The transport craft lands with a soft thrum on the familiar tarmac of Madam Cherry's main base. The sky is bruised with clouds, but the air is clean, cooler than the blistering chaos they have just survived.
And yet, even with the base's usual calm efficiency, Lyra feels like a ghost walking through the corridors.
Her arm is still bandaged, her gait slow but steady. The worst of the pain is manageable now, but not entirely gone. Still, the sting of her healing wounds is nothing compared to the hollow pressure in her chest. A tightness that hasn't left since her conversation with Edric.
The twins hover.
Theresa fluffs Lyra's pillows unnecessarily as they walk into the lounge.
Claire is adjusting Lyra's jacket every ten seconds, like she is inspecting a porcelain doll for cracks.
They have good intentions. But it doesn't stop them from being annoying and overbearing.
"You're walking too much. You should be resting," Claire states, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm walking from the landing pad to my room," Lyra comments dryly. "Not climbing a mountain."
Theresa is less forgiving. "You nearly died. Again. You're not even out of recovery protocol!"
Lyra does an eyeroll at the twins being dramatic.
"She's out now," Nina states with great amusement.
Nina stands by the entrance to the hall, arms folded, stern as ever, her gray-streaked braid coils neatly over one shoulder.
She doesn't need to raise her voice. Her presence alone makes both twins straighten up like cadets caught slacking.
"Back off, you two," Nina orders, with a smirk that softened the sharpness in her voice. "Go interrogate someone else with your fussing."
Claire pouts. Theresa sighs in defeat. But they obey, reluctantly stepping back.
"You're welcome," Nina states to Lyra as she offers her a hand to steady herself.
Lyra accepts it with a small, grateful breath. "Thank you. I was one more 'you're still healing' away from jumping out the window."
"Hm. Just make sure you land better this time," Nina quips, making Lyra snort.
"Is there anything I can do to repay the rescue?"
Nina tilts her head, sly. "Now that you mention it, Dearie... a good egg tart wouldn't go unappreciated."
That finally earns a smile, real and soft, from Lyra. It is small, but it reaches her tired eyes. "I'll bring two."
Edric sits alone in a secure war room, the only light coming from a dozen glowing panels and monitors around him. He is drowning in
intelligence data — declassified documents, intercepted comms, encrypted reports. The puzzle is forming, bit by bit, and the enemy's plan is becoming dangerously clear.
But none of it eases the heaviness in his chest.
He hasn't slept properly. He hasn't even spoken to Cherry since his return. He buries himself in the work because it is all he has left to stop his mind from drifting back to her.
Lyra.
He can still hear her cold voice in that hospital room. The way she hasn't even looked at him.
He can't blame her.
Fum has died because of him. The man who is her family… and once, long ago, saved Edric's life from the horrors of a war zone. And now that truth has planted an unbridgeable distance between them.
Still, despite himself, he finds his eyes drifting to the single encrypted channel he hasn't touched in days.
Her message thread.
Blank.
He exhales slowly and leans forward over the newest string of decoded intel. The faction is planning something massive, something that involves not just Oracle interference, but multiple puppet regimes.
He has to stay focused.
He has to keep his hands moving. Eyes scanning. Thoughts busy.
Because if he stops for even a moment—if he lets the image of Lyra's hurt expression rise to the surface again—
He isn't sure he can keep himself from falling apart.
Madam Cherry swiftly makes her move the moment she receives the update. The final lead comes in through an intercepted communique routed through three false terminals. Cherry, after tracking for months, finally discovers a name buried beneath layers of misinformation.
Timmy.
A phantom. A fixer.
A former insider who once walked through war zones like he is on vacation.
More importantly, he is Edric's third fugitive target.
However, Timmy isn't just another name on a list.
He is Lyra's ghost, too.
The guide whom Lyra relied on back then, when she was trying to retrieve her uncle's body.
A fragment of her past, tangled in memory and blood and fire.
