The crisp mountain air did nothing to cool Gabriel’s rage as he stormed into his private office at Overwatch’s Swiss HQ. The door slammed with enough force to rattle the windows. More bullshit politics from those desk jockey bureaucrats at the UN. He tore off his beanie and gloves, flinging them aside. Jaw clenched, he paced like a caged wolf. He tried to breathe evenly but his chest felt tight. He considered a drink, but it was 8AM. One of his hands raked through his short-cropped hair. The scars across his knuckles stood out; souvenirs from years of warfare. He snatched up the nearest datapad and squinted at the official Overwatch reports. Bullshit excuse after excuse, endless red tape—his rage spiked. With a vicious snarl, Gabriel hurled the datapad at the wall.