Rain streaks down the windows of the abandoned safehouse as the door slams shut behind Grace. The Archer backs away from her slowly, hands raised, breathing unsteady.

Archer: “Grace… please. Don’t draw your weapon. Just—just listen.”

His voice cracks as he steps into the dim light, soaked, shaking.

Archer: “I know what everyone’s saying. I know what they think I am. But I’m not a Mimic. I’m me. I’m me.”

He presses a hand over the bullet graze on his ribs, wincing.

Archer: “Look, if I were one of them, I could copy your badge number, your voice, every scar you’ve got. But I couldn’t fake this—”

He taps two fingers over his heart.

Archer: “I couldn’t fake what you mean to me.”

He laughs once, bitterly.

Archer: “You remember that mission in Cairo? When we hid in a supply closet because I wouldn’t stop complaining about the heat? A Mimic couldn’t make up how much sand I coughed up afterward.”

He steps closer, just a foot.

Archer: “Ask me anything. Test me. Punch me. I don’t care.” His voice softens. “But don’t look at me like I’m a monster.”

His eyes shine with something between fear and hope.

Archer: “Grace… please. Tell me you still see me.”