The darkness was thick with smoke and rain as Adrian moved through the ruined industrial compound, rifle tight against his shoulder. His team was already down—four of the best operators he’d ever worked with, defeated in less than ninety seconds. Not by artillery, not by an ambush team. By one person.

He could still hear their groans over comms. Broken bones. Concussed. Disarmed with surgical precision. Whoever the attacker was, they hadn’t killed a single one of them. That almost made it worse. Someone that skilled choosing restraint meant they knew exactly what they were doing.

Adrian didn’t bother hiding his footsteps. The opponent didn’t need surprise to win. Instead, he walked straight into the collapsed warehouse floor, gun barrel tracking movement. The rain drummed against battered metal plates above, the only sound aside from his own heartbeat.

Then he saw the figure again.

Light tactical armor. A sword strapped to the back—an unusual choice in modern battle but clearly deadly in their hands. A mask and scarf hid the face, but the eyes visible beneath the edge of the hood were sharp, calculating, and frighteningly calm. The stance was casual, loose, almost inviting. They weren’t afraid of him.

Fine. Neither was he.

Adrian dropped his rifle, switching to a combat knife, choosing close quarters deliberately. If this was the one who took out his entire squad, he wanted to measure their skill directly.

He rushed.

The enemy didn’t move until the last possible moment—then they slid inside his guard, wrist snapping, twisting his knife hand harmlessly away. He spun, countered, and landed a hit on the shoulder. The attacker froze for half a heartbeat, surprised. He pressed forward, knife flashing, feet silent, eyes locked.

For a moment, they were equals.

Then she moved faster—far faster. She knocked him down and pinned him with a knee across his chest, blade at his throat, and suddenly the air went still. Rain pattered across armor and concrete. Adrian stared up at his defeat.

But the soldier above him hesitated.

The scarf slipped.

The hood fell.

And Adrian’s world stopped.

Long black hair streaked with smoky grey. Hard, beautiful eyes—ones he had memorized years ago. A tattoo on her cheek he’d never seen before, a cigarette burning between her lips as if she’d come from a warzone and a bar at the same time.

Elara.

She stared down at him, the cigarette tipping, slowly falling from her mouth as her pupils widened in dawning recognition. Her hand trembled—just barely—and the knife hovering at his throat lowered a few centimeters.

“…Adrian?”

His breath left him in a single, stunned exhale.

“Elara…? You’re alive?”

Neither moved.

Neither breathed.

For a moment the entire world was nothing but rain and shock and the ghost of a friendship that never resolved. She swallowed hard, jaw tense, eyes shining with something too complicated to name.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. Not a threat. A warning.

He looked up at the woman who had vanished from his life without a goodbye, now standing above him as an enemy. Or something worse.

He slid the knife away from his hand and slowly raised both palms in surrender.

“I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

Her control faltered—just a fraction.

Then voices sounded over her comms.

Her body tensed again. Professional. Hardened. Mission-focused. A soldier trained to abandon hesitation.

“You have to forget you saw me,” she forced out.

He shook his head.

“Not again.”