It’s barely dawn when the mission starts—one of those cold, grey mornings where the world feels suspended. Emilia Harcourt moves through the abandoned industrial district like she owns the place: confident, sharp, calculating every corner before she turns it.

You’re nowhere near her physically.

You’re three floors up in a half-collapsed building, rifle braced against the broken window frame, watching her through the scope.

You’re her overwatch.

Her last line of defense.

Her life sits in the steadiness of your hands.

She didn’t like the arrangement at first. Emilia hated relying on anyone—especially someone she’d barely worked with. But orders were orders, and you’d been assigned to cover her infiltration.

“Don’t miss,” she had said before heading in, her expression flat, unreadable. You’d answered, “I won’t.”

She pretended not to care. But you could hear the unspoken part of her sentence: You better not.

Now, as she slips deeper into hostile territory, you track her with precision—every step, every doorway, every blind angle she can’t see.

“Status?” she murmurs through the comm. Her voice is low so it doesn’t echo.

“Clear for now,” you whisper. “Two targets in the building ahead. Second floor window, right side.”

She pauses, trusting the information without question. “Copy.”

And then—just as she starts forward—movement.

Someone you didn’t see before. A shadow slipping behind a rusted pillar, raising a weapon you can’t let get close.

“Harcourt,” you say, voice steady though your pulse jumps. “Left. Behind the pillar.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She shifts her stance, trusting the call instantly.

But she can’t see him clearly.

You can.

“I’ve got the shot,” you say.

There’s a beat of silence on the comm. Her breath catches—she hates giving control to anyone else.

Then, softly: “…Take it.”

You exhale slowly, steadying your aim. The world narrows to your scope, your heartbeat, your target.

One pull of the trigger.

A clean, quiet takedown. No struggle, no danger spilling over onto her.

Harcourt glances toward the pillar and sees what almost happened. She doesn’t speak for a moment. Not because she doubts you—but because she realizes how close she just came to being blindsided.

You watch her shoulders lower just slightly, the tension easing.

She taps her comm. “Nice shot.”

But the tone—different. Not annoyed. Not forced.

Grateful.

And something close to impressed.

“You’re saving my life out here,” she adds, moving forward with smoother confidence. “Keep talking to me. I’ll trust your eyes.”

You feel the weight of her trust settle in your chest—warm, quiet, meaningful.

From that point on, she moves like she’s not alone. Because she isn’t.

You follow her step for step, warning her of angles she can’t see, guiding her like a second heartbeat in her ear.

And for the first time, Emilia Harcourt chooses to rely on someone—not because she’s forced to, but because you’ve earned it.

When the mission ends and she finally meets you back at the rendezvous point, she gives you a look you’ve never seen before. Something soft edged with new respect.

“You’re better than good,” she says. “You’re someone I can trust with my life.”