The corridor stretched ahead—silent, gilded in cold, functional light. Aldrin's footsteps were measured, his expression unreadable. Beside him, the Crimson Regent walked with her hands behind her back, heels striking deliberate notes on the polished concrete. It wasn't until they passed the last door on the executive level that either of them spoke.
"You've been busy," she said at last, a touch of amusement softening her tone. "I half-expected ash and fire when I got back."
"It was close," Aldrin said without turning. "But I kept it clean."
"For once."
They entered the private war room. A place few knew existed, where walls were thicker than secrets and glass darker than memory. Aldrin keyed in a sequence. The lock hissed open, and the door sealed behind them with a sigh.
"Sit," he said.
She didn't. She walked to the window instead—floor-to-ceiling glass with a view of the storm-soaked city below. Her fingers rested lightly on the frame.
"You've added new faces," she said. "The intern has a spark. I like her."
"I noticed," Aldrin replied, watching her. "You always like the dangerous ones."
She turned then, slow, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"She reminds me of me. Back then."
"You were never that naive."
"No," she admitted, smile flickering. "But I was hopeful. Once."
Silence settled between them, not awkward—intimate in its own way. The kind that came from years of understanding someone's silences better than their words.
Aldrin sat at the edge of the long black table, his hands folded.
"We dealt with Renfield."
"I figured. Marek's hands were still twitching."
"No survivors."
"Good." The word was cold, almost gentle. "But he wasn't alone in this."
"I know."
She turned back to the window. "You didn't wait for me."
"You weren't here."
"I was tracking the other half of the snake," she said. "You cut the head, but I found the fangs. Embedded deep. Still biting."
Aldrin's eyes flicked toward her. "How long?"
"Give me two days. I'll burn the roots."
He didn't respond immediately. Just stared at her, not through her—into her, as if measuring the edges of something she hadn't yet said.
"You don't trust the intern."
"I don't know her," he replied. "But her name—bothered me."
"She's curious," the Isabella said. "And clever. Dangerous combinations, but useful. You were both once."
Aldrin's gaze drifted to the far wall, the embedded screen that hadn't flickered on in weeks. "That was a long time ago."
She moved toward him now, silent until she stood in front of him. No longer cloaked in playful charm. Just steel beneath velvet.
"I came back because I heard you stopped sleeping again."
Aldrin said nothing.
"And because I knew if I didn't, you'd do something permanent."
Still, silence.
She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist once—barely a touch, a gesture they both remembered from the years when they weren't quite this broken.
"I'm back, Aldrin," she said softly. "Let's finish this."
And with that, the Regent stepped back, smoothing her coat, her armor hidden in silk and calm.
"I'll make contact with our old allies. You prepare the city."
Aldrin's voice was low, almost reluctant. "Welcome home."
She smiled, tired but true.
"I never left. You just stopped looking."
And then she was gone again, the room swallowing her like a ghost that had never truly vanished.
Aldrin sat in the quiet for a long while, the storm outside now a mirror to the one turning inside his mind.
The room still hadn't recovered from her departure. Aldrin stood unmoving, back half-turned to the others, gaze fixed on the city beyond the glass. Lights blinked in the distance like distant stars, but his mind was nowhere near them.
The air was heavy—not with tension, but memory.
She had returned.
The one person who could walk through these doors and leave him wordless.
She hadn't changed. Still velvet and iron in equal parts. Still moving with that familiar grace, like the weight of the world could never touch her shoulders. Still the only one who could step into his shadow and match his silence with her own.
Aldrin didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The door opened again with a quiet hiss.
Ainsworth was the first in, a smirk already in place, hands shoved into the pockets of a suit far too expensive to be worn so carelessly. "So," he drawled, leaning against the edge of the table. "She's back. Didn't even send me a postcard."
Marek followed, arms crossed, brow raised. "You didn't call us in just to stare out the window, did you?"
Aldrin didn't turn. Instead, he spoke quietly—his voice low but resolute. "She said she'd return when it mattered."
"Ah." Ainsworth's smirk twitched into something smaller. "So, this matters."
Marek gave a low whistle. "Must be serious, then. Haven't seen you this still since the last time someone tried to assassinate you."
"She's not the enemy," Aldrin said flatly. His voice cut through the room like a blade. "She never has been."
Ainsworth held up his hands. "Didn't say she was. Just… dramatic entrances tend to come with knives these days."
Aldrin finally turned, and when his eyes met Ainsworth's, there was a warning behind them. "She's my left hand when you're not looking. She'd burn this world down before she'd betray me. I owe her my life."
Marek leaned back against the wall, arms still crossed. "So… what now?"
Aldrin's silence stretched just long enough for Ainsworth to glance his way again, more thoughtful this time.
"You're not worried she's back," Ainsworth said slowly, reading the tension. "You're wondering why she stayed away this long."
Aldrin didn't respond. He didn't need to. The room already knew the answer.
"She moves on her own time," he said at last. "But when she moves, it's never without purpose."
Marek raised a brow, lips quirking. "And what's the purpose now?"
Aldrin's jaw tightened. "We're about to find out."
A beat passed.
Then Ainsworth broke the quiet with his usual irreverence. "So... what do we call this reunion of yours? Fire and steel? Or something more poetic?"
"She's not fire," Aldrin murmured, walking toward the exit, his steps slow but steady. "She's the wind before the storm. And I'd trust her with my last breath."
Marek and Ainsworth exchanged a look—unspoken understanding passing between them.
"Guess we best brace for weather, then," Marek said with a dry grin.
"And not the kind that brings umbrellas," Ainsworth added, already trailing after Aldrin.