After just over a week of training, Sam was pulled from the facility without ceremony, summoned away on a mission that came down the chain with the kind of urgency that didn't invite questions.
The timing was abrupt, the departure quick, and whatever momentum they had been building together was cut short before either of them could decide what to do with it.
Mira found Sam in the locker room, packing with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times to romanticize it.
"So," Mira said lightly, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, "do I get a graduation certificate, or are you just abandoning me mid-semester?"
Sam snorted without looking up. "You dodged every punch I threw. If anything, you should be teaching me."
Mira smiled. "I accept payment in compliments and not being psychologically ambushed again."
Sam glanced at her then, lips curving. "No promises."
There was a brief pause as Sam zipped her bag, then she added, softer, "Don't get rusty."
Mira tilted her head. "You say that like I was planning to."
Sam hesitated, then smirked. "Try not to traumatize anyone while I'm gone."
Mira lifted her hands in mock innocence. "I make no guarantees."
Sam laughed quietly, slung the bag over her shoulder, and stopped just long enough to look back. "We'll finish this when I'm back."
Mira nodded. "I'll hold you to it."
When Sam left, the room felt larger than it should have, as though her presence had been holding the space together in some subtle, invisible way. The echoes of their voices lingered longer than they should have, and the quiet that followed felt too deliberate, too aware of itself.
Mira stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the spot where Sam had last been, before finally exhaling and turning away.
With the sudden stretch of free time, Mira decided it was the right moment to take care of the practical things she had been quietly postponing. School supplies, clothing, books—small, ordinary necessities that belonged to a future that still felt unreal on certain days, like something she was only temporarily allowed to imagine.
She made a short list, folded it carefully, and slipped it into her pocket, determined to keep the errand simple.
She didn't get far.
When word reached Cassian that she intended to go out, a butler appeared at her door with impeccable timing, moving with the kind of quiet efficiency that made his presence feel almost ceremonial.
Without preamble, he extended a sleek black card toward her, balanced perfectly between two gloved fingers.
"For your use," he said politely.
Mira blinked.
Then she blinked again.
Mira stared at the card, then up at him, her brows knitting together as the absurdity of it settled in.
"For… notebooks?" she asked slowly, as if saying it out loud might suddenly make it make sense. "Pens? Highlighters?"
The butler's expression did not change.
She looked back at the card again, its glossy surface catching the light, and let out a quiet, incredulous huff.
"Who buys school supplies with a black card?" she muttered, more to herself than to him, shaking her head.
When no answer came, she let out a soft, incredulous huff of laughter. "How efficient," she muttered.
She accepted it—because refusing it outright would have caused more questions than it was worth—but she already knew she wasn't going to use it.
There were things she was willing to accept from Cassian, and then there were things that felt like crossing a line she didn't want blurred. Still, when she left, she deliberately set it back on the table in her room.
She had her own money. He knew that. He always knew these things, even when she never said them out loud.
What was she supposed to do with hacking skills if she couldn't profit from them, after all?
She grabbed her jacket, slipped her phone inside, and left without overthinking it, choosing motion over reflection.
By the time she stepped into the mall, the decision already felt justified.
The mall was crowded but unexpectedly pleasant, filled with a low, constant hum of conversation, distant laughter, and music drifting softly from storefronts, a kind of noise that felt alive without being overwhelming. It was movement that didn't demand vigilance, where people brushed past one another without intent, where no one watched her closely enough to matter.
Mira moved through it at an unhurried pace, studying shelves and displays with careful consideration, selecting what she needed one item at a time, pausing to compare, to think, to decide—simple choices that felt oddly grounding.
She blended into the flow of ordinary life, just another person with a shopping bag and a quiet expression, though the ease of it still felt unfamiliar, like slipping into a role she had never fully been allowed to play.
When she finished, there was no urgency to leave. No pull to return anywhere in particular. She wandered instead, letting her feet choose the direction until she found herself drifting toward a nearby park, guided by the sound of laughter floating easily on the warm air.
The atmosphere there was festive in a gentle, unguarded way.
Families were scattered across the grass, parents sitting on blankets or benches, calling out reminders and soft warnings, voices layered with affection and mild exasperation. Children ran in careless circles, tripping and recovering, shouting names, being called back, being gathered up and kissed on the forehead before being released again. It was the kind of scene that slowed time, the kind that felt safe without trying.
Mira walked along the path, her steps slowing without her realizing it, and something in her chest tightened sharply.
She watched a woman kneel to fix her daughter's shoelace, brushing stray hair from the girl's face with gentle patience, and the sight hit her harder than she expected. Another parent lifted a small boy into the air, spinning him until he shrieked with laughter, and Mira had to look away.
Her parents had done those things.
They had tied her shoes. They had brushed her hair. They had lifted her when she cried, scolded her when she was reckless, laughed when she tried too hard to impress them.
She could almost hear her mother's voice now, calling her name with that particular mix of warmth and warning, could almost feel her father's hand resting briefly on her shoulder as he passed behind her.
The memories came uninvited, vivid and cruel in their clarity.
She hadn't thought of their faces in this much detail in a long time—not because she had forgotten them, but because remembering hurt too much.
Here, surrounded by proof that families still existed, that love still unfolded so easily for others, the ache sharpened into something physical.
Mira kept walking, though her steps gradually slowed until she felt less like she was heading somewhere and more like she was simply moving so she wouldn't have to stand still with her thoughts.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, holding it gently but deliberately, grounding herself in something solid and physical while everything inside her felt unsteady. It was a small habit she had developed over the years, a quiet way of reminding herself that she was present and that the world around her was real.
She didn't cry because crying had never been something she allowed herself to do easily. It required a kind of safety and surrender she had learned not to rely on. Instead, the feeling settled in her chest as a deep hollowness, familiar and persistent, the kind that did not demand attention but never fully disappeared either. It felt like walking past a house that once held laughter and warmth and realizing that it now belonged to someone else, unchanged on the outside but no longer yours.
The absence had been there for years, carefully contained and pushed aside whenever it threatened to interfere with the life she had built, yet moments like this had a way of drawing its outline with painful clarity.
She missed them.
She missed them in a way that made her throat tighten, in a way that made her wish—just for a moment—that she could sit on the grass and hear her name spoken with love instead of caution, with familiarity instead of formality.
She missed being someone's child.