The morning air was crisp as Sheele carefully pushed Bulat's wheelchair through the corridors of their hideout. The faint clatter of machinery and distant laughter of the REDs at their usual antics filled the space, creating a strange sense of normalcy in the aftermath of so much chaos.

"Are you sure about this?" Bulat asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I don't want to slow you down."

Sheele gave him a soft smile, adjusting her grip on the wheelchair. "You're not slowing me down at all. Besides, Engineer said fresh air and movement would do you good."

Bulat exhaled, his smile tinged with frustration. Though his body no longer ached from the grievous wounds he had sustained, there was a certain hollowness that lingered—a reminder of how close he had come to death, and how it wasn't his own strength that had pulled him back from the brink.

Sheele guided him through the halls, taking him along the same path that Engineer had shown her not too long ago. "When I first woke up here," she said, her voice light yet distant, "I was confused too. I actually woke up tied down, which, to be fair, was probably the right call. I tried to escape a few times, but... well, let's just say I didn't get very far. Scout called it 'adorable'—I call it embarrassing."

Bulat chuckled, intrigued. "And then what?"

Sheele smiled wryly. "Eventually, I gave up running and started asking questions. Medic was particularly interested in my weapon. I explained that it wasn't just sharp—it was designed to cut through anything, no matter how tough. He got this... unsettling gleam in his eyes after that. I think he wanted to experiment on it."

She pushed Bulat forward, her voice turning more thoughtful. "I spent a lot of time watching the REDs, trying to understand them. They aren't like Night Raid, but they aren't like the Empire either. They fight for themselves, but they don't ignore the people suffering around them. Maybe they've just been in too many battles to care about sides anymore."

Bulat gazed up at her, noting the way her violet hair framed her face. There was something… different about her now. Before, Sheele had always been a little airheaded, absentminded even, despite her deadly skill in combat. Now, she carried herself with a quiet certainty, as if she had been reshaped by something beyond her understanding.

They passed through a room where several of the REDs were stationed, tinkering with their weapons. Engineer glanced up from his workbench, his ever-present goggles reflecting the dim light.

"Good to see ya movin' around, son," Engineer drawled, offering a small nod. "Ain't no shame in takin' it slow. War tears people down—good men like you. But if you're still here, means you got a second chance."

Bulat looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. He still felt strong, but there was something unsettling beneath the surface—something he couldn't quite place.

"War changes people," he murmured, glancing at Sheele once more.

Sheele simply continued pushing him forward, her expression unreadable.

Sheele led Bulat further through the headquarters, guiding him past the boot camp where new recruits and mercenaries trained under Soldier's loud, bombastic commands. The rigorous drills and intense sparring caught Bulat's attention, and he couldn't help but be impressed by the discipline instilled in the troops.

"They run a tight ship," Bulat mused, his eyes scanning the formations of recruits following Soldier's relentless barking. Each movement was precise, every strike calculated, drilled into them through sheer discipline. "This isn't just a band of killers; this is a well-oiled war machine. They don't just rely on strength, they refine it. This level of coordination… they could rival any elite force in the Empire."

Sheele nodded. "They don't waste time or resources. Everything has a purpose, whether it's training, strategy, or logistics. Even their chaos is controlled."

Bulat's gaze lingered on the mercenaries in training, the way they moved in perfect synchronization, before shifting toward the distant R&D sector. "I've seen armies that fight for power, for their rulers, for survival. But these people? They fight because it's all they know… and because they've mastered it."

Sheele nodded, continuing the tour. Next, they entered the R&D sector, where Engineer and Medic worked alongside Pyro and Sniper, crafting deadly contraptions and analyzing enemy weaponry. Engineer caught sight of them and gave a tip of his hard hat. "Y'all just in time for science," he said with a grin, motioning to a blueprint-covered table. Bulat took in the sheer precision of their work—efficient, brutal, and decades ahead of anything the Empire had.

Moving past R&D, Sheele took him toward the POW camps, where imprisoned Imperial officers and soldiers were held under the watchful eyes of Demoman and Heavy. The prisoners were treated fairly but kept in line through sheer intimidation alone. Heavy's presence alone ensured no one dared to attempt an escape.

Sheele paused, her gaze sweeping across the prisoners behind the reinforced bars. They weren't starved or beaten, but neither were they given any illusion of freedom. The guards—Demoman and Heavy—maintained a constant presence, their mere presence enough to quash any thoughts of rebellion. The prisoners sat in silence, some resigned, others quietly plotting, but none dared make a move.

"This isn't cruelty," Sheele said softly, her voice carrying a weight of understanding. "It's control. They aren't tortured for information or made examples of. They're just… contained." She gestured subtly to the neatly kept cells, the provisioned meals, and the lack of excessive force. "The REDs aren't like the Empire, nor like us. They don't see these people as enemies or traitors. They see them as pieces on a board—threats that have been neutralized."

