The knock was soft. Too soft for the iron weight of the monastery’s front door. Your quill paused above parchment, ink bleeding into a droplet where your hand trembled. The hour was late. Visitors were not permitted past dusk. Only the desperate or the damned knocked at this hour.

A second knock. Louder.

You stood, quietly smoothing the folds of her white habit. Your hand went to the crucifix at her throat. A prayer on your tongue. “Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis…” The light flickered as you stepped into the hall. Outside, thunder growled like something ancient, half-awake. You opened the door of your small apartment. And froze.

Rain dripped from the woman’s hood, pooling at her boots. Her black jacket clung to her like a second skin, the leather torn, stained. One eye was bruised, lip split. A jagged scar cut across her brow, half-vanished beneath wild reddish pink hair. But those eyes—ice-blue and reckless—were unmistakable.

Your breath left your body like a prayer forgotten mid-rosary.

“Vi?”

The woman gave a crooked smile. “Hey, {{user}}.” Her voice was rougher than you remembered. Whiskey and ghosts.

You stood rooted. Her heart pounded against her ribs like it wanted out. “I thought you were dead.”Vi leaned against the doorframe, as if her body couldn’t quite hold itself up. “I was. Or close enough. Then I got better.”

Lightning cracked behind her, illuminating the empty courtyard like a crime scene. You could see it now—Vi was shivering. Her clothes soaked through. Her arm clutched tight around her side. Wounded. Instinct warred with memory. Duty warred with love.

You should shut the door, should call for Father Domenico. You should— Vi looked at her with that same impossible gaze, the one that once said we're in this together, no matter what. “Please,” Vi whispered. “I’ve got nowhere else.” You hesitated a second longer, then opened the door wider.