The gentle hum of the evening breeze carried with it the faint scent of ash and rain from distant mountains. The sun dipped low, casting a burnt orange glow through the cracked window of the modest home where Razor stood silently, his hand resting on the doorframe. His black eyes drifted toward the horizon — distant, unyielding, the same as always.
Behind him, a calm yet firm voice broke the silence. "Razor," 18 called, her tone softer than usual but with a weight that made him turn.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but serious. Her golden hair caught the fading light, and for once, there was no teasing edge in her voice.
"I need to tell you something," she began slowly. "Something that happened while you were still in the pod."
Razor turned slightly, curious but expressionless. "What happened?"
"Back on Earth," she said, "my brother — 17 — and the others used the Dragon Balls. They tried to wish me back."
Razor's brows knit together. "Dragon Balls?"
"They said it was some wish granting orbs," she explained, choosing her words carefully. "When all seven are gathered, they summon Shenron — a wish-granting dragon capable of almost anything."
For a moment, Razor said nothing. The concept of wishing for anything was so alien to him that it almost sounded like mockery. "Anything?" he asked finally, his tone low.
"Within limits," she replied, watching him closely.
He stood quiet, then looked away toward the fading sky. "So… if someone wished for my death, would it happen?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "No," she said firmly. "Your power is beyond Shenron's reach. He can't destroy something stronger than his own magic. You'd be safe from that."
Razor's shoulders eased slightly, though his tone remained detached. "Then atleast I don't have to make the effort to search and destroy them."
18 raised a brow. "You're not even a little interested? You could wish for anything you want — even knowledge, or a way to grow stronger without risking your life every time."
Razor smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twisting upward. "I might have chased after strength my whole life, but I'll never accept borrowed power. There's no meaning in strength you didn't earn. No thrill in a fight where your wounds mean nothing."
His voice carried the edge of conviction, raw and unwavering. It was the same pride that had driven him to near death countless times — the pride that defined him.
To Razor, shortcuts were an insult to everything he'd fought for, everything he overcame.
18, however, wasn't done teasing. "Then wish for patience or a better temper. That's something even a warrior could use."
Razor chuckled quietly. "Patience, maybe. Temper? Never."
"Of course," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Should've guessed."
Then she crossed her arms again, tilting her head. "Fine then. What about knowledge? You could learn techniques even you've never seen."
Razor's eyes narrowed slightly, his smirk deepening. "I don't need a dragon to teach me what I can create myself."
He stepped closer, his tone quiet but carrying weight. "You've already seen what I'm capable of."
And she had. The image of the collapsing star — that cataclysmic technique he had unleashed on Xirx — flashed in her mind. The memory was vivid: the sky had cracked, the ground vanished, light disappeared and a continent-sized crater had scarred the world, pulsing with the remnant energy of his power.
Even though Razor had only maintained that technique for a fraction of a second, its aftermath was still visible from space. The thought alone sent a shiver through her spine.
"Yeah," she murmured. "That one I'll never forget."
Razor's gaze lingered on her reaction for a moment before softening slightly. "So," he asked, "do you want me to use those wish orbs? Giving me a reason to?"
She smirked lightly. "No. I already know you won't. I've been with you for a year — I know how you think."
Something in Razor's expression flickered. A year. The word carried weight — an acknowledgment of how long they'd survived together.
He looked down, his tone quieter now. "If you could've gone back," he asked after a pause, "why didn't you? Why refuse your brother's wish?"
18 didn't answer immediately. Instead, she took a slow breath and stepped closer, her eyes reflecting the faint orange glow of sunset.
"I stayed because I made a choice," she said softly. "To trust you."
The words struck him harder than any blow could have. "You… trust me?" he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone.
She nodded, her voice steady. "You're reckless, arrogant, and stubborn beyond reason. But when it mattered… you saved me. You didn't have to, yet you did."
Her gaze didn't waver, even as Razor's did. "I was scared, Razor. Scared of becoming an experiment again, of losing everything. But you didn't let that happen. So yeah, I trust you."
Razor stared at her — truly stared. No one had ever said that to him before. Trust was something he neither gave nor received. He'd lived as a weapon, a warrior, a destroyer — not someone to believe in.
"You're strange," he said finally, his voice quiet, uncertain.
18 smiled faintly. "Takes one to know one."
He couldn't help but chuckle again, a sound both amused and tired. "You'd really give up your home, your family… for someone like me?"
She tilted her head slightly. "You say that like you're not worth believing in."
Razor looked away. "Belief doesn't win battles."
"Maybe not," she said. "But it's what keeps people fighting."
Her words hung in the air between them, heavy yet warm. For a long while, neither spoke — the only sound was the rustle of wind through the open window and the faint hum of night creatures outside.
Razor finally broke the silence, his voice softer than usual. "I don't know what to say to that."
"You don't have to," she replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Just… don't make me regret it."
He gave a half-smirk, half-sigh. "Regret isn't in your nature."
"Neither is gratitude in yours," she shot back, though there was no bite in her tone.
Razor chuckled again, looking away toward the darkening horizon. "You've gotten bolder."
18 crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe beside him. "Spending a year with you will do that."
They stood side by side, silent again, watching the last rays of sunlight fade. Despite their differences — android and warrior, calm and chaos — there was a strange, unspoken harmony between them.
Razor finally exhaled, his voice low and contemplative. "You said they called it a wish… that you could ask for anything. Maybe that's what I've never had — something worth wishing for. I chased battles to grow stronger but never got the time to think what I truly wanted, strength was for my freedom but what was my freedom for. Guess I still have to figure it out."
18 turned to look at him, but he didn't meet her gaze. His expression, for once, carried no arrogance — only quiet reflection.
And as the wind carried the last warmth of day into the cold night, she finally smiled — soft, genuine, and almost bittersweet.
She stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Razor."
He turned to her, surprised. "For what?"
"For coming back," she said simply. "And for giving me something to believe in."
Razor didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes — steady and calm — was enough.
Outside, the stars began to shimmer above the quiet, healing world. Inside that small home, between the warrior and the android, something invisible yet undeniable took root.