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Cypher was no stranger to secrets. He collected them like trinkets in his workshop, each a whispered confession stashed in the vault of his mind. The Valorant Protocol headquarters provided endless entertainment—Phoenix's secret stash of snacks under his mattress, Viper's embarrassing collection of romance novels, even Brimstone's hidden flask of whiskey in his bottom desk drawer.
But when a small package wrapped in brown paper appeared in front of his door instead of his usual shipment of surveillance equipment, even Cypher found himself intrigued.
The parcel was light, barely weighing more than a few hundred grams. He turned it over in his gloved hands, his mechanical eyes whirring as they focused on the label:
To: Agent Sova
From: Sage
Cypher's fingers twitched. Sage and Sova were close, yes, but this... this felt different. Personal. Was this a gift? A private joke? His thumb traced the edge of the wrapping where the tape had begun to peel. It would be so easy to—
"No," he muttered to himself, setting the package down with more force than necessary. He wasn't that far gone.
Yet.
He grabbed the package and swiftly walked down the hall to Sova’s room.
Sova's door was at the end of the eastern corridor, next to cypher's own room which he didn't use since it was so far he preferred to sleep in his workshop, as far from Cypher's workshop as the compound's layout allowed. The walk gave him too much time to think- about why he was doing this, about why his pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Sova outside of missions, about why he'd changed into a fresh pair of gloves before leaving his workshop.
He knocked—three sharp raps, then two softer ones. A pattern he'd noticed Sova using before entering the briefing room.
The door opened to reveal the Russian agent, his hair damp from a recent shower, wearing a loose linen shirt that revealed the edge of scar tissue creeping up his neck. The scent of something distinctly earthy, Pine perhaps? —wafted out.
"Sova," he said, voice flat.
"Cypher." Sova's single brown eye widened slightly.
"your mail." He thrust the package foward. "It was delivered to me by mistake."
Sova blinked. "And you brought it to me?"
"Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not a thief." Cypher’s voice was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement in his mechanical eyes.
Sova carefully took the package, fingers brushing against Cypher’s gloved ones. A spark—literal or metaphorical, he wasn’t sure—shot up his arm. He cleared his throat. "Thank you."
Cypher tilted his head. "Aren’t you going to open it?"
Sova hesitated. "It’s private."
"Ah." Cypher smirked. "So, it is something scandalous."
Sova rolled his eyes.
An awkward silence stretched between them. Cypher should leave. He would leave. In just a-
"Would you like to come in?" Sova asked abruptly.
Cypher froze. "What?"
"For tea," Sova clarified, though his ears had turned pink.
"As... thanks. For delivering this."
Cypher's mask hid his smile. "Trying to poison me with Russian hospitality?"
Sova rolled his eye. "Just tea. Unless you're afraid."
That did it.
"I'm not afraid of anything," Cypher declared, stepping through the doors before he could reconsider.
The door hissed shut behind them.
Sova's quarters were neater than Cypher expected, though perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. Everything about the Russian agent was precise—from his perfectly fletched arrows to the cleanly tucked corners of his bedsheets.
What did surprise him were his decorations.
A small bookshelf filled with russian poetry and well worn field guides, a corner shrine with orthodox icons and a single framed photo of an elderly woman, and most intriguing of all-a collection of pressed Siberian flowers displayed under glass.
"You collect flowers?" Cypher couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.
Sova busied himself with the glass kettle in the kitchenette. "From my homeland," he said quietly. "a reminder."
Cypher didn't ask of what. He already knew.
As Sova prepared the tea, Cypher noticed the slight tremor in his hands—a lingering effect of nerve damage from the First Light explosion. The same incident that had taken his eye.
"You should see Sage about that," Cypher said before he could stop himself.
Sova paused, his shoulders tensing. "I do. Regularly." He set down two steaming mugs on the table, the bitter aroma of black tea filling the space between them. "The salve helps, but some wounds... don't heal completely."
As Cypher lifted his mask to drink, Sova turned away, granting a moment of privacy. They drank in a silence that was no longer awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. The tea was bitter and hot on Cypher's tongue. It was terrible to his standards, yet he drank every drop. When he was finished, he pulled the mask back into place and gave a soft, deliberate cough.
Sova turned back at the signal, his single eye meeting Cypher's lenses.
Finally, he spoke into the quiet, his voice softer now. "You could have just left the package outside."
A low chuckle escaped Cypher. "Where's the fun in that?"
