Being hunted is a strange experience, really. There's a pulse to it, a rhythm. You learn to feel the eyes on you, even when there's nothing there. It's not just survival instincts kicking in. No, it's something deeper, more basic, a sixth sense born from too many close calls. You develop a relationship with your own mortality, staring down its maw with a kind of resigned intimacy. You realize that, in the grand scheme, it's not much of a fight. Not when they want you dead badly enough.

But the thing they never consider, the mistake they always make, is thinking that because I'm the hunted, I don't know how to hunt them back. They assume desperation on my part, that I'm just scrambling to stay alive. But in their arrogance, they forget I know the steps as well as they do. Every movement, every breath, every plan, if you understand your enemy well enough, you can make them a little uncomfortable in their own skin. And it's only a matter of time before discomfort becomes fear. And fear, well... fear is what makes them sloppy.

Being pursued isn't a curse. It's just another game. It's one of those truths they'd rather not believe, that you can slip into the predator's role, even while you're the one on the run.

But see, I don't view death as this grand evil, this end to be feared. Life, death... just two sides of the same damn coin. I figure that if I'm to die, it will be facing the wolves, not kneeling before the throne. The Norse called it wyrd, fate, a path bound by choices as much as destiny. They walked forward knowing the end, yet they walked all the same, carrying an odd kind of reverence for it, as if there was something noble about facing death on your own terms.

It's the hunted who know how to resist, to turn the tide. Not through power or skill alone, but with defiance. That's something they'll never quite understand, these so-called hunters. They think they're closing in, wearing me down, but every step I take back into the shadows is one closer to learning exactly who they are, what they fear, where they bleed.

They've cast me as the wolf's prey. Fine. They've hunted me long enough to know the thrill of it. Now, it's time they get a taste of what it's like to be the ones with nowhere to hide.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Martin continued his steady, almost casual path through the ward, slipping in and out of the shifting crowd as he dodged checkpoints and slipped past the blockades C-Sec had set up. He decided to test them, to see just how far they were willing to go, how many resources they'd pour into catching one elusive man. Stopping at a small kiosk, he bought a handful of items with his credit chit—cheap knick-knacks, utterly useless but traceable. It was bait, a breadcrumb trail left deliberately for the hunters following his every step.

An hour later, the area around him was under complete lockdown. Officers crowded the sector, checking IDs, scanning shoppers, and searching with an intensity that would have amused him if it weren't so predictable. Martin smirked. Good. That's a confirmation, he thought. They were watching, following his every move, just as he'd suspected. He could use that.

He spent the next few hours moving in calculated circles, weaving through shops and corridors, testing the boundaries of their vigilance. Each move was designed to draw their attention, but not enough to pinpoint his exact location. He noted the shifts in their blockade, the new checkpoints as they scrambled to close him in. Martin watched with something close to satisfaction as they danced to his rhythm, adjusting every time he showed a sign of movement.

For fourteen hours, he played this game, each movement part of a carefully orchestrated performance. He led them through decoy routes, left scraps of evidence, using his credit chit to draw them out, then doubled back to watch them scurry in pursuit. Every so often, he'd slip into a quiet corner, observing as familiar C-Sec officers returned to the same areas, their rotations predictable, their movements rigid. It was almost too easy, really. They were already worn thin, their numbers spread out, their faces showing the strain. Martin watched with a quiet, gleeful satisfaction as they tried, and failed, to catch him. And all it took was one lousy credit, spent at random intervals, to keep the whole operation on edge. Money well spent.

Finally, after what felt like an endless string of near-misses, Martin paused, slipping into an abandoned alcove as he allowed himself a moment of rest. The C-Sec officers were lagging now, their pacing slower, their vigilance dulled by fatigue. Eighteen hours he'd kept them moving, tracking him through the maze of Zakara ward, exhausting their stamina and patience. His enhanced physiology gave him an edge, leaving him alert and energized while they grew sluggish, each step costing them more than they could afford.

Martin leaned against the cold metal wall, considering his next move. He could keep this up for another day if he wanted; the enhancements meant he could walk distances that would break a normal human, and sleep was an optional luxury he could go without for days. He was ready for another round, his instincts sharp, his energy unflagging.

