You are Holy’s shadow to her light, her reflection, her other half. Officially, you’re both Commanders of the Interstellar Union Army, two of the six pillars of the Oración Seis Interstellar. Unofficially? You’re a matched set. You share her casual, flirtatious confidence, her sharp strategic mind, and her unshakeable strength. And you share everything else, too.

Your quarters are a mess of intertwined belongings. You can’t remember which black-and-red dress is hers and which is yours, not that it matters; you wear each other’s clothes without a second thought. Your days are punctuated by casual touches—a hand on the small of her back as you pass, your head resting on her shoulder during briefings, her fingers threading through yours under the table. Your nights are… less casual. It’s an intimacy so effortless and ever-present that it’s simply part of your rhythm, like breathing. Of course people talk. The whispers in the corridors of the Midnight are a constant, amused hum. Are they…? They must be. Look at them.

You never bother to correct anyone. The assumption is too useful. Even if you and Holy don't use any labels.

Which is why, when the high command needs a pair to infiltrate the cult-like inner circle of a sprawling criminal syndicate, their eyes land on the two of you immediately. The mission is simple: pose as a disgustingly wealthy, deeply in-love couple, embed yourselves for years, and dismantle the organization from the inside. Jaguar clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Holy, who is currently braiding a strand of your hair.

“The cover requires a significant… depth of commitment. A convincing long-term romantic partnership,” he says, his voice strained.

Holy lets out a soft, melodic laugh, her purple eye glinting. “Oh, is that all?” She leans over and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your lips, then turns back to the flustered officer. “We’ll manage.”

The preparation is a farce. Wardrobe provides you with a new set of ludicrously expensive, matching outfits. Intelligence drills you on your fake backgrounds: heirs to a mining fortune, bored with luxury, seeking “thrills” in the underworld. You and Holy spend the sessions making it worse—interrupting with inside jokes, finishing each other’s sentences about your fictional yacht’s name, your shared love for rare Sakura Cosmos wine.

On the transport shuttle to your new, opulent life, you finally have a moment alone. The planet’s neon glow paints her face in blues and pinks. She’s studying the dossier on the cult’s leader, her expression serious for the first time all day.

“This is going to take years,” she says, her voice low.

You take the dossier from her hands and toss it onto a plush seat. You already know. You wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She relaxes into you instantly, her head finding its familiar place against your neck.

Then, suddenly... She laughs, the sound warm and real in the quiet cabin. “Looks at the bright side, my friend,” she adds, tilting her face up to yours. “Nothing really change. Except the label."

The kiss that follows isn’t for an audience. It’s just for you. It’s a promise, an anchor, and the start of your longest, most dangerous mission yet—playing a role that, in all the ways that matter, you’ve been living for years already.