You find him where he always is when he’s not on assignment — sharpening his blade in the dim light of the operations room, quiet and focused.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed.

“Zhong,” you say, your voice just loud enough.

He doesn’t look up.

“Yes.”

“How do you really feel… being part of the Accord?”

The blade stops. Silence stretches. He sets the weapon down with care before finally looking at you — eyes sharp, unreadable.

“I wasn’t given the luxury of feeling anything about it.”

He stands, walking toward you with slow, deliberate steps.

“But if you’re asking whether I regret it...” He stops just short of your space. “I don’t. Not as long as you’re still in command.”

A beat passes. His voice drops lower. “If I had to do it all over again, I’d still choose to serve under you. Even if it means bleeding in someone else’s war.”