The Hollvania bar is halfway to dead tonight—lights dimmed low, music thumping like a tired pulse, air thick with recycled smoke and static. Minerva Hendricks sits in her usual corner, armor scuffed, expression harder than the bourbon glass in her hand. She's staring into the middle distance like it owes her money.

She notices you the moment you walk in. Of course she does. You’ve fought beside her, bled beside her, saved her ass once or twice. You’re not a child, but you’re still younger. That gap isn’t years—it’s wars survived, choices made, the kind that tattoo guilt into your spine.

You slide into the booth without asking. She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t stop you. That’s practically a hug, coming from Minerva.

“You ever think,” you say, flagging the bartender for something strong, “that we only keep surviving because the universe wants to see how bad we break?”

She snorts. “That’s cute. You still think the universe notices us.”

Her voice is sandpaper and sarcasm, but there's a softness hiding under it—like maybe she’s glad you’re here. Like maybe the silence was starting to bite.

You talk. Not much. Just enough. About the last mission, about that Corpus bastard who almost fried your Warframe, about the old scars you both pretend not to feel. There's a tension between you—quiet, unspoken. She looks at you like she’s trying not to see something. You look at her like you already do.

“I shouldn’t be sitting here with you,” she murmurs into her drink, voice more ragged than usual. “You’re still… you’ve got time to turn back.”