Madam Cherry stands in her dimly lit office, the glow of numerous holographic screens reflecting off her sharp, calculating eyes. The hum of encrypted messages and data streams fills the room, but her focus is locked on a particular incoming request—one urgent enough to make her pause.
A faction operating in a neighboring country has been making dangerous moves, undermining the Oracle's authority. Worse, recent intelligence reconnaissance suggests that they have deep ties to the hidden schemes entangling Edric's organization.
Her agents, already embedded in that region, have requested immediate backup.
Cherry exhales through her nose, pressing a few keys on the floating interface before her.
She scans the status of her available operatives, only to find that most are already stretched thin.
Her teams are cracking down on multiple factions, and no one can be pulled without jeopardizing another mission.
Except for three names.
Lyra. Claire. Theresa.
Cherry taps her fingers against her desk. The twins are resourceful, and Lyra is more than capable. But sending them all will be unwise.
A thoughtful frown settles on her lips as her gaze shifts toward another encrypted channel.
Edric.
The faction in question is already a thorn in Edric's organization, and she knows he will not ignore this if she brings it to him.
Her fingers move swiftly over the interface, sending a priority request to Edric's secure line.
"Urgent mission. Your organization has a stake in this. Handle this matter with Lyra. ASAP."
The message is short, direct, but Cherry knows he'll understand the weight behind it.
Cherry receives Edric's and then Lyra's affirmation towards the mission.
Lyra and Edric are quick to follow Cherry's order, leaving in an hour.
Then, as both leave for the mission, Cherry's instinct suddenly warns her that something isn't right.
She leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly.
The patterns she has been tracking, the pieces of the puzzle she has been meticulously assembling—something doesn't seem to fit.
Her mind works quickly, threading together different leads.
She taps into deeper data networks, cross-referencing old reports, intercepted messages, and black-market dealings. As she sifts through the layers of deception, the unease in her chest only grows.
And then, her screen flashes.
New intel surfaces.
Cherry's breath stills as she reads through the classified files, pieces falling into place just a step too late.
Her fingers tighten into a fist.
This mission isn't just dangerous.
It is a trap.
And Edric and Lyra are already on their way.
The city's skyline shimmers in the distance, and a series of towering glass structures casts their long shadows in the twilight. The last remnants of daylight are fading, and the night air is cool but charged with tension.
Edric and Lyra stand near a dimly lit alleyway, their conversation light and relaxed as they walk toward their exit route—an unassuming back alley that leads to the private transport station where their vehicle awaits.
They'd just wrap up a delicate meeting with a few trusted allies, and the mission is, at least on the surface, a success. The intel they've gathered will be invaluable to Edric's organization and potentially to Cherry's broader ambitions to keep the hidden factions at bay.
Lyra's voice breaks the silence between them as she glances over at Edric, a slight frown, and her fists clench.
"You know, for a place that's meant to be isolated, this city looks too clean and organized. It's making my gut uneasy for some reason."
Edric hums, his eyes scanning the surroundings and noting possible escape routes, he then adds, "I agree. I sense danger, but we're prepared, so it will be fine."
But as the words leave his mouth, something in the air shifts. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Lyra senses it too, for her gaze flickers toward the dark corners of the street.
Without a word, Edric's hand subtly drifts to the concealed weapon at his side—just a precaution. They have made it clear to anyone watching that they are not easy prey, and yet, something feels off tonight.
A slow, almost imperceptible footstep echoes behind them.
Reacting immediately, they turn, but the first attack comes like a silent storm.
Two figures drop from the rooftops, landing with predatory precision, blocking their exit. Then, more figures appear blocking any possible route of escape.
The figures wear dark tactical suits and carry advanced weaponry, the kind that can only be afforded by those with considerable backing.
Edric's hand moves faster than most can see, draws his modified gun. But before he can strike, a flicker of motion from the left catches his attention.
A third attacker, hidden in the shadows, lunges at Lyra from behind, his hand reaching for her throat.
Instinct takes over. Lyra's body moves fluidly, gracefully and deadly. She sidesteps just in time, using the momentum of the attacker's movement against him, and with a swift turn, she slams the heel of her boot into his chest, sending him stumbling backward.
But as the second and third attackers begin to circle them, Edric and Lyra realize that they have step into a trap.
Also, they're surrounded.
All elites and masters of the trade.
They are trained and experienced in more ways, so they know how to corner fellow elites such as Edric and Lyra.