But now, he wondered, was it time to push them even further? He'd tired them out, made them dance, and they had no idea he was still one step ahead.

Martin slipped deeper into Zakara Ward, his movements precise as he ducked through shadowed hallways and sidestreets, his goal set. He found a quiet, private terminal tucked into the corner of a dimly lit corridor and accessed C-Sec's public directory. A few keystrokes later, he found the contact details and home addresses for several officers, including one familiar name. Why the hell is this information even public? he thought, shaking his head at the security lapse. Lucky for him, but also another reason to stay three steps ahead of C-Sec if they were this careless.

Satisfied, Martin headed off, making his way toward Bailey's residence with a single purpose in mind.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Commander Bailey let out a long, exhausted sigh as he finally keyed into his apartment. The day had been a marathon of tension, hours upon hours of tracking Winters through Zakara Ward. Vyras' insistence on a heavy-handed lockdown had added to his frustration. It wasn't the first time C-Sec had to lock down sections of the Citadel, but this had been different, longer, more intense, and relentless in its disruption. Bailey understood Vyras' drive, but the Turian's plan was unnerving. The Citadel didn't need that kind of panic right now, and despite his years of experience, Bailey was starting to wonder if even he understood Winters as well as he thought he did.

Kicking off his shoes, Bailey moved to the couch, collapsing onto it with a sigh, feeling the fatigue of the day's events dragging him down. He closed his eyes, letting his body relax, when he heard the faint, unmistakable sound of footsteps. His eyes shot open, and instinct took over as his hand darted for the pistol he'd left on the coffee table.

"I wouldn't do that, Bailey," a voice said calmly from behind. As he heard a weapon arm.

Bailey froze, recognizing the voice immediately. A moment later, Winters stepped forward, emerging from the shadows and moving around the couch to sit in the chair opposite him. The black pistol in his hand. Bailey slowly lowered his hand from the pistol, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Winters," Bailey said, leaning back into the couch, his gaze fixed on Martin with a mix of wariness and curiosity. "Breaking and entering, adding a few more crimes to the list, are we?"

Martin shrugged, lowering his own weapon, though his eyes remained alert. "Sorry, Commander," he said, his tone respectful but unyielding. "I didn't have much of a choice. I needed some answers."

Bailey narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "You know how much trouble I could get in for even entertaining a conversation with you like this? But then again, with the way things are, I doubt pleasantries are high on your list right now."

Martin gave a faint smile. "Respectfully, sir, you're right about that. But I don't have much time, and it's hard to get straight answers from people who aren't, well… you." He leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes sharpening. "I need to know why C-Sec's after me. Who's pulling the strings?"

Bailey sighed, watching Martin carefully, though a flicker of sympathy showed in his gaze. "I only know what the Spectres told me. You're marked as a Cerberus terrorist who's interfered with a Spectre investigation and committed an 'assault' on one of their operatives." Bailey paused, noting the flicker of frustration in Martin's face.

Martin's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "Assault, huh? That's one way to put it. The Spectre on Illium came after me with a gun. No warning, no talk, just straight to trying to kill me." He shook his head, letting out a low chuckle. "Didn't even have time to ask if he had the right guy."

Bailey considered what he said, nodding slowly. "Well, that changes things, though I doubt they'll care much about details. You've got three Spectres on your trail now. That's damn near unheard of." He raised an eyebrow. "Must be popular."

Martin let out a low chuckle. "Guess I'm flattered. But seriously, don't you think it's a little convenient? Sure, I killed the guy on Illium, but why all this fuss? If the Council really thinks I'm that much of a threat, why send someone so green after me? He wasn't just unprepared, he was unqualified." His gaze softened as he looked at Bailey, trying to gauge his reaction. "Feels like I'm getting used as a scapegoat. Doesn't add up."

Bailey met his eyes, his expression somber, a flicker of agreement in his gaze. "You're probably right," he said quietly. "Politics and Spectres, there's always something going on beneath the surface. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook here. With three Spectres involved, they're out for blood. This isn't going to be simple."

