.

A thunderous boom.

Flames explode into the night sky in a brilliant arc, spinning upward like a comet until they erupt overhead in a fiery burst of color and light.

It's like a firework. It's a signal. A statement.