And the way they move, the speed, the coordination—it shows they're been doing such missions for a long time.
A voice, cold and calculated, cuts through the tense silence.
"We can't allow you to leave with that information."
The voice comes from a tall figure who emerges from the shadows. The leader of the ambush.
Edric's eyes narrow, scanning the area.
"I'm not sure what you think you can accomplish by attacking us," Edric replies, his tone calm but his body tense, ready for anything.
"Oh, it's simple." The leader's lips curl into a thin smile. "You've become far too valuable and dangerous. A heir of the Solaire Enterprise, one word from you can bring the rise and fall of a faction.. Your very existence can shake the very core of this world's foundation. And so, you and your little friend are far more of a threat than you realize."
Lyra, hearing such declaration, moves closer to Edric.
I need to protect him.
Lyra stands by Edric, her posture very alert, every muscle coiled.
"So you're the ones pulling the strings, then?"
She questions as she surveys her surroundings while simultaneously running simulations in her mind to find a way to escape.
"You're not the only ones with ambition," the leader declares. "And now, we need to make sure you disappear. Permanently."
As if on cue, more shadows detach themselves from the walls, six more figures appearing from the corners of the alley.
They have underestimated the factions behind the mafia.
But Edric and Lyra, being vigilant and hyper-focused, see through the cracks.
The battle erupts almost instantaneously.
Edric moves with calculated precision, his gun flashing in the dim light as he shoots through the attackers, his every strike aiming for a vital spot.
Lyra dances around their movements, her body swift and agile. She isn't just dodging blows—she is countering, using her attackers' strength and speed against them.
Still, they are outnumbered.
Every time they take down one of the attackers, two or more appear. The ambush has been planned for just this moment—to trap them both, to wear them down.
Suddenly, a voice taunts from above. "You're good, but you can't fight all of us."
Edric's eyes flicker upward, but before he can react, Lyra reaches out and grabs his arm.
"We have to escape," she states, her voice calm yet urgent. "They've planned this too well. If we can't find an escape route, then we have to create one!"
Edric's lips press into a thin line, and he agrees.
She's right.
The elite operatives might have the advantage in numbers, but they, too, are used to fighting in the shadows, always thinking two steps ahead.
"I'll make a way," Edric declares, determined.
Lyra nods, glancing at him with a wry grin. "I'll cover you."
The two of them move in sync, their movements fluid, as Edric leads the way toward the narrow alley that connects to the next street.
But the ambush has done its job—they are being herded. They can't shake the attackers as easily as they have like. The path ahead is once again blocked.
A harsh voice from behind calls out, "We are the hunters and you the prey. We studied you. You're both marked."
A flicker of recognition flashes in Edric's mind. This isn't just about the information they have. Their death might just be the catalyst that will bring forth favor to the opposing factions.
I have to stay alive. We need to live through this!
Both Lyra and Edric hold off the enemies, but it's clear that both are reaching their limits.
So before the operatives can strike again, Lyra springs forward, kicking one of the attackers in the chest and sending him sprawling into the others. The disarray is enough to give them the opening they need.
"Go!" Lyra shouts.
Edric doesn't need to be told twice. They dash through the back exit, their breathing ragged but synchronized, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.
As they run through the narrow alleyways, Edric can't help but feel a sense of foreboding.
Their boots pound against the cracked concrete as they sprint through the twisting network of service bridges and abandoned overpasses. The dusky, fractured light overhead barely illuminates their path, but Edric and Lyra don't need perfect visibility. Years of training sharpened their instincts, and their bodies move with desperate precision.
Still, it isn't enough.
From every shadow, enemies emerge—silent, relentless, coordinated. The elites aren't merely chasing them anymore; they are driving them toward a dead-end atop a crumbling overpass that overlooks an old industrial road below.
Breathing hard, Edric scans the surroundings. His mind races through options, but every escape route is already pinned down. He grinds his teeth. They need more time—or a miracle.
He glances at Lyra—cool, collected, even as sweat traces the line of her jaw. Her sharp gaze flickers between the closing enemies and the road below.
Then, Edric hears it—a faint rumble beneath the bridge.
A truck.
Affiliated with Cherry's network. He recognizes the signal tags sprayed subtly on its container walls as it barrels underneath them. It is their ride—or at least, it can be.
In the half-second it takes Edric to realize it, Lyra has already moved.
With a quick, almost gentle push to Edric's chest, she shoves him backward off the edge of the overpass.
