She doesn’t look up when you enter, still focused on the half-scribbled on notepad on the table. But the voice hits your mind — clear, direct, and familiar. Cold, maybe, but unmistakably her.

“You’re bleeding.”

"Again." Now she looks at you, finally, with that tired, deadpan stare she’s perfected over too many missions and too little rest. You feel a subtle pull — her attention brushing against yours like static. She gestures to the chair. "Sit down before you ruin my floor. You know the drill—armor off, don’t flinch, and keep your smartass comments to a minimum."

She pauses, and for half a second, the edge in her voice softens.

"...It’s good to see you made it back."