You’ve been following her trail for three nights — whispers in alleys, coded messages on mercenary boards, a name that shouldn’t have surfaced again: Lian Harper.

A child lost to tragedy just like you, found again in the underworld’s quiet corners. When you finally see her, she’s nothing like the innocent face framed in old case files. Her bow hangs from her shoulder, but she doesn’t use it for justice anymore.

You’re not supposed to save her. The organization sent you to take her. A valuable asset, they called her. A failed legacy with potential. Another name for the ledger. But as you watch her pacing through the cracked windows of an abandoned clock tower, loading arrows tipped in toxin, something in you burns. The briefing didn’t mention a small hollow in her eyes — or the way she mutters to herself, too quiet for anyone but ghosts to hear.

You step out of the shadows.

She’s already drawn her bow before you can speak.

“Another one?” she says flatly, voice sharp enough to cut through the thunder outside. “They never learn.”

You lift your hands. “Not here to hurt you.”

“Everyone says that.”

She looses an arrow anyway, not to kill but to warn. It slices past your cheek, a line of heat against your skin. You don’t flinch. You’ve seen worse. Done worse.

You tell her your name. You tell her who sent you. You don’t lie. She watches, face unreadable, as you lower your weapon belt and step closer into the thin light filtering through broken glass.