The heist had gone smoother than expected—almost too smooth.

Vale’s Industrial District hadn’t stood a chance, not with Roman charming his way past security and you and Neo darting through shadows like ghosts. The vault wasn’t even halfway empty when the first explosion hit. Roman had grinned the entire time, throwing Dust cartridges like candy.

Neo had been poetry in motion.

Wielding her parasol like a dancer’s blade, she tore through guards with illusion and precision. Her skintight leather-latex pants caught the flicker of red Dust in the air, and the white jacket she wore—wide-tailed, with its pink interior flashing like a wink—billowed dramatically every time she twisted around another blow. Black and white boots slammed into a guard’s gut. Her corset didn’t look like it should hold up in combat, but you’d long since learned: never underestimate a pretty lie.

And Neo was the prettiest one in the room.

When the mission ended and the three of you slipped away with bags full of stolen Dust, Roman lit a cigar in the back alley and clapped you both on the shoulder.

“Well, that was sexy,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, you two are terrifying, but gods, it’s inspiring.”

Neo offered him a slow, exaggerated clap in return. You rolled your eyes, still catching your breath. She caught your glance—and winked.

Later, the hideout had gone quiet. Roman had long since retired to his quarters—still muttering about lighting a cigar “just once without someone whining”—and the low buzz of the city outside was muffled by old windows and thicker walls.

You were sitting on the edge of your cot, boots unlaced, half-watching the glow from a stolen Dust crystal flickering on the nightstand. The kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable… just expectant.

Then the door creaked open.

Neo stepped inside without a sound. She didn’t knock—never did—but something about the way she moved felt slower tonight. Less about show, more about presence.

She crossed the room in a few short steps and held something out.

It was one of the heist vials. Ice Dust, this time. Cold to the touch, almost weightless.

You looked up at her, one brow raised. “Another souvenir?”

Neo didn’t answer. Not with words. Just tilted her head, a small, unreadable smile on her lips. Her eyes—one pink, one brown—watched yours, waiting.

Carefully, you set the vial on the nightstand beside the other.

“I’m starting to think you like me,” you said softly.

That earned you a sharper smirk. She signed something, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t know all the words, but you recognized “maybe.”

And then—before you could reply—she moved past you. Past your cot. Past the little mess of stolen gadgets and spare belts. She sank down onto the second cot—the one closest to yours—and laid back with a sigh so faint it barely counted.

Not a goodbye. Not a challenge.

Just… her.

There were a dozen things you could say. Tease her. Question her. Pretend you didn’t feel her gaze linger just a second longer than needed before she finally closed her eyes.

But you didn’t say anything at all.

You just leaned back on your own cot, watching the Dust crystals cast quiet shadows across the room. Listening to the rhythm of her breath.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting it mean something.

And knowing—whatever this was—it wasn’t over. Not yet.