Martin nodded, his jaw clenched. "I figured as much." He hesitated, then took a breath, his tone shifting to something quieter, almost sincere. "Look, I don't want to make this harder on you, Commander. If you could just point me in the right direction, something to help me slip out of this ward, I can be gone before they know what hit them."

Bailey glanced at the closed door, his fingers drumming on the edge of the couch as he weighed his options. Finally, he gave a resigned nod. "I might be able to arrange something to ease the pressure here. A little corridor shift, maybe. But after that, you're on your own."

Martin stood, nodding with respect. "That's all I need. Thanks, Commander."

Bailey gave him a small, tight smile, watching as Martin moved toward the back door. The latch clicked softly as he slipped out, disappearing into the night, leaving Bailey alone with the faint relief of knowing he'd just bought himself, and perhaps the Citadel, a little breathing room.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Martin leaned against the wall around the corner from the Skycab depot, keeping his posture relaxed, casual, as if he were just another passerby. Bailey had said there'd be a shift change here, a small gap in C-Sec's usual vigilance. He took a steadying breath, scanning the depot as he waited, his gaze following every small movement from the officers stationed nearby.

As he stood there, his omni-tool blinked softly, the screen lighting up his wrist. He turned his arm over, reading the message that had come through from Athria: "Martin, what the hell happened? Please don't tell me you're involved with the lockdown in Zakara… so help me. Meet me at my apartment. We need to talk."

"Great," he muttered under his breath, exhaling with a hint of frustration. He wasn't sure how secure these channels were, and replying wasn't an option he was comfortable with right now. Not until he had a clearer picture of who might be listening in.

Lowering his arm to his side, Martin focused on the depot again, watching as three C-Sec officers exchanged confused glances, evidently surprised that their relief hadn't arrived on schedule. They lingered for a moment, looking around, and then, after a few muttered words, walked off, leaving the depot unmanned. Martin's pulse quickened, but he kept his movements controlled, knowing that he only had a narrow window before the next patrol could swing through.

As soon as the guards were out of sight, he made his move, slipping into the open area and walking casually toward the line of skycars. To anyone watching, he was just another Citadel resident with somewhere to be, the casual air about him masking his real intent. Reaching the first car, he climbed in smoothly, his hand moving to input a destination into the vehicle's console. With a quick flick, he entered Athria's address in Bachjret Ward and leaned back as the car hummed, lifting off and carrying him out of Zakara.

One obstacle down, he thought, his eyes fixed on the lights of the Citadel rushing by as he sped away from the lockdown behind him.

Martin made his way up the stairs, each step a dull echo in the quiet hallway. The building Athria had sent him to was surprisingly unassuming, far more grounded than he'd expected. He'd figured her for a higher-class place, something more in line with the polished Citadel aesthetic, but this apartment was understated, neat but modest. It definitely wasn't the gritty squalor he was used to, but it had a certain pragmatic charm. He reached her door, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

He waited, glancing down the empty hallway, and was about to ring again when the door slid open. Athria stood just inside, her arms crossed as she looked him over with a raised brow.

"Oh, so you did get my message?" she teased, though there was an edge to her tone. "Couldn't bother to respond?"

Martin offered a slight, apologetic smile, stepping awkwardly into the apartment as she closed the door behind him. He walked a few steps in, turning back to find her staring at him, her expression unreadable, but her eyes carrying a hint of frustration. He tried to keep his face neutral, to hide the tension he was carrying, but it was clear she wasn't buying it.

Her brows furrowed as she took a step closer. "What did you do?" she demanded, her voice low, controlled. Martin instinctively took a small step back, but she kept advancing, her tone growing sharper. "What did you do, Martin?" she repeated, grabbing his shirt and pushing him against the wall, her grip surprisingly strong.

"I didn't do anything… on the Citadel, at least," Martin said, his voice steady, trying to keep things light despite the situation. But she wasn't having it.

"Then what happened?" she yelled, her frustration breaking through. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

"Shit," Martin muttered, glancing at the door with wide eyes.

