She sat still.
Not the kind of stillness that came from peace—but the kind that formed when the body didn't know how to move with the mind spinning that fast.
The apartment was dim. The kettle had boiled half an hour ago. She hadn't touched the tea.
Isabella.
That woman moved like she'd walked through storms and come out the other side dry. Charming. Poised. But… too smooth. Too sure. The kind of sure that didn't come from status—it came from surviving.
Iris had ridden the elevator with her, laughed even. It had felt real. But something inside Iris twisted now.
Like she'd shared a joke with the ocean and only realized later she'd been standing on a cliff.
She replayed Isabella's words, her tone, her gaze that lingered just a moment too long. There was no threat in it. Just awareness. Deep and ancient.
And then there was the cafeteria.
The way everyone watched her once they realized who she'd been sitting with. The subtle shift in the room's air. The moment the supervisor's face froze just a little too long.
And Marek's expression when he saw them.
Iris exhaled and rested her chin against her knees. Her thoughts were like threads, each one pulling to a different place.
Ainsworth's sharp wit, dancing between riddles and warnings.
Marek's blunt honesty masked by dry humor.
Aldrin's… absence. His silence was its own kind of presence.
They were all orbiting something massive. Something hidden.
And now Isabella had returned—just as Iris had started to ask questions she didn't yet know how to form.
She didn't know what her place was in all of this. But she knew one thing:
This wasn't just a job anymore.
In a quiet corner of the building, Marek leaned against the wall of the stairwell, arms folded, staring at the floor like it might confess something.
Ainsworth sat cross-legged on the bottom step, tapping his fingers in rhythm against his knee.
"She hasn't changed a bit," Marek said softly.
Ainsworth chuckled. "She's sharper. Softer too, somehow. Like velvet over a blade."
Marek gave a small nod. "She's gonna shake the foundation this time."
Ainsworth tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling.
"We all thought he'd be the one to stir the fire," he murmured.
Marek looked over. "And now?"
Ainsworth smiled faintly. "Now I think the flame was waiting for her."
The silence settled between them—not heavy, but reverent.
They both knew: the tides had turned. And nothing, not even Aldrin, could stop what was coming next.
The world outside blurred behind the veil of rain. It hit the windows in gentle waves, steady, rhythmic—like the city exhaling.
Aldrin sat alone in his office. The desk before him was cluttered with the unfinished remnants of decisions—maps, profiles, redacted reports with ink bleeding into the corners. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat cooling at his elbow. The lamp beside him cast long shadows across the floor, too soft to reach the corners of the room.
He wasn't reading.
He wasn't typing.
Just… thinking. Eyes fixed on nothing. Still as stone.
Then his phone buzzed.
Not a calendar reminder. Not a security alert.
A name. One of the few that could pull him from the depths of silence:
Aria.
He picked up immediately. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"
Her voice came through light, teasing. "Shouldn't you be home?"
A pause. His breath caught on a laugh. "Touché."
She didn't press him right away. She never did.
"You still working?" she asked, but already knew the answer.
"Thinking."
"Mm. Dangerous hobby for someone like you."
"I try to limit it to midnight."
She chuckled softly. "You never could lie well to me."
He leaned back in his chair, letting the rhythm of her voice steady the disquiet in his head. "And yet here I am, still trying."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It just… settled.
Then she spoke, quieter this time. "You've got that sound in your voice."
"What sound?"
"The one that shows up when you're about to do something that'll keep you up for the next six years."
He didn't respond right away. Just rubbed his temple.
Aria waited.
Eventually, he said, "It's complicated."
"It always is with you."
"I don't want blood on my hands."
"You don't get to say that. Not with hands like yours."
There was no venom in her words. Just truth. And Aldrin didn't flinch from it. He never did with her.
"So what's different this time?" she asked.
"It's not the action. It's the intention." He exhaled, slow. "Sometimes, you have to burn the field to save the roots."
"And yet it's always your match."
He went silent again, but this time, she didn't wait for him.
"I know you think this burden is yours alone," she said gently. "But isolation doesn't make you noble. It just makes you lonely."
Aldrin's hand paused on the edge of his desk. "You sound like her."
"I take that as a compliment."
He allowed the faintest smile. "She's back."
"I figured. Your voice changed."
"Did it?"
"Yeah. You got quieter."
He ran a hand through his hair. "She brings the ghosts with her."
"She isn't one of them."
"I know."
"You trust her."
"With everything."
"Then let her carry some of it."
Aldrin let his head tilt back, eyes tracing the patterns in the ceiling. The only person who ever saw him like this—unguarded, unarmored—was Aria. Not by blood, but something deeper. Someone who found him when he was raw and aimless. Someone who never asked him to be a god.
Only a man.
"You should rest," he said finally.
"You should live, Aldrin."
That gave him pause.
"You forget," she continued, "I was there before the suits, before the empire, before you became something the world feared. And I'll still be here when all that's gone."
"I haven't forgotten," he said softly.
"Then don't forget yourself either."
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
"I'll try."
"You always say that," she said with a quiet smirk.
"And you always call anyway."
There was warmth in that silence.
Then: "Goodnight, big brother."
"Goodnight, little one."
The call ended.
He sat in the stillness, the city's breath on the windows, the soft jazz record looping back to the beginning—unfinished like everything else in his life.
But somewhere in that silence… there was a heartbeat.
Still alive.
Still fighting.