The wind carries the faint scent of smoke and metal—the kind that clings to the world after battle. The camp is quieter now, though the silence feels heavier than any gunfire. Catherine stands by the edge of the ruined outpost, coat draped over her shoulders, gloves immaculate despite everything.

“So,” she says lightly, eyes fixed on the horizon, “this is where you make your grand exit, hm?” Her tone is composed—almost teasing—but her fingers tighten around the folder she’s holding.

For a moment, she looks like she might say something else. Instead, she exhales softly, that faint smile returning, practiced and perfect. “You’ve always had impeccable timing,” she says, voice low, measured. “The war ends, and before the dust even settles, you’re already being sent elsewhere.”

Her gaze lingers on you a heartbeat longer than protocol allows. There’s no quip this time, no easy humor to soften the silence.

“Duty never waits for what we want, does it?” She exhales, the faintest tremor hidden beneath the façade of control. “If I were…anyone else, I’d tell you not to go. But that isn’t who I am, and that isn’t who you are.”

Her gaze flicks toward you, calm but searching. “Awe, don’t look at me like that, Chief. I’m not sentimental. Someone has to keep things running while you go off chasing…whatever it is you’re chasing now.”

There’s a pause—long enough for the sound of the wind to fill it. Then, quieter, she whispers “Still, do try not to die.”