Athria shot him a look and released him, walking briskly toward the door. Martin followed quietly, but she turned and mouthed a single word, "Turian." His stomach dropped as he scanned the sparse room for a place to hide, his mind racing. Without missing a beat, Athria's hand glowed faintly as she used her biotics to lift him, pressing him up against the ceiling. Martin squirmed as he was suspended mid-air, holding his breath as she stepped back to the door, her biotic-lit hand hidden behind her back.

She opened the door, greeting the tall, armored Turian standing in the hallway with a cool expression. "Hello, can I help you?" she asked, her voice casual.

The Turian gave her a steady look, his voice a low rumble. "I'm Spectre Vyras Daxus, here on official business. Mind if I come in?"

Athria didn't miss a beat. "I'm a little busy at the moment, kind of… working from home today," she said, maintaining an air of nonchalance as Martin clung to the ceiling above, willing himself to remain absolutely still.

Vyras raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I'm afraid I can't take no for an answer, ma'am," he said, stepping forward and gently pushing her aside as he entered. She closed the door behind him, keeping her hand concealed, and moved casually into the kitchen, her glowing hand lingering out of his line of sight.

"So, Spectre," she asked plainly, leaning against the counter. "What's the issue?"

Vyras took a moment to survey the apartment, his gaze sweeping over the living room before he turned back to her. "I'm looking for a human male by the name of Martin Winters. I understand you worked with him on a mission for the Andromeda Initiative."

Athria nodded, keeping her expression neutral. "That's right. But if you're looking for him, you might want to check Elysium. He's probably in the morgue." Her tone was casual, but Martin felt a strange chill at the way she said it, her words carrying a hint of distaste.

The Turian's mandibles twitched as he corrected her. "No. He's very much alive—and dangerous."

Athria adjusted her stance, crossing her arms with a sigh of mock exasperation. "What did he do now?"

Vyras gave her a pointed look, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. "He interfered with a Spectre investigation and… assaulted one of ours."

Athria let out a dry chuckle, feigning amusement. "Locking down Zakara Ward over an assault? That seems a bit much, even for a Spectre," she said, her tone laced with playful sarcasm.

Vyras crossed his arms, his gaze piercing. "It was a bit more than that, ma'am," he replied, his tone leaving no doubt that he was speaking of something far more serious. He watched her carefully, clearly waiting for her to show any sign of knowing more than she let on.

But Athria held her ground. "Well, unfortunately, he hasn't come here. If he did, well…" She let a smirk curl on her lips. "I have a score to settle with him myself. He's a lying sack of shit, so if he showed up, you'd be the first to know."

The Spectre seemed to consider this, his eyes narrowing slightly. After a moment, he gave her a small nod, turning to glance into the bedroom before returning to the living room. He seemed satisfied, his posture relaxing slightly. "Very well," he said, giving her a final nod before moving to the door. "Thank you for your cooperation, ma'am."

She watched as he exited, keeping her expression calm until the door slid shut. The moment he was gone, she released her biotic hold, and Martin came tumbling down from the ceiling. He caught himself as he landed, but his feet slipped out from under him, and he ended up sprawled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a pained expression.

Athria looked down at him, a mix of exasperation and amusement crossing her face. "Smooth landing," she muttered

Athria walked away from him, leaving Martin sprawled on the floor. She didn't offer him a hand, didn't even glance back. "I need answers, and no jokes," she demanded, turning around with a hard look. "What the hell did you do?"

Martin brushed himself off, standing slowly and letting out a weary sigh. "Fine. On Illium, I was just looking for a ship to get here. To find you," he began, watching her expression soften slightly before her steely gaze returned. "Some asshole was tailing me. I figured he was a merc or maybe just some curious idiot, but he kept following me, so I lured him down an alley. Thought I'd get some answers out of him, but he didn't want to talk. I… had to kill him."

"You killed a Spectre?" Athria's voice rose, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Martin, that's—"

"I didn't know who he was!" Martin cut her off, his frustration bubbling over. "It's not like he flashed a badge and announced, 'I'm a Spectre, don't shoot me!'" He rolled his eyes, exasperated. "The guy had his gun out. I set up an ambush, he tried to counter it, I fired back. The whole thing was over in, what, fifteen seconds?" He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the tension under his skin. "I didn't exactly get time to figure out his title."

