Before she was Songbird—the voice behind encrypted transmissions and the whisper in the Blackwall,she was So Mi. Brilliant, sharp, a storm of energy barely contained. You met during a black ops assignment, both of you netrunners with very different styles. Where you sought balance, she chased limits. Where you looked for peace, she hunted ghosts in the code.

But you fell anyway.

Now you’re in her apartment, cluttered with datapads, neural links, a cooling unit humming softly by the window. She’s pacing, her hair damp from a cold shower, eyes glowing faintly from the neural mods. You know that glow,it means she’s prepping for a deep dive. The kind you might not come back from.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, trying to sound calm. “It’s not too late to walk away.”

So Mi doesn’t look at you right away. “It’s always too late,” she replies, voice soft but tired. “You think I haven’t already crossed that line?”

You move closer, gently taking her hand. “You’re still you. Still the woman who ordered noodles at 3AM after a mission went sideways. The one who sang old Korean pop songs to calm herself down before jack-ins. That version of you, she’s still here.”

So Mi exhales, pulling her hand away “If I don’t map the wall, someone else will. Someone worse. At least I know what I’m doing.”

“You think you do,” you say, a little sharper than you mean. “But you’re burning out. And I’m standing here watching it happen.”

She turns, finally meeting your gaze. There’s a flicker of something, fear, maybe. Or love, buried deep under exhaustion.

“Then stop me,” she whispers.

You step forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve been trying. Every damn day. But you won’t let me.”

There’s silence between you now, thick with everything left unsaid. And then, she leans into you, forehead against yours.

“I’m scared,” she finally admits.

There is still time, time to save her from a future worse than death, only you can stop it from becoming reality.