"What the hell—?!" Edric barely has time to curse as gravity yanks him down.
The truck thunders beneath him, and thanks to Lyra's perfectly timed push, Edric lands hard but safely atop its reinforced roof, the impact rolling through his body as he fights to anchor himself.
The truck roars on, gaining distance rapidly, the surrounding world blurring past him.
By the time Edric scrambles upright, heart pounding, they are already a mile away from the ambush site.
And Lyra— Lyra is still up there.
Edric's shout tears from his throat, raw and furious.
"Lyra!"
She doesn't look back.
Not because she doesn't want to—but because she can't afford to.
Lyra's entire body tenses as she spins and dashes sideways, diving behind a battered ventilation unit just as plasma fire tears through the space she'd occupied.
Her heart thunders in her ears, but her mind remains crystal clear.
She has secured Edric's escape. That is enough.
Now it's her turn.
She feints to the left, drawing two pursuers into overextending their advance, then rolls right, using the crumbling debris for cover. Her moves were precise, mechanical—but even her remarkable skills is being taxed.
No matter how many steps she takes, no matter how many she outmaneuvered, more keep coming, cutting off every potential route.
Lyra's body hums with exertion, her breath shallow. She can feel it—the closing jaws of the trap.
Damn it... I might not make it this time, she thinks bitterly.
No. I have to get back alive!
She clenches her fists, preparing for one final breakout attempt.
That's when the air shifts.
Above the shrill hum of the enemy's pursuit, Lyra hears a familiar, unwelcome sound—
High-pitched squealing.
A pair of grappling lines hiss from the upper ruins, entangling two of her nearest attackers and hoisting them into the air with a surprise yelp. Another burst of cover fire scatters the elites closing in on her, forcing them into defensive positions.
Out of the smoke and chaos come two figures, practically bouncing with energy and mischief.
Theresa and Claire.
"Miss us?" Theresa sings as she neatly disarms a flanking operative with a brutal sweep kick.
Claire, meanwhile, tosses a flashbang with an almost bored flick of her wrist, detonating it perfectly in the enemy's midst and blinding them.
Lyra freezes for a beat, scoffs as she ducks to avoid a stray shot, and darts toward them.
"Took you long enough," she snaps, her voice dripping dry sarcasm—but her chest tightens with a surge of reluctant, deep gratitude.
Claire laughs, flicking a grin over her shoulder as she moves to cover Lyra.
"Hey, we had to make a dramatic entrance. You're welcome!"
Theresa gives her a mock salute as they start carving a path out together.
"We couldn't let you steal all the spotlight, Lyra~!"
With the twins disrupting the ambushers' formation, Lyra finds a small window to breathe—and fight back. Together, the three of them move with deadly synchronization, dismantling the remaining elite attackers with practiced ease.
Still, as they fight, Lyra can't help but wonder,
If they had been a minute later… would I have even been here to greet them?
A small, rare smile tugs at her lips as she vaults over debris to cover their retreat.
Maybe, just maybe, this time, being rescued isn't something to be embarrassed about.
The retreat is supposed to be smooth now that they have broken the enemy's formation.
But Lyra's instincts scream before she even hears the click.
She turns sharply—time slowed, sharpened to a point.
Behind Theresa, amid the wreckage, a man stands—eyes hollow, smile wide, hands clutching a dead man's trigger to his chest.
A suicide bomber.
"Theresa! Move!"
Lyra shouts hoarsely, adrenaline spiking through her battered body.
Theresa turns, startled, but Lyra is already in motion.
With a burst of desperate speed, Lyra launches herself forward, slamming into Theresa and knocking her out of the blast radius—just as the bomber triggers the explosive.
BOOM.
The blast tears through the corridor with savage force. Shrapnel rips through the air like a hailstorm.
Theresa skids across the ground, the breath knocked from her lungs. She coughs, disoriented, and forces her blurred eyes to focus—
Only to see Lyra lying sprawled across the rubble, blood spreading rapidly beneath her torn jacket, her body unnaturally still.
"LYRA!"
Theresa screams, scrambling up.
Claire materializes at her side, her face pale and grim.
There is no time to mourn—yet.
Gunfire erupts again as surviving enemies regroup, emboldened by the chaos.
"We have to retreat, now!" Claire barks, grabbing Theresa's arm.
They hoist Lyra between them, careful but quick, supporting her dead weight between their shoulders as they sprint toward the extraction route.
