Rain tapped against the window of the safe house—soft, steady, the kind that made you forget there'd ever been war.
Scarlett sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a data-slate balanced on her knees. No armor. No rifle. Just sweatpants, an old Ark-issue sweater two sizes too big, and the quiet hum of a kettle boiling in the kitchen.
Peace felt strange.
Too still.
Like holding your breath.
She scrolled through Damien's files again. Not the public manifestos. Not the polished lectures on "cosmic balance." The raw stuff. The private logs he'd kept during his early years at the Academy—back when he still called her "Scout" and let her steal his coffee.
Training Record #47: "Subject S demonstrates excessive empathy. Must be redirected. Compassion without control is chaos."
Psych Note #22: "Order isn't preference—it's survival. One broken rule unravels everything."
She'd read these a hundred times before. Always with fury. Always looking for the monster.
