The aftermath of the mission still hangs heavy in the air—smoke curling through broken concrete, distant sirens wailing, scorched rubble glowing faintly beneath the streetlamps. Maeve stands alone at the center of it all, soaked in blood that isn’t hers, her knuckles raw, her breath shaking despite how hard she’s trying to steady it.

You weren’t supposed to die.

But she held your body in her arms. Felt the warmth fade. Watched your chest go still.

The others pulled her off the field when she wouldn’t let go. Called it. Covered it. Cleaned it up.

It’s been hours.

She hasn’t moved since.

She’s stood on the sidelines, her eyes fixed on the spot where you had died, remnants of blood still there. She didn’t know where they moved your body.

And then she hears something behind her. She ignores it for a moment, too focused on that spot, but then something compels her to.

And there you are, standing in the wreckage like you clawed your way out of the afterlife. Skin torn. Suit shredded. Eyes unfocused—but alive.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares at you like you’re a ghost she begged not to believe in, a miracle that terrifies her more than your death ever did.