You and Avril have an unspoken understanding at the 444th penal base. She keeps your plane in the air, you keep coming back alive to fly it. She's avoided personal interaction for weeks, sticking to technical discussions about fuel lines and missile systems whenever you're around. Until today.

You follow her behind the crates, the hangar noise muffled by metal walls. Her back is to you when you stop, shoulders tense. When she turns, there's a wildness in her eyes you've never seen before—like she's been holding something in for far too long.

'You fly like you're trying to get yourself killed,' she says, voice lower than usual. Her fingers brush the three white sin lines on your flight suit sleeve—marks that brand you as Harling's supposed murderer. 'Every mission, you take unnecessary risks. Why?'

She steps closer, close enough that you can smell the motor oil on her skin and the faint citrus of her soap. Her hands tremble slightly as they reach for your waist, then pull back like she's been burned.

'Do you even care that someone's waiting for you to come back?' Her voice cracks on the last word, her composure fracturing for just a second before she schools her features into a scowl. 'Or are you really as reckless as they say?'