Bulat frowned, observing the efficiency with which everything was managed. "And if one of them steps out of line?"

Sheele glanced at Heavy, who stood by the cell doors, arms crossed, his towering form making even the most hardened Imperial officers shrink under his gaze. Without a word, the answer was clear.

"No second chances," Bulat muttered, gripping his armrest. "They don't let war turn them into monsters, but they don't take risks either."

Sheele gave a slow nod. "They've fought for so long that they've learned how to keep their enemies in check without unnecessary bloodshed. It's a kind of ruthlessness all its own."

Finally, they arrived at the mess hall, which was more alive than Bulat had expected. REDs and rebel soldiers alike shared meals, laughter, and stories over plates of freshly prepared food from the nearby farm. Bulat was astounded.

Bulat's eyes widened as he took in the sight of workers methodically tending to neat rows of crops in the adjacent field. The soil was rich, the irrigation systems carefully laid out, and the efficiency of their labor was evident in the well-maintained plants. Some workers carried baskets filled with freshly harvested vegetables, while others checked on livestock grazing in fenced-off sections. The entire operation ran with military-like precision, a stark contrast to the haphazard food supplies the Revolutionary Army often relied on.

"They even grow their own supplies?" he asked in disbelief, watching the seamless coordination between farmers and logistics personnel.

Sheele nodded. "They're completely self-sufficient. Engineer designed the irrigation systems, and Soldier enforces discipline among the farmhands. Even Pyro helps sometimes, though... let's just say he's better with firewood than crops."

Bulat let out a low whistle, impressed. "This isn't just a war camp. It's an empire of its own. No wonder they don't need outside support."

"They don't just fight," Sheele replied, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. "They build, they sustain, and they endure. The REDs may not fight for justice the way Night Raid does, but they fight to survive. And that... that might be why they always come out on top."

Bulat exhaled, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair a little tighter. He wasn't sure if he had changed yet—but he knew the war wasn't over, and he had a feeling he was about to find out.

After Sheeled showed her around, he sat on the wooden bench, his muscles still aching from his ordeal, though the pain was less than he expected. The air inside the hideout was warm, dimly lit by the orange glow of a nearby lantern. Across from him, Engineer adjusted his goggles, his expression calm and thoughtful as he rested his arms on the table between them.

Bulat exhaled, looking down at his hands. He had been a soldier, a knight, a revolutionary. But now? Now he was just a man trying to make sense of it all. His past choices weighed on him, and though he knew what he was fighting for, he couldn't shake the feeling that war had changed him. He wasn't sure if it had been for the better.

"You fight," Bulat finally said, lifting his gaze to Engineer. "But you don't seem like revolutionaries. Not in the way Night Raid is. So why? Why put yourselves in this war?"

Engineer gave a quiet chuckle, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a small wrench. He turned it between his fingers, as if weighing his words. "Ain't about revolution for us," he said finally. "A lotta folks fight 'cause they believe in somethin'. A better future, justice, revenge... But war? War don't care 'bout beliefs. It changes men. Some for the better, some for the worse. We're just tryin' to keep our own from fallin' too far."

Bulat frowned slightly. "So you're just fighting to survive? To protect each other?"

"Somethin' like that," Engineer admitted, setting the wrench down with a soft clink. "We ain't heroes. Hell, we ain't even the good guys half the time. Back home, life ain't all that different from here. The powerful take what they want, the rest of us fight over the scraps. Only difference is, we got technology that makes the killin' more efficient. I seen men torn apart in ways you wouldn't believe, all 'cause someone wanted a little more land, a little more control. War don't care who's right, Bulat. It just keeps churnin', and it don't stop 'til someone's got nothin' left."

He leaned back slightly, adjusting his hat. "We come from a place where war is business. Where the biggest corporations don't sell food or medicine—they sell death. Mercenaries like us? We get hired to fight battles that ain't ours. One day, we're defendin' a base in the desert. Next day, we're blowin' up a factory 'cause some rich bastard paid for it. You ever seen a man lose himself in war, Bulat?"

Bulat hesitated. The image of Liver flashed in his mind. A good man, twisted by loyalty to the Empire. And himself? How much had he changed since leaving the military? "Yeah," he admitted, his voice quieter. "I have."

"Then you know what I mean," Engineer continued. "Back home, I watched men go from fightin' for their paycheck to enjoyin' the bloodshed. A sniper I knew, sharp as a razor, used to say every kill was just 'business as usual.' And a soldier? Well, he just kept shootin' 'til there was nothin' left to shoot. That's what war does. Turns people into somethin' else. Some folks get so caught up in it, they forget who they were before it started."

