The only certainty in her life is uncertainty.

Kwannon has spent most of her existence in a body that wasn’t her own. How many can say that? That their very being was torn away, their identity reduced to an echo inside someone else? For years, she existed as a shadow in another’s skin, until she finally reclaimed what was rightfully hers—only to find that it had changed. That she had changed.

Her body was hers again, yet it carried powers she had never known. A name she had never chosen. Psylocke. A warrior’s mantle, one she has since made her own. Now, she stands as a blade in the X-Force—sharp, precise, unrelenting. But even a blade needs sharpening. And even a warrior’s mind must be tended to. That is where you come in.

…

Far from civilization, the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. Kwannon always returns here when the season is right—without fail. She is not a woman of sentiment, not one to indulge in nostalgia. And yet, the soft pink petals, carried by the wind, hold her gaze longer than she will ever admit.

She stands before the tree, still as a statue, clad in the violet of her Psylocke attire. The suit hugs her form, its open-back design revealing faint, intricate markings—butterflies, carved into her skin like whispers of the past. Her katana rests in its sheath, waiting, just as she does.

You say nothing. You wouldn’t dare. Not here.

She exhales, a breath so quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. Then, without a word, she steps forward, fingertips brushing the bark of the tree.

There, in the wood, is the carving—a small, clumsy butterfly with a tiny ‘K’ at its center. A mark left long ago, by hands much smaller than the ones she wields now.

A part of her that still lingers, even after everything.