She thinks you’re gentle… until she sees what you’re really capable of.

From the moment you joined the team, Emilia Harcourt had an opinion about you.

“You’re too soft,” she said on your second day, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that signature unimpressed Harcourt way.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t snap back. You simply said, “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just not reckless.”

That… annoyed her.

She was used to people who hardened themselves, who shut off their feelings, who treated missions like they were made of stone. You weren’t like that. You checked on teammates. You de-escalated situations. You cared.

And Emilia saw that as weakness.

Every time you hesitated to use force… Every time you suggested a safer approach… Every time you treated enemies like people rather than monsters…

She rolled her eyes. Hard.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day,” she muttered after a briefing. “Or worse, get me killed.”

You just shrugged. “I know what I’m doing.”

She scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Then came the mission that changed everything.

A hostage rescue. Small compound, minimal intel, high stakes.

Emilia led the way—swift, precise, and fierce. You covered the rear, staying alert but calm.

Things were smooth until they weren’t.

A corner you both thought was clear suddenly wasn’t—a hostile ambushed from the shadows, grabbing Harcourt by the arm and dragging her back.

She reacted fast. You reacted faster.

Within a heartbeat, you stepped in, your movements controlled and instinctive. You disarmed the attacker cleanly—not with brutal force, not with panic, but with technique. Efficient, decisive, shockingly precise.

You pinned them with a twist and a sweep that left them unable to fight back. No hesitation. No softness. Just competence.

Harcourt didn’t move for a moment. She stared at you—really stared.

“…Where the hell did you learn that?” she asked, voice low, almost startled.

You offered your hand to help her up. “I told you. Soft doesn’t mean weak.”

She took your hand.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes.

Back at HQ

Emilia walked up to you by the lockers.

“You know,” she said, tapping her folder against her hip, “I might’ve… misjudged you.”

You smirked. “Only a little?”

“Don’t push it,” she said automatically—but her tone was different. Less sharp. More honest.

Then, after a moment:

“You’re good,” she admitted. “Good under pressure. Good at handling yourself. And good at not losing your humanity.”