Athria's face shifted, the initial shock fading as she processed his words. She recoiled slightly, a flicker of confusion passing over her features. "That easy?" she asked, incredulous.

Martin nodded. "Yeah. If he was a Spectre, then he was either insanely cocky or as green as they come. The guy was… awful at his job."

Athria studied him, a skeptical glint in her eye. "So who else did you kill?" she asked, crossing her arms, her tone half-judgment, half-expectation.

"No one." Martin smirked, his eyes gleaming with a bit of mischief. "I've just spent my day dodging C-Sec… Honestly, I had them running all over Zakara like a cat chasing a laser pointer."

Athria's mouth fell open. "You were toying with C-Sec?" she asked, barely able to hide the mix of disbelief and irritation.

Martin shrugged, a grin playing at his lips. "Yeah, honestly, it wasn't that hard. Can't even imagine how much taxpayer money they've wasted on me in the last twenty hours." He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

She just stared at him, her brows knit as she tried to wrap her head around what he was saying. After a moment, she lifted her hands to her temples as if trying to stave off a headache, then dropped them to her sides, a sigh of exasperation escaping her. "I had a dinner planned for us tonight… and everything," she muttered, clearly disappointed.

Martin let out a sigh of his own, feigning sympathy. "You want me to go chat with Vyras, see if he'll give me a timeout?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward the door.

She shot him an unamused glare. "You're an insufferable jackass," she replied, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, I know," Martin murmured, his voice quieting as the weight of the situation settled between them.

Athria's gaze hardened. "So why did you come here? Are you here to beg for help, or what?"

He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, I didn't want to drag you into this mess," he said, his tone serious. "I just wanted to respond, to explain what happened… before things get really crazy." The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, her posture softened.

"Martin…" she hesitated, crossing her arms tightly, "I don't like where this is going."

Martin shrugged, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I can't ask you for help, Athria. It's not right. There's something bigger happening here, but you… you have a career, a life to live. I won't drag you into this."

She sighed, turning away from him as she shook her head. "That's it? You think you can just show up, say goodbye, and walk away?" Her voice held a bitter edge. "C-Sec and a Spectre are after you, and you think you can just pop in, say, 'whoops, I'm alive,' and then disappear again?" she mocked.

"Three Spectres," Martin corrected quietly, giving a faint cough to mask his discomfort.

Athria froze, horror flashing across her face. "Three… three Spectres?"

"Yeah," he said, glancing down. "That's what Commander Bailey told me."

She pressed a hand to her forehead, shaking her head as if trying to process the enormity of it. "Goddess, Martin… they're really out for you." Her gaze turned to him, something fierce in her eyes. "You can't do this alone. I… I can help."

He shook his head. "I can't let you do tha—" he began, but she cut him off sharply.

"No. You don't get to decide this time," she snapped, her eyes blazing with a determination that stunned him. "I'm not going to sit by and watch you get yourself killed, damn it!" Her voice rose, her anger breaking through. "You aren't going to string me along just to abandon me again."

Frustrated, Martin threw up his hands. "String you along? You're the one who decided to lure me into your lair half-naked, flaunting your—" he gestured, exasperated, "—your damn tits at me!"

Athria's eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, excuse me for coming onto you. I thought you'd appreciate something a little more interesting than a stiff Turian. But you ran off like an embarrassed vorcha!"

"I was trying to be professional," he shot back, his voice rising.

"Well I wasn't!" She raised an eyebrow, her stance defiant.

They stared at each other, each word they'd flung at each other hanging in the silence like a barrier neither was willing to cross. There was something unspoken hovering between them, something raw and frustratingly real that they'd both tried—and failed—to ignore.

Martin finally broke the silence with a dry laugh, shaking his head. "We're… we're pathetic, aren't we?" he said, a hint of irony coloring his tone.

Athria gave a reluctant smile, a soft chuckle escaping her. "Yeah," she admitted, the edge of her anger slipping away, replaced by a strange, mutual understanding. "Yeah, we really are."

The quiet settled between them, an almost awkward silence as Athria's expression softened, her posture becoming a bit uncertain. She glanced away, then cleared her throat.

