Martin had cleaned up as best he could, or at least enough to pass as a casual visitor. The shower in his rental room had sputtered lukewarm water, just barely enough to rinse away the grime of the past few weeks. He'd trimmed his stubble, combed his hair, and slipped into civilian clothes, leather jacket over his kinetic barriers, his old pistol tucked snugly under his arm. The Citadel might have been a "safer" place by most definitions, but Martin had learned long ago never to leave himself vulnerable. Even here, in the heart of so-called "civilization," the need to keep a weapon on him was as much a reflex as breathing.

He sent a message to Athria from his omni-tool. A quick, cryptic note with a meeting location and time: a small, low-key bar tucked into the quieter part of Zakara Ward, away from the flashier spots favored by diplomats and tourists. The type of place where nobody would pay attention to a man who looked like he'd crawled his way in from the wrong side of the galaxy.

As he made his way through the station, he was struck by an odd sensation of exposure. It wasn't just the people around him, the steady flow of foot traffic brushing past in endless waves, but the lack of armor. The leather jacket was light, unfamiliar; he felt every draft of artificial air, every subtle breeze from people moving too close. Too soft, he thought, a faint twinge of unease bubbling in his gut. Without the weight of armor, everything felt heightened, and with it came the prickling awareness that he was vulnerable.

Finally, he reached the bar, a nondescript establishment with dim lighting and a faint haze lingering in the air. It was the type of place where people came to forget, to bury their thoughts under the warm glow of alcohol. He slipped inside and took a seat at the back, facing the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the low light as he scanned the room. When the bartender approached, he ordered a whiskey, something familiar to keep his nerves steady as he waited. The glass felt cool against his hand, grounding him in the here and now, a small comfort amid his growing doubts.

As he sat, the reality of what he was about to do began to settle in, and he found himself questioning everything. How would Athria react to him? She'd be angry, that much he knew. She'd probably tear into him for everything he put her through, pushing her off that shuttle, disappearing without a trace, leaving her with questions and no answers. And then there was the matter of survival itself. How could he even begin to explain the impossible twists of fate that had kept him alive? And beyond that, why had he come here at all? Respect? he mused, swirling his drink. Admiration? It was hard to tell. Maybe it was simply the fact that she'd come back for him, that she'd risked herself to free him when he had no right to expect it.

The longer he sat there, the more that knot of doubt tightened in his chest. Each tick of the clock chipped away at his resolve, the realization sinking in that maybe he was dredging up something best left buried. Maybe it was better this way, better for her if he remained a ghost.

The meeting time passed, and he ordered another drink, a quiet, futile hope building that she might still walk through that door, ready to unleash her fury. She'd storm in, eyes blazing, demanding answers, and he'd at least have the chance to try to explain. But another hour slipped by, and still nothing. He checked his omni-tool, casting a glance over the six empty glasses stacked at his table. He let out a low, humorless laugh, the absurdity of it settling over him like a heavy fog. Maybe this was a mistake.

"Fuck it," he muttered, pushing himself up from the table, tossing a few credits down to cover his tab before slipping out of the bar. The air outside felt cool, a stark contrast to the smoky, stale warmth of the bar. He blinked, his head buzzing with the lingering effects of the drinks. Without thinking, he took a shortcut through an alley, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet space as he headed back to his rented room, hoping to sleep off the bitter taste of another dead-end night.

As Martin passed an intersection in the alley, his boots echoed softly against the metal grates beneath him. A faint gust stirred in his wake, swirling a thin haze of dust and lingering scents of coolant and decay. He paused, a twinge of something instinctual prickling at the back of his mind. Slowly, he reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing over the familiar grip of his pistol, feeling the cold, reassuring weight of it.

But before he could pull it free, he felt the press of cold metal against the back of his skull, the steady weight of a gun barrel. The unmistakable click of a safety disengaging filled the narrow alley, followed by a low, pulsing hum as the weapon powered on. He stilled, feeling a familiar surge of adrenaline mixed with recognition. He knew that gun. Knew it too well.

