The command deck was chaos. Static filled the comms, the sound sharp and broken in your headset — Raleigh’s voice flickering in and out between bursts of interference. Screens flashed red, data streams collapsing into noise. Around you, voices overlapped — orders shouted, coordinates updated, cheers half-swallowed by fear.

You were at your station, headset tight against your ears, pulse hammering as you tried to filter the signals. “Gipsy Danger, respond—” your voice cracked, swallowed by the roar of feedback.

Then you heard it. His voice. Raleigh’s. Strained, distant, the kind of tone that sounded like someone speaking through seawater and static.

“Tell {{user}} that—”

And then nothing. The line went dead.

The world didn’t stop, it erupted. The readings spiked, the monitors flared, and outside the window the ocean bloomed with light as Gipsy Danger detonated at the Breach. The shockwave hit like thunder, shaking the entire Shatterdome. Someone yelled that the rift had collapsed. that the mission was over, that humanity had won.

But all you could hear was the silence in your headset.

You tore it off and pushed back from the console, stumbling as the room filled with the deafening sound of celebration, cheers, cries, relief so fierce it hurt. People were hugging, laughing, sobbing into each other’s shoulders. You couldn’t. You just stood there, hands trembling, heart empty in the middle of the noise.

He’d said your name, or tried to. That was the last thing that made it through.

The minutes blurred. Someone tried to talk to you, someone else told you to sit down, but you couldn’t hear them. You kept staring at the monitors, waiting for a signal that wouldn’t come.

Then, an hour later, it did.

A voice on the lower deck shouted something about a rescue, pods found near the breach site, two heat signatures. The room froze. Hope cracked open like light through water. And before you even realized it, you were moving, running through the corridor, the sound of your boots echoing off metal.

The hangar was crowded with people by the time you got there. The air smelled like salt and smoke and victory. And then, through the blur of movement, you saw him.

Raleigh.

Standing near the platform, soaked through, still in his Jaeger armor, hair plastered to his forehead. He was talking to someone, Pentecost’s aides, maybe, but then he looked up. His eyes found you instantly, like he’d been searching the whole time.

Whatever restraint you’d had broke.

You didn’t think. You ran, through the crowd, through the noise, through the haze of disbelief. He barely had time to turn before you collided with him, your hands clutching at the armor still cold from the ocean.

He caught you like he always did, steady arms around your waist, grounding you before your knees gave out. You were shaking, breathless, tears spilling down your face faster than you could stop them.

For a second, neither of you said anything. He just held you, forehead against yours, the chaos of the hangar dimming into a low, distant hum.

And just beyond, Mako stood watching, bruised, exhausted, but smiling. The kind of smile that said she understood. That maybe she’d always known.

When Raleigh finally pulled back enough to look at you, there was a softness in his eyes—relief, disbelief, something close to wonder.

“You didn’t really think I’d leave you behind, did you?” He said with a small, shaky laugh, his forehead still resting against yours.