"They… uh… probably won't be checking here again," she said. "So, if you want to get some rest… and maybe a shower. You smell like you've been sweating whiskey."

Martin lifted his arm to take a whiff, but all he could smell was the leather of his jacket. He shot her a smirk.

She sighed, her gaze wary but amused. "I'll get some things ready for you. Just… don't break anything." She turned toward the kitchen, shaking her head with a faint smile.

Martin nodded, his smirk lingering as he slipped into the bathroom. He stripped down, stepping under the hot stream. The water poured over him, washing away the grime and tension he'd been carrying for what felt like an eternity. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper shower, let alone one this hot. The steam clouded the air, and he let himself linger there, savoring the small luxury. He eyed the line of neatly arranged soaps and shampoos, each one overly fragrant and expensive-looking—too posh for his usual taste. But he shrugged and used some anyway, letting the unfamiliar scent cover the raw edge of exhaustion.

When he finally stepped out and reached for a towel, he noticed something strange. His clothes, the ones he'd left in a pile, were gone. In their place, neatly folded on the counter, was a familiar-looking black hoodie and a pair of green camo pants, both faded and patched up. His heart stilled as he touched the fabric, memories rushing back. These were his old clothes from the Titan, left behind when everything had gone to hell. The hoodie had holes that had been carefully sewn up, and the pants had patches where they'd once been worn through. He hadn't seen them in ages. She must have kept them.

He lifted the hoodie and brought it closer, catching the faint, lingering scent of roses. The realization struck him—she'd either worn them herself or, at the very least, kept them close. The thought hit harder than he'd expected, a subtle ache that settled in his chest and rose up into his throat. He forced himself to swallow it down, brushing off the strange emotion with a quick exhale.

Once dressed, he grabbed his boots and made his way back into the living room. He dropped the boots by the couch and looked up to find Athria sitting there, watching some kind of drama on the screen. He approached slowly, then eased himself down on the other side of the couch, keeping a polite distance. The show on the screen played on, a hollow, over-the-top mess that seemed more noise than substance. After a moment, he let his gaze drift to the window, watching the skyline of the Citadel instead.

Without looking at him, Athria broke the silence. "You know, you never told me why you came to the Citadel in the first place."

Martin didn't turn to her. He slouched into the couch, resting his head on his hand propped up on the armrest. "I thought you deserved to know," he replied quietly, the words feeling heavier than he'd intended.

A long pause followed, her silence hanging in the air. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer, almost hesitant. "So… you dragged yourself out of a morgue, went to Illium, and then came here…" She trailed off, her thoughts hanging unfinished.

"Yeah." He gave a faint, wry smile. "Guess I got a bit sentimental."

Athria nodded slowly, her gaze still on the screen but her thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Being dead… I can imagine what that could do to someone," she murmured.

Martin chuckled, though there was a bitterness to it. "It's not fun, if that's what you're asking. You'd think it'd be easier to handle the second time around," he added with a touch of humor.

She turned to him, her brow furrowed. "Second?"

He let out a sardonically amused breath. "Yeah. Pretty sure I died back during the war. On Earth. I was in and out of consciousness before… well, before the court-martial." The words came out easier than he'd expected, but he kept his tone light, dismissive, as if talking about an old scar.

Athria looked at him, her expression both curious and wary. "You've never told me about that."

Martin shrugged, shifting on the couch to face her slightly. "Not much to tell. I got scapegoated. The military realized they'd screwed up, branding me a traitor in the middle of a crisis. But by then, it was too late for them to retract the charges without some kind of public backlash. So they decided to quietly lock me away for life. No parole. Just a 'thanks for your service, now disappear.'" He looked away, his gaze drifting to the floor.

Athria's face twisted, a mixture of disgust and disbelief crossing her features. "No wonder you hate authority," she said, her voice edged with sympathy and anger.

Martin shrugged again, this time with a faint, wry smile. "Maybe. But I'll say this—had a hell of a run before it all came crashing down. Never thought I'd be able to move half a battalion through enemy territory, halfway across the country, without getting caught."

She looked at him, her eyes softening, her lips forming a slight, reluctant smile. "You've always been good at getting in and out of trouble." Martin leaned back, smirking. "Guess it's a talent."

