As the rain began to pelt the window, the wind began to howl. Curled up in an armchair, Zhalia glanced out of the window with disdain.

"I'm glad I'm not out there," she murmured to herself. She could remember times when she would have had to be out in weather like this, times where she would have climbed down to the river side to shelter under a bridge, or to curl up in a gable somewhere. Just anywhere to get out of the cold and the wind.

"You should be; it's foul." Dante walked into the room and sat opposite her, still towelling his hair dry from when he had been outside.

"Why did you stay out anyway?" Zhalia asked him, drawing her knees to her chest, bringing the book she had been reading to rest upon them.

"I was thinking. Am I not allowed to think in the rain?" Zhalia rolled her eyes at him in a silent surrender, before turning her head back to her book. It was one she had found in Metz's library; about her parents and their work. It seemed alien to imagine who they were and what her life could've been, but she couldn't help but be intrigued.

She turned a page and Dante noticed the sadness within her eyes. He could see it was hurting her, yet still she kept on reading. From the moment he had first met her, he had known she was different, but he didn't realise it would be like this. He, the strongest operative for the Huntik Foundation, who had broken so many hearts, was forced to sit and watch one woman as she broke his. A woman who was so delicate and fragile, yet strong and independent, trained to be his perfect assassin. And he couldn't even bare to touch her. He couldn't bare it if she ever looked at him with that sadness in her eyes. So he remained silent.

And that is how they stayed, day in, day out; the rain pouring, the wind howling, she was reading, and he would watch her. They rarely spoke, or did much else. There was a silent understanding between them. But there were moments where things changed.

They were in Metz's kitchen one day, all three of them, Metz and Dante sitting at the table, chatting away, while Zhalia lent against one of the kitchen units, holding a mug of tea in her hands. She was thinking to herself, turning information over in her head when something hit her.

She blinked; the memory so sharp it was tangible. She was in the same place, only many years earlier. She saw a small child with shocking black hair standing on one of the kitchen chairs to reach the table, while three adults were sitting around it, laughing. She knew they were her parents and Metz, and the little girl was her. She had been here before. Information leaked into her mind, memories, words she had read in her books, slotting slowly into place. She gasped, her hands slipping from the mug. The memory shattered when it hit the floor.

"Zhalia? Zhalia, are you ok?" In seconds Dante was by her side, concern written all over his face. He placed a hand around her shoulders and guided her to one of the seats by the table. He knelt down in front of her and Metz leaned across. He was about to open his mouth to repeat his question, but she answered him, eyes still glazed, her voice barely a whisper.

"I've been here before." She glanced up, first at Dante, then at Metz, searching for answers. "Many times. With my parents, when I was younger. She was your-"

"Sister, yes." Metz hung his head slightly, leaning back on the heels of his chair, before standing up. "I searched for years to find you, but you were never there. I convinced myself that you had died with them. And then, you turn up one day, and Dante tells me you are a part of his team. I thought the name was just a coincidence, but when I saw you-"

He walked round the table, as Dante stood. Metz placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. He turned back to Zhalia.

"When I saw you, the day you came to hand yourself in, I knew I could never condemn you to that sentence. In every way, you look like your mother, except your eyes and your hair, which are your fathers." He swallowed, looking her fully in the eye. "They were some of my greatest friends, second only, maybe, to Dante's parents. Yet to each I vowed the same. That I would protect you and teach you if ever they were gone. I tried to find you. I guess I was too late."

Zhalia, sat there, letting the information wash over her. She glanced once between Metz and Dante, before turning and running from the room.