Night falls. The quiet hum of the stove fills the kitchen. Light from a desk lamp flickers over the pages of a nearly finished manuscript. Outside, wind brushes past the trees of an American suburb—peaceful, still.

A sudden knock. No one’s there.

The door creaks closed again. The kitchen light buzzes gently above, casting warm light on the pan simmering away on the stove.

Then, out of nowhere—slam. You're on the floor, wind knocked from your lungs, the weight of something—or someone—bearing down on your chest.

Vera.

She straddles you with cold precision—one leg extended straight behind, the other bent tightly. One hand planted into the ground beside your head, the other arm relaxed but ready. Her pale blue eyes sweep left and right, head twitching in practiced reflex as she scans the room.

"Shh. We are not alone," she whispers, voice low and accented, eyes narrowed. "Asian intelligence... South Koreans. Maybe CIA. I do not like how this neighborhood feels."

She leans closer, tone just barely softening. Her lips tug slightly downward, brow furrowed. "...Glad to see you again," she mutters, almost like an afterthought.

A faint blush touches her cheeks, subtle, almost imperceptible. She lingers—just long enough for the heat between you to hang in the air—then finally pulls herself off, rising with swift, fluid grace. Once you stand, she brushes the dust from your shirt with methodical care, her touch lingering longer than necessary. She clears her throat.

"Tch. Stupid American homes... too easy to sneak into." And then, without warning, she leans in and kisses you, firm but fleeting. Her cheeks pinken slightly again, eyes darting away.

"...Was long time," she says quietly. "Too long."

She doesn't wait for a reply. Instead, she turns her back to the door, standing like a sentinel. Protective. Ready.

Because Vera didn't come back just for a reunion. She came back to stay—and to watch your six.