But fate isn't finished with them.
As they stumble out of the destroyed corridor, a new threat awaits them—
Two figures step forward out of the smoke and dust.
Exact replicas of Theresa and Claire.
The resemblance is uncanny—perfectly mirrored features, fighting stances eerily familiar, eyes gleaming with cold calculation.
"Assassins. Cloned or surgically altered," Claire mutters, lips tight."Targeted for psychological warfare."
"Bring it on, impostors," Theresa growls.
Still half-carrying Lyra, the twins have no choice but to fight.
It is brutal—every move countered, every tactic mirrored. Pain lances through them—Claire takes a slash to her thigh, Theresa a brutal punch to her ribs.
But the twins aren't just fighters. They are sisters, soul-bound in ways no imitation can replicate.
And they fought dirty.
With a silent, furious rage, they manage to overpower and outmaneuver their copies with a subtle feint, a hidden blade, a smoke screen, and lots of rounds of bullets.
Both assassins crumple at the same time, falling lifelessly to the ground.
The victory feels hollow.
Lyra's blood has soaked both their sleeves.
Theresa stumbles, breathing hard. Claire catches her.
"We'll get out alive. Almost there." Claire hisses.
They don't stop again.
They reach a nondescript, half-collapsed structure a few blocks out—a pre-marked safe house Cherry has arranged for emergencies like this.
Inside, the girls barricade the door and hastily drop into defensive positions.
Theresa immediately tends to Lyra with trembling hands, applying pressure to the worst of the wounds, trying to slow the bleeding.
Claire accesses the encrypted comms link, her fingers flying over the console.
Madam Cherry's calm voice comes through almost instantly, layered with an undertone of alarm at seeing the bloodied state of her agents.
"Report."
Claire's voice is steady, even as blood trickled down her temple.
"Mission compromised. Heavy enemy presence. Encountered engineered assassins. Confirm high-priority factions coordinating efforts to eliminate our team. Lyra critically injured. Request immediate extraction and med-evac."
For a moment, Cherry is silent.
Her sharp eyes take everything in—the wounds, the exhaustion, the haunted set of the twins' faces.
And then Cherry's voice lowers, fierce and steady:
"Hold on. Help is coming. Whatever it takes, keep her alive."
The line goes dead, but Claire knows their master is already moving heaven and earth to reach them.
Theresa brushes blood-matted hair from Lyra's forehead, whispering:
"You're gonna be fine, Lyra. You saved me… now it's our turn."
The three of them—broken, battered, bloodstained—huddle in the dim, crumbling safety of the house.
Waiting.
The minutes drag on like hours.
Lyra lies unmoving on the battered cot, her breathing shallow, her skin unnaturally pale. Blood seeps steadily through the hastily applied bandages, no matter how hard Theresa presses down.
"Stay with us, Lyra," she whispers fiercely, her hands slick with blood.
Fighting to survive until Cherry's promise reaches them.
But then,
The safe house offers no true safety for long.
Outside, the night is thick with approaching footsteps—the cold efficiency of hunters closing in.
Theresa presses harder against Lyra's deepest wound, her hands stained dark red.
Claire stands guard by the door, pistol gripped tight, her stance defiant despite the tremor in her bloodied leg.
Lyra's breathing is shallow now.
Every shuddering gasp scrapes against the silence like a knife.
"Damn it, where are they?" Claire curses, her sharp eyes flicking toward the entrance as the shadows thickened.
Another explosion rattles the building's battered frame. A squad of enemy elites has found them, creeping through the ruins like wolves.
Claire snaps off a shot, dropping one of the first intruders.
Theresa, trembling but ferocious, slides a sidearm out from under Lyra's limp form and covers another approach.
They fight like demons cornered—wounded, bleeding, but unbreakable.
Still, it isn't enough.
The enemy presses in, relentless.
Each second stretches unbearably long.
Each heartbeat is a countdown to disaster.
Then, like a blade slicing through the dark—
Backup arrives.
Shadows coalesce into figures—Cherry's heavy-armed agents, masked and lethal.
Gunfire erupts with mechanical precision.
Within moments, the enemies are dispatched, silence settling over the wreckage again like falling ash.
"Move her! Now!" one of Cherry's lieutenants commands.
Theresa and Claire don't hesitate.
Together, they help transfer Lyra to a med-evac unit waiting just behind the ruins—a small hover transport loaded with medical gear.
