Smoke rose from the data drives like ghosts.
Ash sat alone in the comms room, the door sealed shut behind her. The Phoenix outpost was still sleeping off the trauma of the last raid, but she couldn't rest. Not after what she'd seen at the ruins. Not after the mark on the metal — a phoenix swallowing its tail.
Not after the files started decrypting themselves.
The data Jin helped salvage shouldn't have survived. But someone had encrypted it with redundancy fails — not Phoenix code, not DaeCorp, either. Smarter. Hungrier.
Ash's fingers moved across the interface slowly, dragging files into place, one by one.
She expected weapons logs, transport routes, tactical feeds.
What she found instead was surveillance.
Not of DaeCorp.
Of her.
There were images from years ago — grainy captures of her in the ring, of her sitting silently during blood tests, of her sleeping in the recovery units. Footage even she hadn't seen before. It wasn't stolen from DaeCorp's archives.
It was newer.
Timestamped six months ago.
A chill slid down her spine. That symbol she saw — the phoenix devouring itself — wasn't just a metaphor. It was a mission. Someone had been watching both Phoenix and DaeCorp, letting them destroy each other… while they quietly took notes.
She clicked open the next folder.
It was labeled ASH_WARBRIDE.
Her chest tightened.
The screen flickered to life — audio and video.
A voice filtered through, cloaked in static.
"Ash Kenzō. Born from fire. Shaped by fists. Rejected by the fathers of war and chosen by its ghosts. Our vessel. Our storm."
She froze.
"This world doesn't need another martyr. It needs an evolution. You are the bridge. The blood. The warbride."
The static deepened, like breathing underwater.
"You'll come to us. Or we'll come through you."
Ash reached up and yanked the earpiece out.
She staggered from the chair, breath sharp in her lungs.
They hadn't just been watching.
They'd been waiting.
Not to kill her.
To claim her.
She turned toward the exit — but the door had already opened.
Cassel stood there, flanked by two Phoenix soldiers.
"You were in here a long time," he said.
"Working."
"On what?"
Ash didn't answer.
Cassel stepped inside. "We saw the same symbol. At the ruins. We've known about them for months."
Her eyes narrowed. "And said nothing?"
Cassel shrugged. "We didn't want to panic the team."
"You mean you didn't want me to panic."
"Because you're their fire now."
Ash stared him down. "Then you should be scared of what I'll do with it."
Later that night, she didn't go back to her room.
She went to Haru's.
He was sitting upright for the first time in days, blanket draped over his legs, a faint bruise still blooming down his jaw.
He looked up when she entered.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"I didn't want to be alone."
He patted the cot beside him. "Then don't be."
Ash climbed in, sitting beside him in the dim light.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then: "They're not done with us."
"The ones who attacked the base?"
"No. Worse. The ones who've been watching. Collecting."
Haru tensed. "You think they're the ones behind Phoenix's fractures?"
"I think they're behind everything."
He didn't ask for proof.
He never did.
Instead, he gently reached for her hand and squeezed it once.
"You don't have to carry it all," he said.
"Yes, I do," she whispered. "Because they've made it clear — I'm not just a symbol to them. I'm a target. Or worse — a plan."
Haru leaned his head back against the wall. "Then we change the plan."
"You think it's that simple?"
"No," he said. "I think it's that hard. But we've done hard before."
She let out a shaky breath. "They called me warbride."
"What?"
"That's what the files said. Over and over. Like a title."
Haru's jaw clenched. "Then they see you wrong."
Ash turned toward him, eyes sharp. "Do you?"
He didn't flinch. "No. I see you."
She shifted closer to him, her hand now resting on his thigh — not suggestive, just there. Steady. Present.
"You're the only one who never wanted to use me," she said.
"I just wanted to find you."
"You did."
He smiled faintly. "I'm not done yet."
Ash tilted her head. "What's left?"
"Helping you believe you're more than what they built you to be."
She let her eyes close, forehead resting against his shoulder.
And in that moment — between ruined empires and stolen futures — she didn't feel like a weapon. Or a ghost. Or even a war bride.
She felt like someone still capable of choosing what came next.
And she chose this.