The boy who had guided her across a crumbling city, who had risked his own hide to help her find what was left of her uncle's body.
Cherry leans back in her chair, fingers steepled in thought. She knows exactly what she is doing when she keys in the authorization.
Mission: Third Light.
Team Lead: Edric Solaire.
Operative Assigned: Lyra
She sends the alert to both of them at once.
The encrypted mission file blinks on Edric's screen as he skims through it automatically—until his eyes catch one word.
Lyra.
His fingers pause over the keyboard.
A quiet weight presses into his chest at the sight of her name.
Cherry has assigned her to the mission.
Assigned them together.
He exhales sharply through his nose and leans back in his chair, eyes lingering on the document.
He can't decide if Cherry is being efficient… or cruel.
He rubs his temple slowly, then glances again at the subject of the mission:
Timmy, no last name.
The name itches in the back of his mind.
Like a half-remembered story.
Edric recalls him as a ghost from his early case files, a low-level survivor with dangerous ties to old influential factions in the red zone in the most chaotic war zones.
He doesn't know about the personal connection to Lyra.
He stands and grabs his coat.
If Lyra has accepted the assignment, he will not refuse it.
Not now. Not after everything.
____________________________________________________
Lyra reads the mission file and closes the tablet. Her room is quiet—just the soft ticking of an old clock Nina has lent her to help "settle her soul."
Her fingers tighten around the edge of the tablet.
Timmy.
Memories she hasn't touched in years uncoiled like smoke.
The body bag slipping through her hands…her first kill…her great failure…
Lyra sighs.
Timmy is someone part of her past she's having trouble to face so, so she has to confront him and her past.
And it means facing Edric again.
Her heart twists. She hasn't forgotten her words to him in the hospital—cold, distant, unfair. But even knowing that, she doesn't know how to take them back yet.
She rises, smoothing her coat down and checking her hidden weapons with practiced ease.
The past haunts me even now…
Those thoughts make Lyra press her lips, but she forces herself to take a deep breath.
"I need to focus. It's a mission, and nothing else."
The sun dips low behind fractured towers as Lyra and Edric cross into Lorn, a neutral city on the edge of the Sovereign AI's blind spot—a lawless maze of faded neon and analog shadows. The Sovereign's reach falters here, and that is exactly why Timmy has made it his base.
Each step the pair takes through the bustling markets and dark alleyways is layered in silence and tension. They speak only when needed—efficient, professional.
And yet, every shared glance lingers longer than it should.
At times, Lyra catches Edric's gaze, just barely flickers her way—quiet, unreadable—but she always looks away first, unwilling to unravel what has frayed between them just yet.
Their trail is slow and complex. Timmy, it turns out, is more than just a fugitive—he is resourceful and woven deep into the city's underbelly. He has rigged analog sensors and pulse relays to alert him of any unusual activity. Every building he has touched has had a ghost in its wiring.
Still, Edric and Lyra carve through the city's layers, flushing out his footprints with expert precision.
And finally, at dusk, three days in, they find him.
The rooftop is empty save for a cracked satellite dish and a view of the river below. Timmy stands with a makeshift comms pack strapped to his back, his eyes sharp, sunken but defiant. His hair is longer, and his body thinner.
He holds an old rifle steady, points at Edric at first, until his gaze cuts toward Lyra.
"Lyra," he utters bitterly, voice rough with disbelief. "So it's true. You're here."
Edric instinctively takes a step forward, but Lyra halts him with a soft motion of her hand.
"Yes," she answers calmly, stepping into his line of sight, her voice low and unthreatening. "Lyra that shitty brat back then."
Timmy smirks, then scoffs. "No. It was you. Before you moved up. Before you wormed yourself to the top. I knew you were different…That you were more than a forsaken child of the war zone."
"I am still a child of the war zone," she declares, slowly walking forward, her hands open at her sides. "But I had the chance to, so I took it. And now I'm offering that same chance."
He grits his teeth. "Stop lying. You're here to drag me in, is that it? He and you. All the same…" He jerked his chin at Edric. "Another blue-eyed enforcer."
