He wasn't supposed to linger.
He'd said what he needed to say. Warned her about Phoenix's fracture, about the chaos growing teeth in the shadows.
But Jin stayed longer than he should have.
He told himself it was for strategy — to ensure they weren't followed. To monitor DaeCorp movement. To keep Ash safe.
But really, he just wanted to see how she looked when she wasn't trying to survive.
And what he saw — that broke him.
It was small. Barely a moment.
They were standing by the old fireplace in the safehouse, the light low, the air filled with the scent of burnt cedar. Haru stood beside her, arms crossed, leaning just close enough to share warmth but not so close it demanded permission.
And Ash — she leaned in.
Not a full touch. Just a tilt of her head, the slightest shift of her body toward him, like it was natural. Like it was safe.
Jin knew what that meant.
He'd seen her recoil from kindness. Seen her stab at sympathy like it was a weapon. But now? She stood beside the son of the monster who made her life a prison… and looked at him like he was a place she could rest.
Not because she'd forgotten.
But because he'd bled for her.
Because she believed him.
Jin turned before they noticed he was watching.
His chest felt too tight. Not with jealousy — he wouldn't reduce it to that. This wasn't about being chosen.
This was about being replaced.
He stepped out onto the porch, letting the cold bite at his face. It helped, a little.
Inside, he could still hear muffled voices — Haru's low, deliberate tone. Ash's sharper edge softened now, like sand smoothed by the tide.
He used to be the one who understood her cadence. Her silences. The way she said "I'm fine" when her hands were shaking.
Now, someone else was reading her like scripture.
And Jin… Jin had no right to mourn that.
He'd had his chance. Years ago. On that prison floor, with the crumbs and the tapped codes and the bruises she never cried about.
But he'd chosen the mission. The rules. The distance.
Because loving her back then would've made her a target.
Because touching her back then would've made him weak.
And now?
Now Haru touched her with the same kind of grief Jin had buried — except Haru didn't hide it.
He lived in it.
Jin hated how much he respected that.
The door creaked behind him. Soft footsteps followed.
Ash.
Of course.
She stopped beside him, not speaking yet.
He didn't look at her. Just watched the frost gathering on the railing.
"You love him?" he asked quietly.
She blinked. "That's blunt."
"I think I earned the right."
A pause.
Then she said, "I don't know if it's love. Not yet."
Jin swallowed. "But it's something."
"Yes."
He nodded, once. "Does he know what it cost you?"
Ash looked away. "He is what it cost me."
Jin let out a bitter breath. "And still…"
"Still," she echoed.
They stood in silence again.
Jin wanted to ask — What does he give you that I never did?
But he already knew the answer.
Haru gave her permission to be angry. To burn. To exist without apology.
Jin had only ever given her a reason to keep quiet.
"Thank you," Ash said suddenly.
He glanced at her.
"For what?"
"For never trying to own me."
He smiled — small, sad, real. "I always knew you were a wildfire. I just… didn't want to be another cage."
"You never were."
And somehow, that hurt more.
That night, Jin left without saying goodbye.
No note. No trace.
Only a Phoenix sigil scratched lightly into the porch wood — a promise he'd still be watching.
Still protecting.
Even if she never looked back.