No one spoke after that.
Not because they were afraid—but because they weren't anymore.
The word lingered in the air, awkward and fragile, like it might shatter if anyone touched it too quickly.
"…Big Sis?"
This time it wasn't the woman.
It was someone younger. Barely past twenty. One of the last recruits from before everything fell apart. He sounded unsure, like he was testing a language he hadn't been allowed to speak.
Aria turned her head.
He stiffened immediately. Straight-backed. Terrified. Ready to be corrected.
She looked at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
"You said it like a question," she noted.
The kid swallowed. "I—I just wanted to make sure."
A pause.
"…Are we allowed?"
That did it.
Something in the room shifted—not loudly, not dramatically—but deeply. The kind of shift that only happens when people finally stop bracing for impact.
Aria pushed herself off the wall and walked forward. Boots echoed softly against the mat. Each step made them tenser, until she stopped right in front of him.
She was shorter than he remembered.
Or maybe she always had been.
She reached up and flicked his forehead.
Not hard. Just enough.
"Ow—!"
"You're allowed," she said flatly. "But don't say it like you're asking permission to breathe."
The kid blinked. Then—unexpectedly—laughed. A short, startled sound that cracked into something brighter.
"Yes—Big Sis."
Around him, shoulders loosened. Someone let out a breath they'd been holding for years.
Scar-Jaw scratched the back of his neck. "So… does this mean you're back?"
Aria didn't answer immediately. She crouched, picked up the fallen chip bag, and shook it upside down.
Empty.
"Tch."
She stood again. "No."
The word landed clean. Final.
A few faces fell. Noah's eyes dimmed—but he didn't argue.
"I'm not going back," she continued. "To the system. To the titles. To being a weapon people point and fire."
She looked at each of them in turn.
"But."
They leaned in without meaning to.
"If you show up hungry, bleeding, or stupid enough to need help…" Her mouth twitched. "I'll handle it."
Someone snorted. Another smiled openly this time.
"That's not how command works," Scar-Jaw said weakly.
Aria shrugged. "Good. Command sucked."
A beat.
Noah stepped forward. His voice was quieter than anyone else's. "Then what are we to you?"
She considered that.
Then reached into her pocket, produced another bag of chips—somehow—and tore it open.
"Family," she said simply. "On probation."
A stunned silence.
Then laughter. Real laughter. The kind that hurt their ribs but didn't care.
No salutes.
No oaths.
No chains snapping into place.
Just people who finally knew where they stood.
And for the first time since the past had found her—
Aria didn't feel like running.