Edric doesn't rise to the bait, but Lyra notices his jaw twitch slightly.
"I'm here," she announces, voice threading through the tense air, "because I remember what you did for me. Because I know you're not the villain they're painting you to be."
Timmy laughs, short, bitter. "You don't get it. Once you're on top, it's easy to forget that power corrupts."
"I'm still me," she claims firmly. "I'm still the same child who asked you to guide her through that deadly land. The same child who saved you, Timmy. The same child who cried desperately after losing…"
Timmy's arms shake slightly.
Timmy remembers that ten-year-old Lyra crying at night from nightmares of killing their pursuers, and the young child who threw up because of the guilt of killing for the first time to save him, for them to live…
The weight of the rifle is trembling.
"Then why come?"
"Because there's a way out. But I need you to trust me… just one more time."
Timmy's breath hitches.
She doesn't flinch. Her eyes—steady and unguarded—meet his fully.
After a long silence, his rifle slowly drops to his side. His voice is barely above a whisper.
"You promise this isn't a trap?"
"I promise," Lyra declares. "Like before, Timmy. I promise to take you back alive."
Timmy sleeps in a secured flat two floors down. Exhaustion has finally claimed him, body and spirit.
Edric and Lyra stand on the rooftop once more, the wind tugging at their coats.
"You were good with him," Edric comments quietly, eyes not on her, but on the city's broken skyline.
"Is that so?" she replies curtly.
Edric hesitates but still asks. "Yes, do you trust him?"
Lyra nods faintly. "I trust that he wants to live. And that's enough."
A quiet passes between them, deeper than the wind.
"I didn't know," Edric states suddenly. "About your uncle. About Timmy. Until now."
Lyra's eyes are still on the skyline, not looking at Edric. "Hmm..."
He finally turned toward her. "Will you tell more. About Timmy, about your uncle. About you?"
Lyra doesn't answer. Not yet.
Silence
Edric lets it drop, and with pressed lips, he too looks back at the skyline.
The terrain beyond Lorn is broken urban sprawl decayed into rusted highways and service tunnels swallowed by encroaching wilderness. They move swiftly but cautiously, taking an old rail line now used as a covert route back toward Edric's main base.
Timmy, unshaven and trembling, keeps glancing over his shoulder, twitchy like a cornered animal. Edric takes the lead, his jaw tight, his grip on his sidearm firm. Lyra walks last—silent, eyes sharp, every breath tuned to the thrum of movement in the air.
She feels it first. The prickle of instinct—eyes behind them. She doesn't hesitate.
Her voice is low, clear. "We're being followed."
Timmy flinches. "No. No, not again—how did they find me?"
Lyra moves fast, sliding into a defensive posture, scanning the overgrowth along the rail path. "Hostiles. Flanking positions, moving tight. This isn't random."
Edric pulls Timmy behind a collapsed barrier and crouches next to Lyra. "We move now. I'll cover rear—"
"No." Lyra's voice is firm, a blade in the stillness. "You take him. Get him out."
Edric narrows his eyes. "We're not doing this again."
"This is different, Edric." Her tone cracks like thunder, bitter and cold. "Last time, you were the target. Now he is. You're the only one who can make sure he gets to base intact. And we can't lose him."
"They'll kill you."
"They'll try."
He clenches his fists. "Dammit, Lyra—"
"You know this is the only move that works." Her voice lowers, but her eyes blazed. "I'm not sacrificing myself. I'm making the best use of our advantage. I'm faster alone, and I'm not dragging Timmy through a live ambush. We do this my way."
Edric stares at her, something flickering in his expression—anger, helplessness… sorrow.
Finally, his jaw clicks as he grinds his teeth. "This isn't over."
"Didn't say it was."
She turns toward Timmy, who stands frozen. "I said I'd protect you, didn't I?" Her voice is quieter now, almost kind. "Same as last time. I'll catch up."
