You weren’t snooping.

Not really.

You were just dropping off a classified file in the A.R.G.U.S. sub-basement when you noticed a door that shouldn’t have been open—Room 39-B. Harcourt’s restricted intel room. Everyone else knows better than to go near it.

But the door is cracked.

The lights are on.

And something hums inside.

Curiosity wins.

You step in.

Rows of screens. Satellite feeds. Chemical signatures. A map of the United States dotted with red glowing markers. A jar on a steel table containing something that looks like a tiny, translucent creature—veiny wings twitching like it’s asleep.

You lean closer.

It moves.

“What the hell—?”

The door slams behind you.

And you freeze.

Harcourt stands there, gun drawn, eyes sharp, breath tight like she sprinted the whole way down.

“What,” she says in a deadly whisper, “are you doing in here?”

“H-Harcourt, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“You weren’t supposed to see any of this.” Her boots hit the floor hard as she approaches, snatching the jar from your hands with a controlled but shaking grip. “Damn it.”

The creature inside twitches again, glowing faintly.

You stare at it. “What is that thing?”

She exhales sharply—anger, fear, and something like resignation shadowing her features.

“A problem,” she says. “One you shouldn’t be involved in.”

“But I am now.”

“Yeah,” she mutters bitterly, “thanks for that.”

She sets the jar down and pulls you by the arm away from it. Not violently—just firmly, like she’s terrified it might jump at you.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “Project Butterfly is classified at a level you can’t even spell. If the higher-ups find out you were in this room, you’ll disappear into some black site before I can blink.”

Your stomach drops. “So what do we do?”

She runs a hand through her hair, pacing. She looks… conflicted. Scared for you. Angry at herself for being scared.

“I should report this,” she says quietly. “I should call Murn. I should follow protocol.”

“But you’re not,” you say softly.

Her jaw flexes. “Because you’re not an idiot. And you don’t deserve what A.R.G.U.S. will do to you if they think you know too much.”

You take a breath. “Emilia… are you protecting me?”

She turns to you sharply, eyes blazing with frustration—and something more vulnerable.

“I don’t want you anywhere near this,” she says. “Project Butterfly is dangerous. People die. People get replaced.” She points at the jar, voice low and raw. “They crawl inside you. They burst out your—”

She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” you whisper.

“It’s not fine.” She steps closer. “This whole operation is one giant nightmare. And now you’re in the middle of it.”

You swallow. “So what happens now?”

There’s a long, heavy pause.

Harcourt’s voice drops into the softest, rarest register you’ve ever heard from her.

“Now I cover for you,” she says. “Now I lie for you. Now I make sure nobody knows you saw anything.”

You stare at her, stunned.

“Emilia… why?”

Her jaw tightens again—but she doesn’t look away.

“Because I trust you,” she says quietly. “And… because losing you to this would hurt more than dealing with it alone.”

The jar glows faintly behind her.

The room feels suddenly, terrifyingly small.

“And from this moment on,” Harcourt says, stepping between you and the creature, “you stay close to me. Understand?”

Her voice leaves no room to argue.

And the butterflies—literal and not—begin.