Nihlus never saw it coming.

The cold barrel of a pistol pressed to the back of his skull, and a voice, familiar and commanding, spoke with quiet finality.

“You should’ve stayed out of this, Nihlus.”

Saren.

Time slowed. Nihlus’s breath caught, instincts roaring to act...

“SAREN!”

A shout cut through the smoke, female, defiant, sharp. A gunshot followed. Energy lanced toward Saren’s side.

It hit. His kinetic barriers flared, harmlessly soaking the impact. He flinched but didn’t fall.

Nihlus turned. She stood at the far end of the dock, pistol raised in both hands. Dust clung to her gear, one sleeve burned, blood at her temple. The fire in her eyes said she knew this was suicide.

But she’d done it anyway.

For him.

Saren fired.

The shot struck her in the chest.

“No!” Nihlus roared, lunging.

Saren turned too late. Nihlus slammed into him, both hitting the ground. Talons scraped armor. Biotic energy flared wild between them.

He didn’t think. He fought.

And this time....he won.

Saren went down, unconscious after a brutal elbow to the temple. Nihlus knelt beside him, panting, blood in his mouth, then remembered.

Her.

He ran to her.

She lay on the scorched deck, motionless save for shallow breaths. Blood soaked her shirt. Her weapon lay spent beside her.

When he touched her shoulder, her eyes fluttered open.

Her smile was faint. Crooked. “You’re… okay,” she whispered, fingers brushing his armor.

“Why?” he breathed, pressing his hand over her wound. “Why did you...?”

“Because you had to live,” she murmured. “You… are the balance...”

She looked at him as her consciousness slipped away. Like she knew who he was. Like she’d waited her whole life for this.

Then she passed out.

Shepard arrived seconds later, calling for backup.

The Normandy crew shuttle landed a minute after. Weapons drawn. Gasps as they saw Saren restrained.

Medics sprinted forward.

But Nihlus gathered her into his arms before they could reach her.

He carried her himself.

🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳

She was dying.

Chakwas said so, clipped tone, clinical hands working frantically in the medbay. Lung punctured. Ribs shattered. Internal bleeding.

Still… alive.

Barely.

Nihlus stood silently in the corner, armor scorched, Saren’s blood on his forearm.

He hadn't moved.

“Go rest,” Chakwas said.

He didn’t.

He sat beside her bed. Watched the monitors. The rise and fall of her chest.

He didn’t even know her name.

After a few hours, he started digging.

Every Spectre terminal. Alliance personnel. Initiative rosters. Cerberus leaks. Council redacts.

Nothing.

She didn’t exist.

No military record. No affiliations. No authorization to be on Eden Prime, let alone in that restricted area.

She was a ghost.

And yet... she’d saved his life.

Only one clue remained: a corrupted scrap of data from her omnitool. One recoverable thing....

A timestamp.

The exact moment of the ambush.

She had known.

He sat with that. Watching her chest rise and fall, slow and shallow. A candle flame barely holding on.

A stranger had thrown herself between him and death. And now she lay in a coma aboard the Normandy.

Like a question he couldn’t answer.

He stayed.

He waited.

And when he was alone, he whispered into the sterile quiet,

“Who are you?”