Timmy's eyes watered as he gives her a shaky nod.
Then Edric grabs Timmy by the arm and pulls him toward the service path, muttering something under his breath as he moves—a promise, or a curse, Lyra doesn't know.
As they vanish into the shadows of the ravine, fights erupt.
Figures drop from overhanging ledges, silhouettes of trained killers—sharp and fast. But Lyra is faster than usual.
She moves like water through flame, limbs fluid, precise—her blades slicing arcs of silver through the dark. Her anger is a cold current beneath her skin—not rage, but resolve.
Every shot that misses her, every breath stolen from her lungs, is an act of calculation. She doesn't need to win—she just needs to stall.
One enemy down.
Then two.
A graze to her side, a flash of pain.
She grits her teeth and keeps moving.
In her mind, the image of Edric hauling Timmy through the underground path burns—she has to buy them time.
She will.
Her boots kick up ash from the old tracks as the enemy regroups. She grins through the blood in her mouth.
"Come on, then."
The sharp tang of blood mixes with the metallic scent of old steel rails and dust. Lyra's breath is ragged as she pivots behind a rusted signal post, the chipped paint scraping her shoulder. Another bullet whines past her ear—too close.
Her dagger spins from her fingertips and embeds itself in the shooter's throat before the next shot can fire.
Five down. More closing in.
She doesn't stop to count.
Every movement is honed instinct, tempered precision. She weaves between shadow and light, using the wreckage of the old railway to her advantage—metal beams, derailed cars, collapsed towers. The environment is her ally. Every strike she delivers is clean, sharp, merciless.
She has already drawn them far enough away. Her job now is to make damn sure they stayed drawn.
Edric and Timmy's escape route—an old tunnel beneath the hillside—is clear. She has steered the fight away with flawless maneuvers. She knows Edric didn't like running away and leaving her alone, but he knows what is at stake, so he'll follow through. He has to.
A knife comes at her low from the right—she ducks, twists, and stabs. Another attacker leaps from above; she rolls to the side, catches his ankle, yanks, and slams him headfirst into a steel girder. His skull cracks with a sickening crunch.
But her side flares in agony from the earlier graze. Her breathing hitches—her pace slows.
They notice.
Three of them come at once, flanking with unnerving coordination. Lyra grits her teeth and drops low, sweeping her leg in a circle and knocking one off balance. She takes a hit to the shoulder—sharp and hot—but twists with it, flips the attacker, and drives her knee into his throat.
Too many. Too fast.
She can feel her control slipping like sand through blood-slick fingers. She can't keep this up.
But she will not fall.
Another burst of shots forces her behind cover. She exhales sharply and hits her comms.
"Lyra to base—requesting immediate extraction. Coordinates incoming. Multiple hostiles. Timmy secured. I repeat, Timmy secured. I'll hold position as long as I can."
She doesn't wait for a reply. She can't.
Her left arm is almost numb now. Her side burns. Her legs, shaky. But her mind—sharp.
She counts the rhythm of approaching footsteps. Feels the subtle change in wind from a raised weapon. She stands up from her cover, flings a broken blade to ricochet and distract—then bolts, zigzagging across the old platform, dodging blind fire, slashing at any who gets close.
Blood soaks through her shirt—hers and theirs.
She doesn't care.
All that matters is buying time. Holding the line.
And then—the unmistakable rumble of engines.
A low, familiar roar echoes through the valley.
A signal flare slices the sky behind her in a wide crimson arc.
Backup has arrived.
The hostiles hesitate.
That is all she needs.
She drops a flash charge, blinds the closest two, and runs.
Broken, limping, bleeding—but alive.
Every breath scorches her lungs, but with every step, she clings to the thought of Edric and Timmy safe beyond the reach of gunfire.
That is her win.
The safe house is quiet—too quiet for Edric's liking. The hover transport has slipped through checkpoints, surveillance nets, and urban skirmishes with flawless precision. His men execute every maneuver with robotic accuracy.