A slow smile crept onto his face as he let his fingers slide off the pistol, his hands rising just enough to show he wasn't reaching for trouble.

"Turn around," came a voice, sharp and commanding, edged with an unmistakable tone he hadn't heard in far too long. Martin complied, moving slowly as he pivoted on his heel, allowing himself a few feet of distance from his attacker.

There she stood, her gaze steady, her posture rigid. The dim alley lights cast a faint glow over her features, and he took her in, remembering every detail like a half-forgotten memory. He'd barely opened his mouth to speak before she cut him off.

"Athria?" he said softly, just the hint of her name feeling strange on his tongue after all this time.

"Don't give me that shit," she snapped, her voice cold. Her grip on the pistol didn't falter as she narrowed her eyes, looking him over with a mix of anger and suspicion. "Prove it."

Martin blinked, momentarily taken aback. He had expected her to be angry, furious, even, but not suspicious. He frowned slightly, his gaze flicking over her face. "How?" he asked, the faintest hint of disbelief coloring his tone. "You can see my face…"

She motioned with the gun, her expression hardening. "Pull up your shirt."

"Uh… what?" He glanced down at himself, then back at her, raising a brow in mild confusion.

"Do it!" Her voice cracked like a whip, her tone leaving no room for argument. He let out a resigned sigh, reaching down to grab the hem of his black t-shirt, lifting it slowly. The air felt cold against his skin, heightening his awareness of every scar and bruise as he exposed his torso.

"Higher, jackass," she said, impatience lacing her voice.

Martin rolled his eyes. "Want me to take off my pants too?" he muttered dryly, his tone brimming with annoyance. He wasn't sure if he was more exasperated by her insistence or the awkwardness of the situation.

"Just… fucking do it," she ordered, her voice a little sharper this time, as though she, too, was trying to hold something back.

With a low grumble, he lifted his shirt up to his chest, baring the marks he knew she was looking for. Her gaze lingered, settling on the faded gunshot wounds the Turian Colonel had left him with. They were a stark reminder of the mountain skirmish, the brutal scars standing out against his skin like badges of survival.

Satisfied, she finally lowered her weapon, and Martin let his shirt fall back down, tugging it into place and straightening it out as he shot her an unimpressed look.

"Sorry," she murmured, her voice softer now, a hint of regret threading through her tone. "I had to be sure… that clone of your 'friend' on Omega…" Her voice trailed off, almost a whisper as the implication hung between them.

Martin gave a slow nod, the initial annoyance fading. "Yeah, I get it," he said, shrugging it off. But as he watched her, he noticed a subtle tremor in her hands, a tension in her posture that hadn't been there before. She was staring at the ground, her shoulders tight, a glint at the corner of her eye catching the faint light.

Unsure of what else to do, he took a small step forward, his gaze softened, and for the first time, he caught a glimpse of vulnerability in her usually steely gaze. But then he saw her hand clench, her jaw tighten, and he knew what was coming. She was trembling with it, a fire simmering just below the surface.

And before he could react, she let out a growl of frustration and unleashed a slap that echoed through the narrow alley like a gunshot. The force of it turned his head, his cheek flaring with a sharp, stinging heat, but he didn't move to defend himself. In some twisted way, he felt like he deserved it.

"That's for kicking me off the fucking shuttle, asshole," she spat, her voice thick with anger and something else, betrayal, maybe, or hurt buried deep.

Martin rubbed his cheek, the sting lingering as he turned his head back, meeting her furious gaze with a faint smirk that held a hint of contrition. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice low, almost apologetic.

"What the hell happened?" Athria's voice was sharp, a raw edge to it as she tried to keep her emotions in check. Her eyes bore into him, intense and unyielding. "I saw you dead, Martin. Held you on that mountain after we found you. You were… gone." Her voice wavered, a crack in her armor.

