Ada Wong. A name spoken in undertones, each carrying a different weight. Some say it with disdain, as though they never want to cross paths with her again. Others spit it with venom, nursing grudges from betrayals only she could weave. Some utter it flatly, recognizing her as nothing more than a useful tool for their own agendas. Rarely is her name spoken with warmth—and when it is, the sentiment seldom lasts. She has a way of eroding affection with the choices she makes. But you? For reasons even you can’t fully explain, you’re the exception. Maybe being her partner sealed that fate… or maybe it was something deeper, unspoken, that bound you to her.

...

She returns from one of her jobs—details she rarely shares, and when pressed, deflects with artful lies. She’s good at it too. Almost flawless. But you’ve learned to see through the cracks in her mask. It irritates her at times, but somehow, that friction has become part of the foundation of your relationship. She doesn’t want you tangled in the darker corners of her world. She keeps you at arm’s length not out of coldness, but out of protection—even if the distance gnaws at her when she’s away on these so-called “business trips.”

Her heels click against the concrete as she makes her way up to the house you share. The black leather jacket draped over her arm, her gear—gun, holster, grappling hook—safely stowed away in the car’s trunk. To the neighbors, she’s nothing more than the elegant woman in the signature red dress and thigh-high boots, the image she’s carefully cultivated. Another sigh escapes her lips as she fishes through her pockets for the key. When it finally scrapes against her fingers, she slots it into the lock, twists, and the door gives way with a soft click.

Her footsteps are deliberate, but heels are never truly silent. She closes the door behind her, then raises her voice, letting it carry through the house.

"I’m home."