He shifted again, feeling uncomfortable, settling deeper into the couch and tilting his head back until it rested on the cushion. He let his eyes drift shut, his mind wandering aimlessly. The noise from the drama flickered in the background, but he barely noticed, lost in the faint comfort of letting his thoughts scatter.

After a few moments of silence, Athria's voice cut through the haze. "I guess since we are sharing, I do owe you a reason why I left the commandos," she murmured. Martin didn't open his eyes, "You did leave me just hanging on that one. He said. He heard her shift on the couch moving some what uncomfortably.

"I was with the Commandos for years. Joined as soon as I was old enough, as soon as I passed qualifcations, thought it was my life's purpose."

Martin nodded slightly, but stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue.

"They sent me and my team this mission," she said with a hint of bitterness he rarely heard from her. "Large compound on one of the outer colonies. Our objective was to free a group of hostages… colonists who'd been abducted by a group of cultists."

Her voice grew quieter, almost as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. "The intel we'd been given was supposed to be airtight. They told us it was a small group of radicals, barely organized, that we'd be in and out within hours." She gave a bitter chuckle, "But everything we thought we knew was wrong. The cult was bigger than any of us had anticipated, and they were armed to the teeth. It was like walking straight into a warzone."

Martin kept his eyes closed but listened closely, the soft rhythm of her voice guiding him through her memory. He could practically feel her tense.

"We went in hard," she continued, "thinking we'd have the advantage. I led my team forward, all I could think about was getting to those hostages, keeping my team safe." Her voice trembled slightly, and she took a steadying breath. "But every step we took just… made things worse. It was a massacre. The cultists fought like they were possessed. No tactics, no strategy, just sheer, chaotic violence. They didn't care if they died, and they sure as hell didn't care about the hostages."

Martin opened his eyes, glancing over at her, but she didn't look back. Her gaze was distant, lost in the memory.

"I tried to limit the casualties," she whispered. "Tried to keep control, keep my team from falling apart. But it was like every move I made, every command I gave, just… dragged us deeper into hell. The compound was littered with bodies. My own people. The hostages. The cultists… all of them, just…"

She paused, drawing in a shaky breath before continuing. "Finally, when I thought we'd managed to contain the situation, when I thought we'd finally won… they set off explosives under the hostages." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "No one made it out." Martin watched her in silence.

"When I got back, all I could think about was how it was all for nothing," she said, continuing with her bitterness. "Everything we went through, all those lives… and for what? A handful of colonists who never even got a chance to see freedom."

Martin didn't know what to say, the pain and regret in her voice, he felt it in his own chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, her gaze flicking up to meet his.

"After that, I left the Commandos. Couldn't take another mission, couldn't live with the fact that I might lead my team into another situation like that,"

"So, here I am. Working with the Initiative. I thought maybe if I kept moving, if I didn't let myself stay still too long, I could leave it behind. But…"

She trailed off, her gaze slipping back down to her hands, which were clenched tightly in her lap.

Martin let out a slow breath, watching her as she sat there, her gaze fixed on the floor, her shoulders heavy. Without a word, he slid over to her, reaching out and gently guiding her to lean against him. She didn't resist, didn't say anything as he settled her close, resting his cheek lightly on the top of her head. Her hand found its way to his leg, her fingers tracing soft, absentminded circles on his thigh, as if the simple act of being near someone was all she needed right now.

"Something tells me we both probably need therapy," he murmured quietly.

She let out a small, huffing laugh. "Any therapist would probably commit suicide listening to your story," she teased back, though there was a softness in her tone.

Then, with a mischievous glint, she gently nudged him, pushing him back onto the couch so he lay lengthwise. She shifted, settling herself beside him, positioning herself between him and the back of the couch, her head coming to rest against his chest. Her breathing slowed, steady and comfortable, and Martin felt an odd, quiet peace settle over him.

"Don't move," she warned, her voice barely a murmur. "This is comfortable."

Martin rolled his eyes with a sarcastic smirk. "Whatever you say, princess," he teased softly.

She didn't reply, just snuggled in closer, her head rising and falling with his slow breaths.