Inside, the attending medic works fast, shouting vitals to the automated system.
The twins hover, frantic but silent, as machines pumped fluids into Lyra, scanning, sealing ruptured veins with delicate precision.
Her pulse, weak but still there, is their only anchor against despair.
At the new emergency base—a far better-equipped facility hidden in the ruins of an abandoned underground station—Lyra is immediately stabilized.
Barely.
Inside the sterile med bay, the lead medic—a veteran named Dr. Roel—mutters curses under his breath.
He works around the clock, trying every combination of treatments available.
But Lyra's body is resistant to most of them, her survival instincts ironically becoming her greatest hurdle now.
"Damn it, she's built too tough," Dr. Elan growls under his breath. "The regular stabilizers aren't strong enough. We need higher-grade medicine or a regenerative booster we don't have on-site."
"What does that mean?" Theresa demands, her voice hoarse from exhaustion.
The medic looks grim.
"It means she's fighting, but if we can't reinforce her system soon, she'll lose the fight."
Theresa swears viciously.
The twins—wounds now dressed and bodies stitched up and patched—pace restlessly outside the med bay, like two caged animals.
Every time one of them tries to sit, they'd last barely seconds before rising again to circle the hallway, casting anxious glances toward the heavy doors.
Hours slip by.
No news.
No change.
Theresa slams her fist against the wall once, the sound echoing down the cold corridors.
Claire leans her head back, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched tight.
They have survived worse fights before.
They have fought through hell.
But standing here, helpless, waiting for a stubborn, reckless sister of theirs to either wake up or slip away?
It is worse than any battle.
Claire glances at the comm panel nearby, lighting up as a secured call blinks.
Their master, Madam Cherry.
Her voice, unusually tight with barely contained emotion, comes through:
"Be calm. Help is coming. I'm sending everything we have. Just stay with her."
The twins nod wordlessly, standing sentinel outside Lyra's door—refusing to move, refusing to fall apart.
Because if Lyra has thrown herself into death's path for them, then by the gods, they will fight death itself to drag her back.
Meanwhile, far from the base, Edric's world narrows to a single objective: work, decode, uncover.
In a darkened operations room bathed in flickering monitors and tactical screens, he moves like a storm—silent, precise, unstoppable.
Fingers flying across the console, Edric pushes himself past exhaustion, dissecting layer upon layer of encrypted enemy data.
His subordinates barely dare to speak to him as he unravels secret after secret—long-term faction infiltration, assassination plots, hidden alliances—and sends the vital pieces to his organization for immediate counteractions.
Yet even as he works with brutal efficiency, his mind is never far from Lyra.
The image of her—bloodied, pale, still—haunts the corners of his vision.
Cherry has assured him she is at a safe base.
She hasn't lied.
But safety is a relative term when death hovers so close.
And then—
One file out of the many is decrypted fully.
Edric leans closer, frowning, scanning the text.
Subject: Fum - Former Oracle Affiliate.
Status: Deceased (Incident #992A).
Survivors: Niece – Designation: Lyra.
Current status: Agent under Cherry's directive.
The room seems to lurch sideways.
Edric stares at the screen, feeling the blood drain from his face.
Lyra… is Fum's niece.
Fum.
The man who saved Edric's life years ago.
A war zone at the edge of civilization, a desperate escape through smoke and ruin.
Fum—half-crippled, sickly, coughing up blood—shielding a terrified young Edric with his own battered body after the enemy had slaughtered Edric's men in cold blood.
The memory is etched into Edric's bones, burned into every sleepless night.
Fum threw himself at the pursuers and made himself a decoy as soon as he placed Edric in a hidden safe area to be rescued…
And now…
The screen blurs in front of Edric's eyes.
A strangled noise reaps from his throat—half fury, half despair—as the crushing truth settles over him.
He has taken away the only family Lyra has left without even knowing it.
Because Fum died for him.
Guilt surges like a tidal wave, driving him to his knees.
His hands clenched into fists against the console.
For a long, terrible moment, he is frozen, paralyzed by the enormity of it all.
Lyra—brilliant, resilient, kind in ways she doesn't even realize—has fought all this time with no one to tell her the truth.
And he…
He has unknowingly been the root of her greatest loss.
"Sir?" his subordinate ventures hesitantly from the doorway.
Edric doesn't answer.
Quickly finishing his work, looking over the documents one more time, he shuts down the console in one abrupt, violent movement and grabs his coat.
He has finished his duty.
