Ash couldn't stop trembling.
It wasn't fear, not exactly. More like something had been carved out of her and left hollow, raw, echoing with the name she hadn't spoken aloud in years: Sora.
She sat in the far corner of the safehouse, her back against cold concrete, still covered in grime and blood from the Sector 12 infiltration. The others moved around her in whispers, quiet steps, exchanging medical kits and whispered theories. But no one spoke to her.
Except him.
Haru sat across the room, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving her. Not once. Not since she fell to her knees in front of that graveyard of prototypes and whispered her sister's name like it was both a curse and a prayer.
She could still hear the alarms in her ears. Still smell burning silicon. Still feel the whisper of Sora's voice—digitized, incomplete—glitching from the corrupted files Echo had sealed away.
"It wasn't real," she muttered, mostly to herself.
"It was," Haru said. Calm. Steady. Devastating.
Ash looked up sharply. "Then why did she scream for me?"
Haru didn't answer right away. He stood, slow and measured, walking toward her like he might spook her if he moved too fast. She didn't back away. Couldn't. There was no fight left in her—not for him, not for anyone.
He crouched beside her, his voice low. "Because they used her, Ash. Because Echo doesn't just erase people. It rewrites them."
Ash flinched. "She was just a kid. My kid sister. And they turned her into…"
"A weapon," he finished.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Ash's jaw clenched. "She thought I left her. She thought I let them take her."
"You didn't know."
"But I should have."
Her breath hitched. Shame settled in her bones heavier than any wound. And then she felt it—his hand, gentle and grounding, sliding over hers.
She didn't pull away.
"I saw the files," he said, voice thick with something he rarely let anyone hear. "The ones they buried deep in the DaeCorp vaults. They didn't just take her. They broke her. And when she screamed your name in that facility… she wasn't blaming you."
Ash looked at him, blinking fast.
"She was remembering you," he whispered.
It shattered her.
And before she could stop herself, she leaned in—forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and the faint trace of mint that somehow always clung to him. Haru didn't speak. He just held her there, arms strong and silent, like he knew what she needed before she did.
"You always do this," she mumbled.
"What?"
"Catch me when I break."
His voice was a murmur against her hair. "Because I'd rather bleed with you than watch you bleed alone."
Outside, a storm gathered. Wind howled like a warning.
Inside, Ash pressed closer.
And somewhere between grief and resolve, she realized she wasn't alone anymore.
Not in this war.
Not in this pain.
Not in this love.