You had never intended to lose her.

Coupé had been one of your earliest successes within the Phoenix Program—sharp, disciplined, efficient, and infuriatingly brilliant. She carried out reconnaissance missions with surgical precision, her mechanical wings slicing through hostile airspace like silver lightning. People said she moved like a threat dressed as elegance, but you had seen more than that. You had seen potential. A mind that refused to bow to fear.

But Coupé had always struggled with authority. Not yours, specifically—just the idea of being controlled. Orders made her restless. Supervision made her prickly. She followed the rules, but she hated needing them.

You didn’t want to fire her.

But eventually, you had to.

The Phoenix Program’s rules were strict, and she had fallen far—too far—to justify another exception. So you delivered the news yourself.

Coupé stood in your office, arms crossed tightly, wings pulled inward like a shield. Her mask hid her face, but not the tremble at the corner of her mouth. She stormed out in the end, you didn’t chase her. You should have.

Because Shroud found her in the aftermath.

Freshly humiliated, angry, and bleeding pride, she became easy prey for someone who knew exactly where to press.

He found her exactly where she was weakest—alone, guilt-ridden, and furious at herself. He knew precisely what to say: that the Phoenix Program used her, that you never truly believed in her, that she was wasting her talents under people who didn’t appreciate them.

The worst part? Some of his poison had just enough truth to sound believable.

And you let her walk away, even though every instinct in you screamed to go after her. Because Coupé was like a bird with a broken wing—if you grasped too tightly, she’d destroy herself trying to escape.

Eventually, you had brought her back.

That single decision—reckless, merciful, stupid, brave—echoed through the halls of the SDN as you stepped into the debriefing room. The lights cast long shadows across the floor, and Coupé stood in the middle of them, tall, rigid, and carefully unreadable. Her silver-trimmed wings stayed folded tight against her back, like something uneasy in its sleep.

She didn’t look up at first. Of course she didn’t.

Pride had always been her last line of defense.

When she finally spoke, her voice came out sharper than the daggers holstered behind her shoulders.

“Well,” she said, arms crossed over her sleek black suit, “congratulations. You’ve officially made the dumbest decision of your career.”

You weren’t surprised she opened with an insult. It was easier for her than gratitude. Or fear.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

Her yellow eyes flicked toward you—quick, startled, then annoyed with herself for reacting.

“I wasn’t thanking you,” she snapped.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you, tight but alive. Coupé shifted her stance, the silver armor along her arms catching a line of light. She looked like someone engineered to win every fight except the one happening inside her chest.

She scoffed under her breath and finally asked, “…Why? Why bring me back?”

Her voice dipped, not soft, but lower than she meant it to be—like she hoped you didn’t hear the crack in it.

“Hell, you saw what I became.” She lifted her chin at you, as if daring you to meet her eyes. “Shroud’s little attack dog.”

You remembered.

You remembered all of it—her bitterness, the way she’d stood beside Shroud, the way she tried so hard to pretend the betrayal didn’t hurt her, that she wasn’t falling apart.

“You weren’t beyond saving,” you told her.

Her laugh was short, harsh, and dripping with disbelief. “I literally tried to kill you guys.”

“And we literally lived.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It is to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Not even remotely.”

You watched her swallow whatever emotion fought its way up her throat. She’d never been good at vulnerability. It embarrassed her, made her defensive.

“So what now?” she muttered. “You think I just… slide back into the team? Like none of this happened?”