But all Edric can think about is the chaotic roar of the last firefight. Of Lyra. Of her telling him no, ordering him to leave her behind. Again.
He hasn't argued further, not because he agrees, but because the resolve in her eyes has made the ground beneath his feet falter.
Beside him, Timmy sits silently, legs pulled close on the cushioned bench. The interior of the transport hums with low engine noise, but Timmy's thoughts are louder.
Edric sees it, the way Timmy's fingers clenched the edge of his coat, the way his eyes keep glancing at the reinforced door as though expecting someone, or something, to crash through.
"You'll be safe," Edric states, voice low but firm. "The safe house is cloaked, and my base is further inland. No one followed us."
Timmy looks up. "I know," he mutters. "I just… don't know what's next."
Edric meets his gaze. "Lyra bought you this chance. Make the most of it."
There is silence again, until Timmy exhales and explains, "I trust her. She saved me before—twice, now. But… I have things in my head. Things people would kill entire towns for. I don't know if your base is far enough."
Edric's eyes narrow slightly, but then he gives Timmy a nod. "We'll handle it. You're not alone anymore."
As the transport pulls into the concealed hangar, the full security detail of Edric's main base comes into view. Agents, medical teams, and analysts are already mobilizing. The towering structure of the facility gleams under the artificial sunlamps, a stark contrast to the fractured cities they have passed through.
Inside, Edric is met with updates from his command team, but he brushes them aside.
"Stabilize, Timmy. Keep him under close protection, but don't make it feel like a cell," Edric orders, his words sharp but controlled. "He's a guest. Not a prisoner."
Timmy gives him a half-wary glance but says nothing.
Just as Edric turns toward the command lift, his comm lit up.
His aunt, Cherry.
Her image shimmers into focus on the holo-panel, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Timmy's safe, I presume."
"Affirmative," Edric replies.
Cherry's expression softens only slightly. "Good. I've already negotiated with the Council of Elites. He's more valuable than we anticipated. They've agreed to take him under our protection officially."
Edric arches a brow. "You mean yours."
"I mean ours," Cherry declares evenly, then adds, "My agents are en route to extract him. Smoothly, quietly. No need to raise more flags. Until then, keep him breathing."
Edric nods, but something in his jaw tightens. "What about Lyra?"
Cherry's gaze shifts for a heartbeat—an imperceptible flicker.
"Extraction in progress. We've lost contact with her since her last signal, but the ground unit picked up a trail. Reinforcements are closing in."
Silence.
A beat of stillness where Edric doesn't breathe.
Then, Cherry adds, "You'll be the first to know when we confirm she's safe."
The comm cuts out before he can reply.
Edric stands still in the middle of his control deck, eyes fix ahead but seeing too much.
Memories of blood-slick ground, of her stubborn smile, of the steel in her voice when she said this is different.
Beside him, Timmy is ushered away by medical aides, but he looks back once, his expression a mix of hope and guilt.
Neither of them says a word.
The comm crackles softly in Cherry's office, her eyes narrowing just slightly at the voice on the other end.
"Madam Cherry. I'm alive," Lyra's voice comes through, faint but firm. "And on my way back. I want to be the one to escort Timmy to the assigned safe house. He trusts me. I want to prove he wasn't wrong to."
Cherry leans back in her chair, silent for a moment as the weight of Lyra's words settles into her chest. Then, with a breath:
"Understood. Pick him up from Edric's base on the way."
"Thank you."
The call ends with a quiet click.
Cherry doesn't hesitate. She contacts Edric directly.
"Lyra's safe," she tells him bluntly, knowing any softness would crumble the wall he has built around himself. "She'll retrieve Timmy herself."
Edric doesn't respond right away. He stands by the rain-speckled window of his office, overlooking the eastern tarmac where shuttles come and go under stormy clouds. His reflection stares back at him, pale, tired, wounded in ways no medic could fix.
When Lyra finally arrives, it is without ceremony.
