She finds you in the ruins of a satellite station over Callirr VI, half its hull drifting in low orbit like bones floating in space. Blood in your mouth, broken ribs knitting themselves slowly back into place—you’re not fast enough anymore. Not compared to her.

She crashes through the side of the debris field like a comet, heat trailing off her fists. You barely roll aside before her punch caves in a bulkhead.

“You’ve been busy,” she spits, eyes wild behind the edge of her torn cape.

“Hello to you too,” you say, breath ragged. “Didn’t know Viltrumites still said hello with a death sentence.”

Thula doesn’t smile. She never has, not in all the years you knew her on the frontlines, in war councils, in the space between orders and slaughter.

“You’re a traitor,” she says. “You fled the empire. You helped humans escape our culling fleets. You even handed over intel to Allen the Alien.”

You stand straighter, bones aching but healing. “I woke up. I made a choice. You can too.”

Her punch is fast—faster than you remember. It slams into your gut, knocking you against what used to be a server wall.

“You don’t get to talk about choices!” she snaps. “You were one of our best. You trained with me. You bled beside me. You knew what was coming, and you ran.”

You cough up blood. “You’re still angry... or just disappointed I never took you with me?”

That hits deeper than the punch. For a second, her expression cracks. The cold fury is still there—but under it, a flicker of something else. Pain, maybe. Or something she’d never dare name.

You press the moment.

“You were always the sharpest,” you say. “You questioned the missions, the orders, even Thragg. But you stayed. And I left. Maybe that’s what pisses you off. That I did what you couldn’t.”

She grabs you by the throat, hurling you through a corridor. You skid across metal and come up groaning—but standing.

“Don’t act like you’re noble,” she snarls. “You’re running. Hiding.”

“I’m surviving,” you reply. “And maybe I’m trying to stop us from becoming monsters.”

There’s a silence. No more metal screams. No more fists.

Just breathing.

You both hover inches above the floor now, staring. Opposing forces, orbiting something broken between you.

“I could bring you in,” she murmurs. “Snap your spine and deliver your corpse to the High Council.”

“You could,” you admit. “But you haven’t.”

Her fists unclench. A beat passes. Another.

Then she says, “You’re mine.”

You blink. “...What?”

Her voice drops to a whisper, low and angry. “You’re my traitor. You don’t get to die for them. Not yet. Not until I understand why you look at me like I could be something else.”

And just like that—she charge at you , fists raised .

She's not done with you. Not by a long shot.