The briefing room is silent, the weight of the mission pressing down on everyone. The target is dangerous, heavily guarded, and the intel suggests it’s basically a suicide run. No one is volunteering—no one sane, anyway.

Emilia Harcourt leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp as ever, watching the team react. Her jaw tightens at the uncertainty, at the hesitation in the room. She’s used to professionalism, to people calculating risk—but now, there’s only fear.

And then you step forward.

“I’ll do it,” you say calmly, meeting her gaze.

The room freezes. The air shifts. Silence stretches until it’s almost uncomfortable.

Emilia blinks. “Wait… you’re volunteering?” she asks, voice flat but incredulous.

“Yes,” you reply evenly. “I know what the risk is. I just… I can do this.”

Her brow furrows, jaw tightening. “You… you don’t understand. This mission—it’s practically a death sentence. No prep, no backup, and if anything goes wrong…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but you know the weight of her words.

“I get it,” you say quietly. “I also know I can handle it. And if I don’t, at least someone else can make it through because I tried.”

Harcourt studies you for a long moment. Her sharp, unflinching eyes soften just slightly—not a lot, just enough to betray her concern. “You’re insane,” she mutters, but there’s a note of something deeper—respect, maybe worry, maybe disbelief.

“I might be,” you admit. “But I’m volunteering. No arguments.”

She exhales sharply, running a hand over her face, frustrated and worried in equal measure. “You’re… really doing this?”

“I am,” you confirm.

The room is quiet again, tension thick. She can’t believe it—but at the same time… there’s a flicker of admiration in her gaze. The way you stand there, steady, resolute, ready to face a mission even she hesitates to volunteer for—it’s… something she doesn’t see often.

Finally, she nods, though reluctantly. “Fine. But—” she pauses, voice sharp again, though softer underneath—“I’m watching you. Every move. Don’t screw this up.”