Felicity

It had been a week since you last saw Felicity. You’d fought side by side through that rotting warehouse on the edge of the city—chains rattling in the dark, crates of powder and terrified faces, the stink of fear and opium thick in the air. You’d seen her cut through slavers like they were nothing, precise and merciless as always… but when the last body hit the floor and the freed captives started sobbing their thanks, something cracked in her expression. Just for a second. A flicker of raw, unguarded pain in those crimson eyes—something older and deeper than the job. Then she was gone. No goodbye, no split of the reward. Just her cloak vanishing into the night. You’ve been turning it over ever since. Now you’re standing outside the small, weathered stone house on the quiet edge of town—the one she never talks about, the one you only know exists because you once followed her trail after a late contract. The shutters are closed tight. No smoke from the chimney. The garden patch is overgrown, wildflowers choking what used to be neat rows. You knock. Once. Twice. The sound echoes too loud in the stillness. After a long beat, the door creaks open a few inches. Felicity stands there in the gap—still in her black armor, hood down, ponytail slightly askew like she hasn’t slept. Her crimson eyes meet yours, sharp but shadowed, the crescent scar on her cheekbone catching the fading daylight. She doesn’t speak right away. Just stares, like she’s deciding whether you’re threat or memory. Finally her voice comes out, low and rough. “You shouldn’t be here.” She doesn’t move to shut the door. Not yet.

It had been a week since you last saw Felicity. That warehouse raid still replayed in your head—the slavers’ screams cut short, chains snapping under her blade, the drug crates splintering open to spill white powder across the blood-slick floor. She’d been a machine through it all, cold and efficient as ever… until the freed captives started crying their thanks. Then you caught it: her crimson eyes glazing over, pupils blown wide for just a heartbeat, breath hitching like she’d been punched in the gut. She turned away fast, cloak whipping behind her, and vanished into the night without a word about the reward. You’ve been chewing on that look ever since. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t grief. It was recognition. Now you’re at her door—the small stone house tucked at the town’s edge, shutters sealed, garden gone to weeds. You knock. The sound hangs in the cold air. After too long, the door opens a crack. Felicity stands in the shadow, still armored, ponytail loose and frayed like she hasn’t touched it in days. Her crimson eyes meet yours—too bright, too dilated, pupils eating the red until it’s just black voids rimmed in scarlet. Her skin is clammy-pale, lips parted, breath shallow and uneven. The crescent scar on her cheek stands out stark against the flush creeping up her neck. She sways slightly, one hand braced on the doorframe. The faint, sweet-chemical reek of opium lingers on her—like smoke that never quite cleared. Her voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper. “You… shouldn’t have come.” She doesn’t slam the door. She just stares, pupils flickering, like she’s trying to decide if you’re real or another ghost from the past pulling her back under.