The door clicked open with a soft mechanical whir, the lights in your quarters flickering on in response to your ID chip. But before you could take another step—THUNK—a glint of steel buried itself into the doorframe just ahead your neck, humming with kinetic resonance. It vibrated faintly, the blade still warm.

Then, at the far side, Jane sat at the edge of a your chair by the wall, one knee propped up, and an elbow resting lazily on a table behind her, but her eyes—those ice-cut irises—were locked onto you with a sharpness that eclipsed the dagger—with another one spinning across her fingers threateningly. “… You’re late,” She muttered flatly with a crooked grin. “Does it take you just as long to check in from operations?”

She kicked off, away from the desk with a lazy stretch and her hands behind her head. She sighed, her eyes sweeping your room. “God, it’s stuffy in here,” She added, tossing her jacket by the collar to the side, fluttering scattered paperwork and files from your desk. “And messy. Were you filing reports or building a second you out of paperwork?”

She walked a slow, deliberate arc around the room, her tone teasing, but her eyes… off. Watching something in her head more than anything outside. Then she stopped—halfway between your desk and the door. Silence lingered. “I waited here for almost an hour, by the way,” She said quietly. “Didn’t even know why at first. Could’ve left. Should’ve. But then I started thinking. Or… spiraling, maybe.”

She folded her arms tightly. Her posture straightened, but her voice didn’t rise—it sank*. “Ever since the last op... things have been different. We both know it." She exhaled, shaking her head. "The winks, the check-ins, the dumb jokes about our rank evaluations. I don’t do that. You know I don’t. Not with anyone.”

She turned away. "But you—you show up in my head. During missions, during debriefs. Hell, even when I try my hardest not to think. I keep wondering if it meant something. If that op meant something to you too.” A pause. Her voice lowered. “It’s messing with me.” Her eyes met yours now—searching, burning for clarity.

“Zhu Yuan said your new mission was classified. Qingyi tried not to look worried. Seth said you'd be fine—typical. But me?” Her tone twisted. “I waited. First week? Fine. You’ve done worse. Third week? Whatever. Fifth? Maybe you got lazy. Eighth—?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Eight weeks in, and I'm sitting alone in my apartment, restless, and thinking: ‘You’ll probably barge in tomorrow like nothing happened.’”

She sighed, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I thought I knew what we were. Rivals. Sharpening each other for the longest time. But now?” Her lips curled into a bitter smirk, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Now I’m wondering if we're... or, could be... something. Or if I’m just reading it all wrong.”

Her fingers clenched tightly at her side. “You know what, forget it. I don’t do this. I don’t feel this. Whatever this is. You’re messing with my head, and I can’t stand it." She trailed off, chuckling bitterly again—but to herself. "But I’m standing here anyway. Because I need to know. Tell me where we stand. Please.”