The CTI dormitories were quiet long after the debriefing ended. Most personnel had buried themselves in rest before the next round of operations, but sleep was impossible for Aya. She lay motionless on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the ceiling's faint grid of lights.
Every word Hyde had thrown at her still scraped along her ribs: *tool, liability, failure.*
She tried replaying Gabrielle's defense instead, clinging to the warmth of those words like driftwood in storm‑water, but the darker voice persisted louder.
The door clicked.
Gabrielle slipped inside without asking, jacket slung over one shoulder. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she feared startling Aya.
"Can't sleep either?" the captain asked.
Aya sat up softly, hair falling wild over her face. "I didn't want to."
Gabrielle smirked without humor. "Guess that makes two of us."
She pulled a chair near the bed and sat, backward, arms folded across the top rail. For a moment neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't empty—it carried weight, the residual echo of the debriefing room and all the things left unsaid.
Finally Gabrielle exhaled. "Hyde's an asshole. You know that, right?"
Aya almost smiled, but the curve of her lips wavered. "He may be right, though."
"About what?"
"That I'm not human enough anymore. That I'm dangerous to everyone here."
Gabrielle's frown sharpened. "Listen. I've fought alongside plenty of dangerous people. Some started wars, some ended them. You? You carry the world's heaviest burden and still stand after everything. That's not inhuman, Aya. That's… stubborn."
Aya hugged her knees tighter. "What if I can't tell where I end and the Babel begins? Every dive, I feel pieces of me fraying. Memories that aren't mine keep living inside me." Her voice shrank. "I can't tell which memories are real anymore."
Gabrielle tilted her head, eyes softening. "Then let's test something. Tell me a memory of yours that you're sure about."
Aya blinked at the challenge. Her mind swirled with fragments—blood, fire, voices screaming not hers. She struggled past them, digging into a corner untouched by the overdive's corrosion.
"…Birthday cake," she whispered. "Vanilla. Candles kept tipping because we had no table big enough to hold it steady. Eve laughed more at that than anything. She smeared frosting across my cheek." Aya's breath caught, trembling. "I remember we were happy. Just that moment."
Gabrielle smiled gently. "See? That's real. That's yours. No Babel, no borrowed soldier's ghost. Only Aya Brea and her kid sister eating terrible cake. Hold that inside you."
Aya shut her eyes, trying to preserve the warmth of the picture. For a fleeting heartbeat, the memory glowed untarnished.
But along the edges, she still felt static—visions of Eve again behind glass, unreachable.
Gabrielle noticed the shiver ripple through her. She leaned closer, firm. "You don't have to face this alone. People forget that, because you're the only one who can dive. But you've got me. That won't change."
Aya's voice cracked: "I'm afraid you'll start seeing what Hyde sees. That I'll lose myself… and hurt you."
"Then I'll hit you back to yourself." Gabrielle grinned, a soldier's grin, hard but alive. "That's a promise."
The laugh that caught Aya by surprise was brittle, brief, but real. She wiped the corner of her eye quickly, embarrassed, yet Gabrielle didn't comment.
For a while they sat in the muted hum of the air system. The silence turned companionable, not jagged.
Then Gabrielle spoke again, quieter. "You ever think about what comes after? Suppose the Babel falls. Suppose the world actually survives. What do you want then?"
Aya's face fell into shadow. She hadn't let herself ask. "I… don't know if there's a future left for me. Too much of me is gone already."
"There's always a scrap of future, Aya. No one fights this long just to erase themselves. So—try. Humor me. Close your eyes and imagine."
Aya obeyed. She inhaled, let the sterile air sting her lungs, forced her mind away from the tower's beating heart. Slowly, reluctantly, she pictured something else.
"I'd want… quiet. A place where no one calls my name for orders. Somewhere Eve could laugh again. Maybe… somewhere with a garden."
Her voice trembled, but Gabrielle caught it like a secret. "Not bad. Sounds worth fighting for."
Aya opened her eyes, hesitant. "What about you?"
Gabrielle smirked, leaning back in the chair. "I'd like not dying in a hole eaten by monsters. Beyond that? I don't know. Maybe I'll stick around that garden of yours. Someone needs to swat the bugs while you water the flowers."
Aya let out another small, unexpected laugh. This time it wasn't brittle—it was tired but warmer.
For a few minutes, the endless war felt lighter, even survivable.
But as the laugh faded, Aya's gaze drifted to the dark window. In her reflection, two figures stared back instead of one. She bit down on panic until her nails dug her palms. Not now. Not while Gabrielle's reassurance still lingered.
She forced herself to turn from the glass. "Thank you, Gabrielle."
"Don't thank me. Just remember you're not alone. That's an order, Brea."
Aya nodded faintly. The captain's presence steadied her. For tonight, it was enough—thin but vital threads anchoring her humanity against Hyde's cold design.
And for tonight, Aya allowed herself to believe them.
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