Jin's eyes flicked between them like he was trying to decide whether Haru was a threat, a liability, or something worse — a distraction.
Ash didn't flinch under the weight of his stare.
"He's not the enemy," she said simply.
Jin let out a breath through his nose. "Maybe not. But he's still his son."
"And I'm still DaeCorp's ghost story. Doesn't mean I serve them."
"You never did," Jin said, quieter now. "You survived them."
Ash's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. That part, at least, was true.
The wind scraped through the bridge's steel supports, moaning like something long-dead trying to speak. Shadows danced over cracked concrete. Below, the dried riverbed stretched out like a scar.
"We don't have much time," Jin said. "Phoenix is splitting. Some of them think we should negotiate. The others want to torch everything."
"And what do you want?" Ash asked.
He looked at her then — not like a soldier, or an asset, or even a leader.
Like a friend. Like someone who had bled beside her.
"I want you to come back," he said. "Help finish what you started."
Ash didn't respond right away. Behind her, Haru shifted his weight slightly, saying nothing but staying there — always present, always watching.
"I didn't start a war," she said finally. "I exposed the truth. What people did with it… that's on them."
Jin stepped closer. "And what if they burn the wrong things? What if they take the ashes of what you gave them and build something worse?"
Ash stared at him. "Then maybe they were never worth saving."
Jin flinched, just barely. "That's not you talking."
"No," she said softly. "That's the version of me that lived. The one that had to choose silence or survival every damn day."
He looked away. "You've changed."
"I had to."
The silence that followed wasn't hostile — just heavy. Tired.
Like everything between them had been worn thin by too many battles and not enough peace.
"I'm not your leader anymore, Jin," Ash said. "But I'll help. Just not under your banner. Not under anyone's."
He nodded, slowly. "Okay. That's fair."
She turned to go, but Jin caught her arm gently.
"I'm glad you're alive," he said, voice low. "Even if you're not mine to protect anymore."
Ash hesitated — then nodded once and pulled away.
Back at the cabin, dusk had melted into full night. Haru drove in silence, the steady hum of the engine filling the space between them. Ash stared out the window, her expression unreadable.
"You didn't ask me to stay back," Haru said after a while.
"No," she said.
"Was that trust?"
"Maybe."
He smirked faintly. "Or maybe you just knew I'd follow anyway."
She looked over at him. "Would you have?"
"In a heartbeat."
She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
"I meant what I said to Jin," she added. "You're not the enemy."
"I don't want to be anything close."
"You're not."
That quiet hung between them again, softer this time — like a thread being carefully tied instead of cut.
When they returned, Haru moved to check the perimeter again, but Ash stopped him at the door with a hand on his wrist.
He turned, brows raised.
"You don't have to keep proving yourself," she said. "I already see you."
His throat worked like he was swallowing something unsaid.
Then, "Okay."
She stepped back. "Get some rest. You've earned it."
He gave her a small smile — not the charming kind, but the rare, tired one he reserved for moments that actually mattered.
"Goodnight, Ash."
"Goodnight, Haru."
Later that night, long after the fire had died down and the silence had reclaimed the walls, Ash stood by the window with a blanket draped around her shoulders, watching the moonlight filter through the trees.
She didn't hear him approach, but she felt him.
"You're not sleeping again," Haru murmured.
"Neither are you."
He leaned against the opposite side of the window frame. "You ever think about what it'd be like to be normal?"
Ash snorted softly. "Normal doesn't want people like us."
"That's fair," he said. "But if it did?"
She was quiet for a long time. Then: "I think I'd be a mechanic."
That surprised him. "Really?"
"Yeah," she said. "Something simple. Fixing broken things. Making them run again."
Haru smiled faintly. "I like that."
She glanced at him. "What about you?"
"I don't know. Maybe… a bookstore owner."
She blinked. "You? Books?"
He grinned. "Shocking, right? But yeah. Quiet days. Paper cuts instead of bullet wounds."
Ash tilted her head. "We'd make a weird pair."
"Maybe," he said. "But it'd work."
Their eyes met again. And this time, there was no hesitation, no unfinished thought.
Just a shared quiet.
And maybe, just maybe — the start of something not broken.