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily over him. He didn't have answers, just fragmented memories and a haze of confusion that still clung to him. "I… don't know, honestly," he said, shrugging slightly. The admission tasted bitter in his mouth, an unsettling truth he'd been avoiding.

Her brows knit in frustration, disbelief flashing in her eyes. "What do you mean, you don't know?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Martin, we scanned you. You had no pulse, no life signs, nothing. You were dead." Her words were loaded with certainty, as if repeating them might force him to see the impossible truth from her perspective.

Martin shrugged again, a faint shadow of irritation slipping into his tone. "Look, I woke up in a morgue, Athria," he said, meeting her gaze. "A morgue. Your guess is as good as mine."

For a moment, she just stared at him, her eyes widening slightly as if struggling to comprehend what he'd just told her. "A… a morgue?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, her disbelief almost palpable.

"Yeah," he replied, sighing, feeling a surge of weariness. "Elysium. Morgue. You know, the place they store dead people?" He injected a touch of sarcasm, although it was more to mask his own discomfort than anything else. But he could see her still grappling with the enormity of it, her gaze shifting as she processed his words, her mind likely trying to bridge the gap between the man she'd buried and the one standing here now.

Martin let out a long sigh. "I woke up, coughed up more blood than I thought was humanly possible, stumbled around naked for a bit, found some clothes, and stumbled out the front door. Then I had to break into a shuttle at the docks like some homeless scavenger." He chuckled darkly. "Not exactly my best day."

To his surprise, a small, almost reluctant giggle escaped her. She sniffled, brushing at her eye with the back of her hand, her laugh a strange mix of relief and disbelief. He'd hoped the blunt absurdity of it all might lighten things, just a little, break through the thick layer of grief and anger that lingered between them.

"You're an asshole," she said finally, the words softened by the faintest smile.

He smirked, letting the moment sink in, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice quiet, almost contemplative. "You keep reminding me."

They stood in silence, the heavy weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Athria took a few steadying breaths, wiping her eyes and pulling herself back together, though her hands still shook slightly. Martin rubbed his own hands over his face, as if to scrub away his lingering discomfort, trying to mask the vulnerability that felt so foreign and exposed in this quiet, dim alleyway.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you come here? It's been weeks… why not call? You could have told me earlier." Her tone carried a mix of confusion and hurt, the edges softened but unmistakable.

He hesitated, glancing away before answering, his voice rougher than usual. "I… uh… didn't really know how to do the long-distance thing," he admitted, a trace of embarrassment slipping through. "Besides… would you have even believed it?" He met her gaze briefly, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Hell, I wasn't even sure I should have told you. Still don't, really."

Her lips curved into a smirk, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't have…" she murmured, her tone carrying a hint of something bittersweet. "Seems like you complicate my life just by existing." The words were laced with a faint tease, but beneath it lay a sliver of truth—her life would indeed have been simpler if he'd stayed gone. But whether simpler meant better, she didn't seem entirely sure.

They stood there as she steadied her breathing, regaining her composure. When she spoke again, her tone was colder, almost distant, as if she'd pulled herself behind a wall again. "I… need time," she said, her voice firm but detached.

"Yeah. Probably for the best," he replied, his voice low. He understood the need for distance, though it was a bitter pill to swallow after everything.

She gave a small nod, the tension softening only slightly. "Are you staying, or are you going to leave?" she asked, not looking directly at him.

"For now, I'll be around," he replied. "I don't really have any jobs lined up at the moment."

She nodded again, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "Alright." There was an awkward pause, as if both of them were waiting for something that neither wanted to say aloud. She looked away, then back at him, her expression hardening slightly. "Next time… I want all my answers," she said, the firmness in her voice betraying her resolve.

Martin held her gaze but didn't respond, watching as she turned on her heel, her footsteps fading into the distance as she walked away, leaving him alone in the alley.