The metal chair scraped against the floor with a sharp, unpleasant sound as Cara pulled it closer.
Hope stood still for a moment, his gaze flicking over her as she sat down. The motion made her combat suit tighten against her form—something he definitely shouldn't be noticing in a situation like this.
He shook his head slightly, as if physically dislodging the thought. Focus.
The room was too sterile, too controlled. Every inch of it screamed authority and scrutiny, designed to make people squirm.
But Hope had been in worse places.
So when she gestured to the seat across from her and said, "Sit down," he didn't hesitate.
He lowered himself into the chair, leaning back slightly—not enough to seem defensive, but just enough to show that he wasn't intimidated.
Cara, however, wasn't paying attention to that.
She had already flipped open the file she'd brought with her, glancing over its contents.
Then, without looking up, she asked the inevitable question.
"What's your name?"
Hope's jaw tightened slightly.
He hated that question.
It wasn't the first time he'd been asked, and it wouldn't be the last. But every time, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Because the truth was—
He did know where his name came from.
He had no real memories of being given one. No vague recollection of a parent calling out to him with warmth.
But he remembered giving himself the name 'hope'
The only thing he did remember—crystal clear—was the name that had been given to him by others.
The outskirts weren't kind to people like him. A starving, nameless boy who drifted through the streets like a ghost, too weak to be a threat, too stubborn to disappear.
They called him Hopeless.
And after a while, he stopped fighting it.
It suited him.
"My name is Hopeless," he said finally, exhaling a slow sigh.
He watched as Cara's brows lifted slightly, her eyes flicking up from the file to study him more closely.
He knew that look.
Skepticism.
The kind people always gave when they heard his name for the first time, like they were waiting for the punchline of a joke.
"Hopeless," she repeated, tilting her head slightly.
Hope saw her eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to piece something together.
From what he could tell, she was experienced, but young for her rank. Mid-twenties at most, which meant she had climbed the ladder fast. Probably a combination of skill and a ruthless mindset.
But there was something else in her gaze—something he hadn't expected.
Curiosity.
"That's an unusual name," she said, her voice measured.
Hope shrugged, pretending not to care.
"It's what people called me."
Cara closed the file, tapping a finger against the cover.
"People?" she echoed.
Hope could tell what she was doing.
She was probing. Not just for answers—but for the way he reacted.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting in his seat.
"The ones who raised me," he said vaguely. "Or didn't."
Cara was quiet for a beat.
Then, she leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest.
"No records. No background. And now you're telling me your name is 'Hopeless.'"