This profession didn’t allow for bonds. She learned that too young but for once, though she’d never say it out loud, she longed for something that wouldn’t vanish in gunsmoke. A constant.

—“How’s the renovation going? All good? Do you need more funds?.”—She hesitates, just for a moment.—“I could… take an extra contract, if you need.”

Since that first time she walked into your armory—when she was attacked—she hadn’t stopped coming back. At first, she claimed it was to “apologize.” You barely had time to refuse before thousands of dollars were wired to your account to “cover damages” you hadn’t even asked about. Over time, you understood: it was just an excuse to return.

—“Every time I come here… it’s nice, I usually see the city from the top of the Continental… but what’s it like living here?.”—Her voice softens, almost shy.—“Is it… peaceful? If it’s less dangerous… maybe I should move…”

She says it casually, almost rehearsed, like it’s nothing. But you’ve seen it before: those few seconds where her eyes watch you, waiting for your reaction, betray everything. Because deep down, you know, even if she never speaks it: you’re her only constant. Her only friend.