He has sent every necessary file, every decrypted piece of data.
Now—
Now there is only one thing he has to do.
Find her.
No matter what it takes, no matter how much it breaks him, he has to reach her side.
He storms out of the room, leaving behind the flickering screens and the weight of unspoken sins.
The sterile scent of antiseptic still hangs thick in the air, but it seems lighter now.
The tension that had once choked the halls of the infirmary has shifted—uncertain, fragile, but undeniably filled with hope.
Claire and Theresa lean forward, their faces taut with worry as they watch Lyra stir on the narrow bed.
Her breathing hitches, eyelashes fluttering weakly against pale cheeks.
And then—
With a soft groan, Lyra opens her eyes.
The fluorescent lights above blur into focus, and the first thing she sees is the twins' stricken faces hovering over her.
Lyra blinks, lips cracked and dry, but still she manages a familiar crooked smile.
"Why..." her voice rasps, faint but steady, "do you two... look like you've seen a ghost?"
Claire and Theresa exhale so sharply it is almost a sob—then immediately recover their pride with scoffs.
"You are the ghost," Claire grumbles, but her hand is already reaching out.
Before Lyra can even muster a protest, the twins pinch both her cheeks firmly.
"—Ouch! Hey—!" Lyra protests, a little stronger now, her brows furrowing in weak indignation.
But the twins only grin, their eyes suspiciously bright.
"You scared us half to death," Theresa expresses under her breath.
"You earned it," Claire adds, folding her arms but hovering protectively near the bed.
Before the teasing can escalate further, the head medic appears at the doorway, a formidable figure even with the fatigue lining his face.
"Alright, pests," he states gruffly, "Give the patient some breathing room."
The twins whine dramatically but obey, murmuring soft reassurances and promises to come back later as they finally slip out of the room, leaving only Lyra and the medic behind.
The door clicks shut.
The medic stands there for a moment, his face unreadable.
Then he steps closer, pulling a chair beside her bed, settling heavily into it with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of decades.
"Lyra," he starts quietly, his voice low and solemn, "There's something... You need to know."
Lyra frowns slightly, her body still aching but her mind sharp.
She waits, patient and alert.
The medic rubs his hands together, as if trying to find the right words.
"I knew your uncle, Fum," he confesses finally. "I was one of his oldest friends. We worked together under the Oracle's directive long before all this chaos."
Lyra's chest tightens.
"My uncle..." she whispers.
The medic nods.
"Years ago, Fum received a secret order from the Oracle—an order to retrieve a 'lost asset.' That asset was his family... his sister, her husband, and..." he looked at her with steady, sorrowful eyes, "you."
Lyra's heart pounds in her ears.
"You weren't just his niece," the medic continues. "You were... more complicated than that."
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping.
"You were born of an experiment authorized by the Oracle itself. They were stationed in a war zone for some reason…Your parents—genius scientists under Oracle jurisdiction—engineered you, though for what purpose..." he shakes his head grimly, "only the dead, and the Oracle itself, knew."
Lyra's mouth has gone dry.
She barely registers the sharp spike of pain in her chest—it is nothing compared to the hollowing ache in her heart.
"My uncle... saved me?" she rasps.
The medic smiles.
"He found you just in time. Your parents were already dead... under circumstances we're not even allowed to fully know. He rescued you, against orders to leave any liabilities behind."
Lyra's hands clench weakly in the bedsheets.
"And Fum paid for it," the medic declares softly. "He spent years protecting you, moving from place to place, hiding you from those who would use you. He turned his back on the Oracle's demands to save your life."
There is a pause.
Then, more quietly:
"Fum even saved another life... in the end. The life of a young boy caught in a war zone. A boy named Edric Solaire."
Lyra's breath catches painfully in her throat.
The medic sighs deeply, his voice thick with regret.
"If Fum hadn't meddled in the Solaire incident," he admitted bitterly, "he might still be alive today. He made contact with me asking for help, and of course, I agreed. But then the day after he contacted me, he died. I could've treated him…If only I knew about his condition sooner…"
The silence stretches between them, fragile and vast.
Lyra stares up at the ceiling, feeling as though the ground beneath her has crumbled away.
She is a creation.
An experiment.
And yet…
She knows she is loved.
By a man who has given everything to shield her.
Her throat closes painfully, and for a long moment, all she can do is lie there, trembling from the weight of it all.
Finally, she turns her head slightly toward the medic, her voice raw but determined:
"...Thank you. For telling me."
