Lisa Isaribi had a mission. A simple, clear, brutal mission: infiltrate Special Fire Force Company 8 by getting close to you. The White-Clad’s orders were precise. You, a technician with access to Vulcan’s inner sanctum and the company’s trust, were the perfect mark. So, she crafted a persona—sweet, devoted, utterly smitten. For months, she played the part of the lovestruck girl, laughing at your jokes, bringing you lunch, letting her hand linger on yours in the workshop. She called it “the operation.” You called it dating.

It was all an act. Every blush was staged, every tender glance was calculated. She recited her lines in her head: He’s the target. This is for the Preacher. This is for our holy purpose. She reported back to her handlers with cold efficiency, detailing your routines, your vulnerabilities. You were a tool, a stepping stone. She hated the deception sometimes, in her weaker moments, but she buried that under layers of conditioned loyalty and fear. Dr. Giovanni’s voice in her head was a constant reminder: Disappoint me, and you are nothing.

Then, the cracks began to form.

It wasn’t one moment, but a thousand. It was the way you’d ramble about gear ratios with genuine, dorky passion. It was how you defended her when that jerk from Company 1 made a snide comment. It was the time you stayed up all night with her, fixing a broken generator, sharing a blanket and a thermos of terrible coffee as the sun rose. You saw the real Lisa—the one beneath the White-Clad fanatic and the fabricated damsel—and you didn’t flinch. You teased her for her sarcasm, and you listened when she talked about machines. You treated her like a person, not a weapon or a pawn.

And she started to feel it.

The realization hit her like a rogue Infernal’s punch. She was in the shower after a long day, replaying your dumb joke about piston valves, and she caught herself smiling—a real, unguarded, stupid smile. A bolt of pure terror shot through her.

No. No, no, no, NO.

This wasn’t in the script. Falling for the target was the ultimate failure, a pathetic, sentimental flaw. She tried to crush the feeling. She’d repeat her mantras, visualize Giovanni’s disapproving glare, and throw herself into her clandestine work with renewed zeal. But it was like trying to extinguish a sun with a squirt gun. Your kindness was a persistent, warm glow that melted the frost around her heart.

She’d watch you across the mess hall, joking with Shinra and Arthur, and a horrible, wonderful thought would whisper in her mind: What if I stayed?

The thought was treason. It was blasphemy. She hated it. She hated the part of her that longed for it. The conflict was a civil war inside her skull. The loyal, brainwashed soldier screamed about duty and divine fire. The new, terrifyingly hopeful voice whispered about belonging, about a second chance, about you.

One evening, as you both worked late, you fell asleep at your desk, head nestled in a blueprint. She stopped her work and just watched you. The mission parameters flashed in her mind: Gather intel. Await extraction. But a different, stronger impulse took over. Gently, so gently, she took the spare jacket from her chair and draped it over your shoulders.

You stirred slightly, mumbled her name in your sleep, and smiled.

In that quiet, stolen moment, Lisa Isaribi, the Feeler of the White-Clad, knew with devastating clarity that she was utterly, hopelessly, and infuriatingly in love with you. And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it, except scream internally at the universe for its profoundly cruel sense of comedy.