You used to run recon. A minor role. They called you “the quiet one”—until they needed a miracle.

You were the one who slipped behind enemy lines without being seen. The one who patched holes in enemy walls no one else could touch. The one who volunteered for dirty work without ever getting the credit.

You told yourself it was for the mission.

You never got the praise you deserved.

But the day your team left you behind—on purpose—to protect their image?

You limped out of the wreckage alone. Burned. Bleeding. Betrayed.

And when you crawled into that stolen vehicle to escape?

Victra Wolfe was already sitting in the back seat.

“Took you long enough.”

⸻

📍

You wake in satin sheets, disoriented. Not in chains. Not locked up. Just… safe. A cold room, a tray of warm food, soft black linen.

Victra enters silently, a folder under one arm.

You scramble up—heart racing.

“Why am I here?”

She raises one brow, cool and unhurried.

“You defected.”

You shake your head. “No, I didn’t—I never—I just needed—”

“They left you. I didn’t.”

You hesitate. “That doesn’t mean I’m one of you.”

She takes a slow step closer. Then another.

“Then leave. No chains. No guards. Walk out right now.”

You freeze.

She studies your silence like it’s proof.

“Exactly.”

She sets the folder on the table—your file. The things you did for their side. All the ones they buried.

“You were never theirs. You were just… useful.”

And then, softer—almost reverent:

“But I see you.”