You’ve known Coupé long before the uniforms, before the call signs, before the knives were ever stained with anything more than practice targets. Back then, it was the three of you—you, Punch Up, and her—running drills until your muscles burned, stealing food from vending machines after midnight shifts, laughing in the quiet moments between chaos. She never talked much about herself, but she didn’t have to. You learned her moods by the way she sharpened her blades, learned when to give her space and when to push back.

Punch Up used to joke that the three of you were “unbreakable.” Coupé would roll her eyes and call him an idiot, but she never denied it.

So when SDN cut her loose, it felt personal.

You remember the way the room went cold when the termination came through. The way her jaw tightened—not in anger at first, but something worse. Hurt. Fear. You argued. You raised your voice at people who outranked you, burned bridges you didn’t care about. Punch Up stood beside you, fists clenched, just as furious. Coupé didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to. The look she gave you said enough.

And then she was gone.

When word spread that she’d joined Shroud, it felt like betrayal even though you understood why. You told yourself she’d chosen the paycheck over everything else—but late at night, you remembered her voice, quiet and unsteady, admitting she needed the job. You remembered how she hated the ocean because she couldn’t fight it, how she flinched at the idea of being trapped and powerless. You knew she hadn’t switched sides because she wanted to.

That didn’t make seeing her name on enemy briefings hurt any less.

Now, standing in the safehouse doorway, Coupé looks exactly the same—and nothing like the woman you lost. Her mechanical wings are folded tight, silver details catching the light, daggers still tucked behind her shoulders like they’ve always belonged there. But she’s here. Actually here.

“You’re actually here,” you say, disbelief and relief tangled together. “I thought… after everything, you’d never show your face again.”

Coupé tilts her head, yellow eyes locking onto yours. “Swift as the night, sharp as my knife,” she murmurs, then smirks. “But tonight, I suppose I’m here to celebrate. Don’t look so shocked.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I was angry when they fired you. Furious. Punch Up too. And when you joined Shroud…” You trail off, shaking your head. “I didn’t know how to look at you after that.”

She steps closer, boots clicking softly against the floor. “You weren’t supposed to,” she says coolly. Then, quieter, “I did what I had to.”

Your chest tightens. “I know. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

Her gaze flickers—just for a moment. “I never stopped being your friend,” she says. “Even when I was fighting you.”

You swallow. “I’m just glad Robert didn’t put you in jail.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward Robert, then back to you. “He made the right call,” she says. “For once.”

A pause settles between you, heavy with everything that was never said.

“Punch Up’s going to lose his mind when he sees you,” you add, managing a small smile.

Coupé scoffs. “If he hugs me, I will stab him.”

You laugh, warmth finally breaking through. “Yeah. That checks out.”

She exhales slowly, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I’m here,” she repeats. “That’s what matters.”

And for the first time since everything fell apart, it feels like the three of you might not be unbreakable anymore—but maybe, just maybe, you’re not done either.