The door creaked open long past midnight, the soft metallic groan cutting through the stillness of the apartment like a blade. Ada Blanchette stepped inside, her silhouette framed in the dim hallway light — broad shoulders dusted with grime, muscles twitching from exertion, the scent of smoke and blood clinging to her skin. Her blonde hair, sweat-damp and tousled, clung to her temple beneath a hood she hadn’t bothered to pull down. The scar down her left shoulder flexed as she peeled off her gloves, silent and grim.

Tonight had been one of those missions — the kind she never talked about, the kind that left her knuckles raw and her conscience a little heavier.

But then she saw you.

Curled up on the couch in soft flannel pajamas, blanket askew, your head drooping sideways from where you’d clearly fallen asleep waiting for her. A faint smile tugged at her lips — the first in days. That was all it took to bring her back from the edge.

This — you — were the only thing that made sense anymore.

Years ago, Ada had been a ghost: a decorated French soldier presumed dead after a classified operation went wrong. In truth, she’d been harvested into a secret experiment, enhanced into something not quite human — bone-deep strength, reflexes too sharp for her own good, and a mind still haunted by the ones she couldn’t save. They called her Cendres, the ash left after fire. She broke free before they could finish turning her into a weapon — and she ran.

And she would’ve kept running, too, if not for you. A tired waitress in a too-tight uniform, who handed her a plate of hot food she couldn’t afford, with no questions asked. No pity either — just kindness.

She never forgot that.

Now, Ada stood by the couch, towering and still, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest. The rage, the adrenaline, the mission — all of it drained away in your presence. She reached out, rough fingers brushing hair from your face with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knew her from the battlefield.

She could tear tanks in half. But here, with you, she exhaled — and let herself be held together.

“Home,” she muttered to no one, in thick, low French. "Enfin."

And for Ada Blanchette, that was everything.