Bulat's fingers curled slightly. He had fought for ideals. But what if the war went on long enough? What if Tatsumi, with all his potential, changed into something unrecognizable?

Engineer noticed the troubled look in his eyes. "That's what we're tryin' to avoid. We fight, yeah. But we do it our way. Keep our heads above water. Help where we can. But we ain't plannin' on dyin' for someone else's cause. And we sure as hell ain't plannin' on becomin' monsters for it."

Bulat sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I used to believe in the cause. Still do, I guess. But after everything that's happened… I wonder if Tatsumi will change too. If war will turn him into something he's not."

Engineer studied him for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. "Kid's got a good heart. That's rare in war. But war tests every man, Bulat. Just gotta hope he remembers who he is when it's all over."

Bulat closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. War changes people. He knew that better than most. But maybe, just maybe, Tatsumi had a chance to be different. And if he did… maybe there was still hope for them all.


Sheele sat alone in her dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls. In her hands, she held her glasses—once a symbol of her clumsy, carefree self. Now, they felt foreign in her grasp, like a relic of a past life she wasn't sure she belonged to anymore. The weight of them, once negligible, now seemed immense, as if carrying the burden of her past self and the expectations of her present.

She traced a finger over the frame, her mind drifting back to the moment of her near-death. The pain, the helplessness, the cold embrace of oblivion. The sensation of her body growing weaker, her vision fading, the final thought that she would never see her friends again. And then… she had returned. Yet, it felt wrong. There was no logical explanation for her being here. No answer that satisfied the hollow feeling in her chest. But was she truly the same person? The more she pondered, the less certain she became. Something inside her felt different, unshackled yet restrained all the same, as though some unseen force was holding her back from fully stepping into the light of the living.

Her hands clenched tightly, trembling slightly. It didn't matter. Even if she felt like a ghost in her own body, she had a reason to keep moving forward. For her friends. For the people she loved. She wouldn't let doubt weigh her down, no matter how deep it festered in the back of her mind. If she was back, then she needed to make that return count. If she was given another chance, then she had to make it mean something.

She lowered her gaze, her thoughts shifting to Mine. A pang of guilt tugged at her heart. Spy had forced Mine to keep her survival a secret, and Sheele knew what that meant—Mine would suffer in silence, unable to grieve or celebrate her return. Trapped in an inescapable emotional limbo, carrying a secret that could fracture everything they had fought for. And the next time they met… they might stand on opposite sides. A bitter thought, but one she could not ignore. She could already imagine the anger in Mine's eyes, the frustration, the confusion, the hurt. Would she be able to explain? Would Mine even listen? Or would their reunion be marked by battle, by the very thing they had fought to end together?

"I'm sorry, Mine," she whispered, the words barely leaving her lips, dissolving into the still air of her room. The apology felt inadequate, but it was all she had to offer for now.

She stood up, her determination hardening into something more resolute. She couldn't allow herself to remain stagnant. If she was to walk this uncertain path, she needed to become stronger. She needed to learn. No more hesitation. No more weakness. Whatever was left of her—whoever she was now—she would forge herself into something new.

Her feet carried her to Medic's quarters, where the eccentric doctor busied himself with his latest experiment. The room was filled with the sterile scent of antiseptic and something metallic, a faint hum of strange machinery buzzing in the background. He barely glanced at her as she entered, adjusting a strange device on his desk, his hands moving with the precision of a man lost in his craft.

"Ah, Fräulein Sheele," Medic said without turning. "I see you are vorking past your existential crisis, ja?"

Sheele hesitated before nodding. "I want you to train me. Under your tutelage."

At that, Medic finally turned to face her, his grin wide and unsettling. His piercing gaze studied her, as if he were examining a new specimen. His smile deepened, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

"Interesting," he mused, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. "Zis is not an offer I expected. You vish to understand, don't you? To know vhat has changed, and vhat can be improved."

Sheele swallowed, feeling as if he were peeling her apart with just his gaze. "I need to be stronger. I need to be more."

"More…?" Medic chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. "Power is not just in strength, dear. It is in knowledge, in precision, in the ability to see vhat others do not. You remind me of someone… ah yes, Miss Pauling. Smart, efficient, deadly vhen needed." His expression darkened slightly. "But," his smile grew once again, "training is not so simple. You vould be best learning from someone… how do you say… more familiar vith your line of vork."

Sheele frowned slightly. "Who?"

"Spy," Medic answered, adjusting his glasses. "Speak vith him upon his return. If you vish to become more zan just a fighter… he vill show you how."

Sheele nodded, gripping her glasses a little tighter. Spy. The man who had already reshaped her life once, the man who had brought her back from the brink. Could he help her become something more? Something that would ensure she never had to feel powerless again?

She didn't know what kind of person she was anymore, but if she was going to find out—she needed to be prepared.