She wears a sleek field coat over bandages and half-healed bruises, her stance still proud, her steps precise. The moment she enters the room, the air shifts. Tension clings like static.
Timmy looks up from the terminal, where a tech agent has been reviewing his overall health stats. His face lights up faintly.
"Lyra."
"Timmy," she replies with a small, true smile—one of the only sincere expressions she allows herself in days. "Ready to go?"
Timmy nods.
But Edric steps forward, unable to stay silent.
"You're really going to act like I don't exist?"
Lyra turns slowly. Her face is unreadable.
"Lyra is reporting to escort Timmy. Is that enough?"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Edric growls. The room clears quickly, the soldiers and aides retreating under the rising tension.
"You're mad at me. Just admit it," he presses. "If you need to scream, do it. If you need to hate me, I can take it. But don't act like we're nothing. Not after everything."
Lyra stares at him, and for a moment, her eyes glisten—not with tears, but something colder. Deeper.
"What would venting do?" she asks quietly. "Bring back the dead?"
Edric freezes. His breath caught in his throat.
Lyra steps closer, her eyes sharper than glass. "We were strangers in the beginning. Operatives assigned to the same directives. Nothing more. So let's not pretend like dwelling on something we never were is going to help either of us."
Edric looks at her, rain now streaking behind the glass walls. His voice cracks in his throat, but never comes out.
Her words are a scalpel—clean, precise, and cutting too deep.
Before he can speak, she turns away.
Lyra turns, her steps light but firm as she walks to Timmy, placing a hand on his shoulder gently.
"You'll be safe. I'll make sure of it," she assures him.
Timmy, silent and uncertain, nods. Timmy feels the tension but ignores it since it isn't his business, and besides, he doesn't want to be on Lyra's bad side.
The close interaction of Timmy and Lyra makes Edric ache.
Without another word, the two depart down the corridor, boots echoing in rhythm.
Edric follows behind slowly until he reaches the front entrance.
By the time they step outside, rain has started falling again—steady, cold, relentless.
Lyra doesn't look back.
Edric stands under the overhang, watching as she and Timmy board the quiet black escort vehicle, its lights slicing through the gray.
The door shuts with a quiet thud. And then they are gone.
He stands there long after the vehicle has vanished into the city storm, letting the rain soak through his uniform, unmoving.
The terrain shifts around them in rhythmic hums of the escort vehicle—lowland fields streaks with mist blur into view beyond the tinted windows. Inside, the atmosphere between Lyra and Timmy has been cloaked in a near-silence ever since they left the outskirts of Edric's base.
Timmy finally lets out a low sigh, arms crossed, his body leaning back against the cushioned seat. "You know," he starts, tilting his head toward Lyra with a half-serious frown, "if you keep sitting there all tense and stormy like that, I'm going to end up thinking we're heading straight into a firing squad."
Lyra blinks, startled out of her thoughts. A breath of amusement passes. "Sorry," she answers, her voice soft and honest. "Didn't mean to spook you."
Timmy shrugs, then turns toward her more fully. "You okay?" he asks bluntly. "Or… is that a dumb question?"
Lyra hesitates for a moment before responding, her voice more distant. "I just… haven't fully come to terms with some things. Regret. Hurt. Loss."
Timmy watches her carefully, then inquires, "Is it about your uncle?"
Her eyes meet his for a long moment—too long for someone who never let emotion show on her face.
Finally, she gives him a small smile. "Yeah."
Timmy looks forward again, his posture relaxed but his tone laced with something warmer. "Then I'll shut up before I say something dumb and make it worse."
Lyra chuckles lightly. "You're fine."
"Still," he answers with a crooked smile, "maybe we should talk about something else. Give that brain of yours a break." He turns his head with exaggerated casualness. "Like… how did you manage to get out of the war zones, huh? You weren't exactly the easiest person to track down back then."
Lyra leans back and rests her head briefly against the window, eyes scanning the clouds above. "Cherry brought me with her. She told me that there's more to the world than the war zones."
