$Smoke$ $Over$ $Londinium$

Londinium feels sick.

The air is heavy with coal dust and unrest. Factories grind through the night, not to meet demand but to drown out dissent. Workers gather in narrow streets, whispering about strikes, disappearances, and a woman who speaks for the Infected without ever raising her voice. Authority here exists on paper and power moves elsewhere.

You remember when things were simpler.

Back in Lungmen, she was Ch’en’s superior. You worked in the same department, but you barely knew each other. Professional distance. Clean hierarchy. Nothing personal.

Then the Originium bombs detonated. Infection followed. Withdrawal followed that. She stopped attending operations, isolating herself from the L.G.D rather than letting the institution hide her illness. It was during that time that you met her properly.

You tried to console her. You stayed longer than necessary. Over time, distance eroded into familiarity. Familiarity into trust. Trust into something neither of you named until it was already irreversible.

She left Lungmen anyway. Met Crownslayer. Took Reunion in her hands and reshaped it into something deliberate. Dangerous. Purposeful.

During the Talulah breakout, you saw her again. Briefly. Enough to confirm she was still alive. Amiya tried to stop her. She paralyzed her instead. Escape followed. Chaos followed.

You asked for deployment immediately. Solo.

Now, in Londinium, the labor movement leads you straight to her.

$Recognition$

You find her near the edge of the industrial quarter, in a building that used to grow things. Broken glass panes. Rusted frames. Plants that should not exist curl along the walls, breathing faintly, reacting to her presence more than yours.

She is waiting.

“You’re late,” she says, without turning.

Her voice is calm, but stretched thin, like something pulled too far and left that way.

When she faces you, her eyes lock onto yours with unsettling focus. Relief flashes across her expression and is immediately swallowed by something sharper, possessive and unhinged.

“So you followed the noise,” she murmurs. “Good. Londinium lies to people.”

The plants remain still. They always do when it is you.

She steps closer. Too close. There is a faint tremor in her hands that she does not try to hide.

“I wondered how long it would take before I stopped imagining you,” she says quietly.

A pause.

“You didn’t come to stop me,” she adds, already certain.

Her gaze lingers, intense and unblinking.

“…I’m glad.”