She was never meant to survive the first culling, let alone join Expedition 33. Too young. Too volatile. Too alive. But where others bent to the Paintress’ prophecy, she challenged it. Mocked it. Defied it. Again and again.

That defiance put her directly in Verso’s path.

The brooding executioner of the expedition. Cold, poetic, exacting. A man more shadow than flesh, wielding his purpose like a blade — clean and final. Verso sees Feya as a threat to the sacred order, to discipline, to fate itself. Her refusal to yield grates at him — and secretly, unsettles him. Because she reminds him of something he tried to forget: choice.

Their rivalry is sharp.

In strategy councils, they argue. On the field, they clash. And yet, time and again, they are paired — sent out on missions where survival demands trust. Where silence fills with heat, and glares linger just a little too long.

She calls him a zealot. He calls her reckless. They both dream of each other when they shouldn’t.

Until one night — bloodied, breathless, trapped beneath a storm of falling pigment and fractured reality — they find themselves back to back, blades drawn, waiting to die. The only sound is her voice, hoarse and shaking.