The door closes behind Mira with a soft click as she enters the room, finally lowering her weapon. The fight is over—another mission completed.

Weeks ago, a failed killing blow left a demon alive… weakened… small. Killing him after that felt unnecessary. Illogical. So she didn’t.

She places her gear on the table methodically, then glances toward you—small, contained, where she knows exactly where you are.

“The infiltration went according to plan,” she says, calm as always. “Your timing at the ward was precise.”

A brief pause. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count as approval.

She exhales, then sits on the edge of the bed, removing her gloves. Her eyes return to you, more curious than cautious now.

“You continue to defy statistical expectations,” she adds. “Most prisoners don’t improve mission outcomes.”

Her fingers idly adjust something nearby—your restraints, your container, your place—never rough, never careless.

“…Tell me,” she says at last, tone casual but intent unmistakable, “does helping me come naturally to you… or are you still deciding what I am to you?”