No one spoke after she left the room.
The door hadn't slammed. It hadn't even clicked loudly. It was just… closed.
And somehow that felt heavier.
Noah was the first to sit down again. He stared at the place she'd been standing, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.
"She's right," he said at last.
Scar-Jaw scoffed, weakly. "You say that like it doesn't sting."
"It does," Noah replied. "That's how I know she means it."
Another leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Back then, everything we did—every order, every mission—it was justified by need."
"And by her," someone else added quietly.
They all knew it. She'd been the buffer. The one who absorbed the worst calls, the impossible decisions, so the rest of them could keep moving without breaking.
"She didn't just fight for us," Noah said. "She decided when we didn't have to."
The room fell silent again, but this time it wasn't awkward. It was thoughtful.
Scar-Jaw let out a slow breath. "If she went back… it wouldn't be saving anyone."
"It would just be repeating it," Noah said.
Outside, laughter drifted up from the street below—ordinary, careless, alive.
"She built something new," someone murmured. "A life where she chooses."
Noah nodded. "And for once, she's not carrying us on her back."
They looked at each other then—not as a unit, not as ranks or call signs.
Just people who finally understood the cost she'd paid.
And why she refused to pay it again.