"Just like that?" Timmy laughed. "You make it sound like she plucked you out of a soup line."
Lyra's lips quirk slightly. "Just like that."
Timmy shakes his head, still grinning. "Man, if I'd known all it took was being in the right wreckage at the right time, I would've stopped dodging airstrikes and just waited for a ride."
That makes Lyra laugh, a quiet but real laugh.
Timmy's tone grows more thoughtful. "I heard bits and pieces, you know. Rumors. Some of the older elites talk about you like a ghost that learned to bleed and kill with the same grace. Said you took missions in zones where no sane person would walk in with a heartbeat."
Lyra looks away.
Timmy continues, "Maybe that's why fate decided to throw a little kindness your way now. Maybe it owed you."
She hums, noncommittal. "I don't know if I believe in fate."
"Well, I do," Timmy confesses with a shrug. "Because if it wasn't fate, it was just dumb luck, and I really don't want to admit that our lives depend on a dice roll."
Lyra smiles again—small, tired, but genuine.
"You're still the same huh, Timmy?" she states, shaking her head. "Still the same highly opinionated guide."
"Heh. I changed quite a lot. But yeah, the same kid you choose to save at the cost of losing what you searched for," he states with a sad smile. "But good to see you're a better version of yourself when you're not wearing that death-mask face all the time."
Lyra smiles, and Timmy shrugs.
The tension in her shoulders has eased, if only slightly. She doesn't respond, but when the sun dips lower behind the clouds, she adjusts her coat and hands Timmy a wrapped protein bar without a word.
He takes it with a grin.
They say nothing else for the next few miles, but the silence is no longer heavy—it is filled with a fragile, growing warmth.
By the time they reach the gated threshold of the safe house nestled deep in the alpine ridges, the sun is gone. It is a secure site—one of Cherry's better-kept secrets, shielded by terrain and tech alike. A pair of trusted agents is already waiting at the entrance, silent and non-threatening, ready to receive Timmy.
Lyra and Timmy stand just beyond the arching gate, the vehicle's engine cooling behind them in soft clicks. The mountain wind tugs lightly at Lyra's coat, her frame relaxed now that they have made it. She turns to him, arms crossed, face unreadable save for the faint softness in her eyes.
"This is as far as I go," she declares, voice steady. "They'll take care of you from here on out."
Timmy gives a mock salute, then smirks. "Well, damn. Guess I'll miss the daily thrill of being hunted."
Lyra snorts. "If you ever find yourself in trouble again—or just bored out of your mind—call me. Direct line," she adds, handing over a small encrypted personal comm disc. "No middlemen."
Timmy looks down at the comm, then back at her, grinning. "Wow. I feel honored. Getting the personal line of the Iceblade herself." He tucks it into his jacket with exaggerated care. "Though I gotta be honest, Lyra—I'd return the gesture, but I love myself too much to come rescue a damn combat elite if she gets herself cornered."
Lyra gives a dry laugh, but her eyes warm. "Then don't get cornered. You've been through enough. Maybe it's time you indulged in fate's good graces… before fortune changes her mind and turns her back on you."
At that, Timmy grimaces theatrically. "Ugh, don't plant flags like that. Are you trying to curse me? Let me live at least a week without impending doom, please."
Lyra cracks a smile, the rare kind that reaches her eyes.
"No promises."
There is a beat—a moment of quiet where both stand in mutual respect and lingering camaraderie, their bond forged from shared danger and old wounds.
Then, with a curt nod from the waiting agents, Timmy steps toward the gate.
Before it closes behind him, he looks back over his shoulder. "Hey… thanks again. For not giving up on me."
Lyra nods.
And just like that, he disappears into the safe house.
Lyra stands there for a moment longer, watching the sealed gates. The wind brushes against her face like a whisper from a time long past.
Then, turning without another word, she walks toward the waiting transport, her steps slow but resolute, the weight of old regrets still with her, but not as heavy as before.