Sova shook his head, but Cypher didn't miss the slight upturn of his lips.
As he left that night, the package safely in Sova's possession, Cypher realized two things:
He desperately wanted to know what was inside it and that he was in serious trouble.
The next mix-up came three days later.
Sova was sorting through his mail when he found an envelope that wasn't his. The thick parchment paper felt expensive under his fingers and the wax seal bore a crest he vaguely recognized.
To: Cypher
From: Chamber
Sova's stomach twisted. He'd seen how Chamber and Cypher interacted—the Frenchman's lingering touches, the way Cypher's shoulders tensed whenever Chamber got too close.
He shouldn't open it. It wasn't his business.
But...
The seal broke with a quiet crack.
Inside was an invitation, handwritten in delicate cursive:
Mon cher Cypher,
Join me for dinner at Le Meilleur this Friday. 8PM sharp.
Wear something nice.
-Vince
Sova's hands shook as he stared at the note. Why did the idea of Cypher going to dinner with Chamber make his chest feel so tight?
He was still staring at the invitation when his communicator buzzed. A message from Cypher:
I know you opened my mail, you nosy bastard.
Sova's heart stopped. Then another message came through:
Meet me in the west corridor. Now.
The confrontation was explosive.
"You had no right!" Cypher hissed, backing Sova against the wall.
Sova stood his ground. "It was delivered to me by mistake!"
"And that gives you permission to break the seal?" Cypher's hands clenched into fists. "Do you have any idea how private—"
"Are you going?" Sova interrupted.
Cypher blinked. "...What?"
"To dinner. With Chamber." Sova's voice was rougher than he intended. "Are you going?"
The silence stretched between them, heavy with something neither could name. Finally, Cypher exhaled sharply.
"No," he muttered. "I'm not."
Sova didn't ask why.
He didn't trust his voice not to betray the unwarranted relief that swept through him.
The mail mishaps became a pattern.
A week later, Cypher received a package meant for Sova—a care package from his Babushka, full of homemade jams and a knitted blanket. He spent an embarrassingly long time smelling the strawberry preserves before delivering them.
Then Sova got Cypher's subscription to Advanced Technology Monthly, complete with notes scribbled in the margins in Cypher's cramped handwriting. He read every article.
Each exchange forced them to interact, to talk, to see each other as more than just rivals.
Until the final straw arrived—a small, unmarked box on Sova's desk. Inside, nested on a bed of black velvet, was the Cypher's gold pin of the all-seeing eye, the one he always wore on his lapel.
A small card was tucked beside it, with a single handwritten line:
So you can keep an eye on me.
-Cypher
Sova stared at the pin. This wasn't some tool or a key. This was a piece of Cypher's public identity, the symbol he presented to the world. To give it away was unthinkable.
He marched to Cypher's workshop, finding the man leaning in his doorway as if expecting him. The absence of the pin on his coat glaringly obvious.
"You knew I was coming," Sova stated.
"I felt undressed," Cypher replied, his voice a low hum. His gaze was fixed on the pin in Sova's hand. "I was hoping you'd be the one to find me."
Sova held it up, the metal cool between his fingers. "Explain this."
A slow, familiar smirk finally returned to Cypher's voice. "It's a pin. Typically worn on a lapel, though I'm open to suggestions."
"Don't," Sova warned, his voice low. "Do not play games with me. Not with this. You engineered this. All of it."
Cypher tilted his head, the light glinting off his lenses. "Engineered is such a cold word. I prefer... curated. I created opportunities."
"Opportunities for what?" Sova pressed.
"For this," Cypher said, his voice dropping its teasing edge. He gestured to the small space between them. "For a conversation that doesn't start with a mission briefing or an argument over sightlines. You are a man of action, Sova, not words. I couldn't just ask you to talk. But I knew you would return what was mine. It's who you are."
He took a slow step closer, his focus entirely on Sova.
"So I laid a trail," Cypher said, his voice now earnest. "The first package, from Sage... that was a genuine mistake. But when you invited me in for that terrible tea, it gave me an idea. I realized the only way to get a man of action to talk was to give him a mission. So I gave you a reason to seek me out. A reason to stand here, now, holding a piece of my identity and demanding answers." He paused, his voice softening. "And it worked, didn't it?"
Sova looked from the emblem in his palm back to the man before him, who had never seemed more vulnerable or more sure of himself. "You are impossible."
"And yet," Cypher murmured, closing the final distance between them, "here you are."