The medic offers a small, weary smile and gently squeezes her hand before standing.
"You deserved to know," he states. "Rest now. There's more to be done... but not tonight."
As he slips out of the room, Lyra lies there, the pieces of her shattered past slowly rearranging themselves into a new, more complicated shape.
I'm an experiment?
She sighs. Lyra tries to make sense of it all.
In the end, she concludes that,
I am my uncle's legacy. So, I must live.
Then the thought of her uncle saving a boy pops into her mind.
How funny, it just has to be Edric…The Prince of Combat…
A boy she has unknowingly crossed paths with long before their fates entangled once more.
Lyra closes her eyes, letting the weight of the truth settle into her bones.
She will carry it all.
Because she is alive.
The sterile corridors of the base stretch endlessly before Edric as he makes his way toward Lyra's room.
Every step feels heavier than the last, a knot tightening in his chest that no amount of rational thought can loosen.
He hasn't even stopped to change out of his combat jacket; dust and blood — some of it not his own — still clings to the battered fabric.
None of it matters.
All that matters is seeing her.
When he finally reaches her door, he pauses — his hand hovering just inches from the handle.
For a second, the soldier in him hesitates.
He is used to facing death, betrayal, enemies lurking in the shadows — but the thought of facing Lyra's rejection claws at something much deeper inside him.
Still, he knocks softly.
A muffled, tired voice answers, "Come in."
He pushes the door open.
Lyra is awake, half-sitting against a stack of pillows, her body still frail and pale against the white sheets.
Her hair is loose around her face, messy but heartbreakingly soft.
For a moment, seeing her alive, breathing, is almost too much.
But then her eyes lift to meet his — and Edric's heart sinks.
They are distant.
Guarded.
Cold.
"Good to know you're safe," Lyra states a bit too flatly, her tone devoid of the usual warmth.
"Yeah," Edric replies quietly, his voice almost rough from the storm inside him.
"I... I had to see you."
An unbearable silence stretches between them.
He takes a step closer, uncertain, for the first time in years, how to approach someone.
How to reach her.
But Lyra doesn't offer him a smile.
Silence.
She turns her head slightly, as if she can't even bear to fully look at him.
"I don't... want visitors right now," Lyra states, her voice trembling just a fraction, but her words sharp.
Edric's breath catches painfully in his throat.
He opens his mouth — to ask, to apologize, to explain — but Lyra speaks again, her tone harder now:
"I need time. Alone. Thanks."
Her bluntness hits harder than any bullet ever could.
And deep down, Edric understands.
He can see it — the shadow in her gaze.
She knows now, too…about her uncle, about me…
Even if she doesn't say it aloud, he knows.
Somewhere inside her, a part of her — even unfairly — blames him.
Because if Fum hasn't saved him…
If he hasn't been there…
Maybe Lyra's only family wouldn't have been lost.
And there is nothing Edric can say to fix that.
His fists clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms to keep himself steady.
"...Alright," he forces out, his voice low and ragged. "I'll be leaving. Take care."
For a moment, he thinks — hopes — she'll call him back.
But Lyra only closes her eyes, leaning her head back weakly against the pillows, the conversation already over for her.
Edric turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him, as if anything louder will shatter him completely.
He doesn't remember how he got back to their base.
The world blurs around him, muted by the pounding of blood in his ears.
The walls, the lights, the bustling agents — none of it registers.
When he reaches his office, he throws himself into work with mechanical precision.
Decryption files. Enemy movement reports. Intel gathering.
Task after task after task — anything to drown out the screaming silence in his chest.
Hours meld into an endless stream of hollow focus.
Subordinates come and go, exchanging worried glances behind his back, whispering among themselves.
"He's not sleeping."
"Something happened, didn't it?"
"He looks worse than after a battlefield."
Even his self-proclaimed close aide, George, hesitates before speaking up:
"Young master... maybe you should rest. Just for an hour—"
"I'm fine," Edric cuts him off sharply, the raw edge in his voice enough to silence him.
But he isn't fine.
He isn't fine at all.
George can only help Edric through random errands like making tea and warming up the forgotten, and throwing out the forgotten tea…
George's effort goes unnoticed. Still, he persists.
Edric stares down at the endless streams of reports and files, and missions…
All he can think about is a girl in a hospital bed, her beautiful, distant eyes filled not with warmth,
but with hurt he has no way to heal.