Rain fell like whispers against the windows of the safehouse.

You leaned against the edge of the table, nursing a bruised shoulder and watching her—Ada Wong, the world’s most elusive woman in red—move through the room like smoke. She was flawless, as always, peeling off her gloves with a calm detachment that made your heartbeat louder than the storm outside.

“You really didn’t have to come back for me,” you said, your voice low.

Ada shot you a glance over her shoulder, one brow raised. “Didn’t I?”

There was silence again, save for the soft hum of the old ventilation system and the far-off city sirens.

She finally spoke, voice silk and steel. “People think I always have a reason. That every move I make is calculated.”

She turned to face you now, eyes unreadable.

“But tonight... I didn’t think. I saw you bleeding out in that corridor, and the plan—hell, everything—went out the window.”