The question hovered even before it was asked.
It always did.
"You could," someone said carefully. "With your name, your record… if anyone could reopen the door—"
"No."
The word landed clean. Flat. No heat, no hesitation.
Aria didn't turn from the window.
They exchanged looks. Noah frowned. "You didn't even let him finish."
"I know what he was going to say."
She faced them then, arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed in a way that meant she was completely serious.
"Go back," she said. "Report in. Rebuild the chain. Wear the badge with a different logo and pretend it's not the same machine."
Scar-Jaw rubbed the back of his neck. "It wasn't all bad."
"No," Aria agreed. "But it was enough."
Silence stretched.
"You died for us," Noah said quietly. "Doesn't that mean—"
"It means I already paid," she cut in. Not sharp. Just final. "With interest."
That stopped him cold.
She softened then, just a little. "Listen. I'm not running. I'm not afraid of what I was."
She tapped the table once, grounding. "I just won't let it own what I am now."
Someone exhaled slowly. Another nodded, reluctant but understanding.
No orders.
No salutes.
Just acceptance.
Aria picked up her jacket. "If you choose a different path," she said, "make sure it's yours."
They watched her like they always had—waiting for permission that never came.
And this time, they didn't follow.