Long Journey
They found an abandoned building to rest in — the wind rattled through broken windows, and the moonlight spilled across the cracked floor. Emma sat against the wall, sharpening a knife she'd taken from one of the fallen assassins. Mostang was half-asleep in a chair, a cigarette dying between his fingers.
Kane sat across from Emma, silent. The boy's face was half-lit by the moon, half-hidden in shadow. He'd been staring at her for a while now — not in fear, not in admiration, but like he was trying to solve a riddle that wouldn't leave his head.
Finally, he spoke.
"...You didn't have to help that kid."
Emma didn't look up. "I know."
"You didn't even eat today, did you?"
"No."
Kane leaned back against the cold wall, staring at the ceiling. His voice dropped low.
"My sister… she used to do stuff like that too."
Emma's hand froze mid-sharpen.
"She'd give her food to the little ones in the orphanage. Even if she was starving herself. Said she couldn't stand watching someone else cry." He laughed bitterly. "Guess that's why the gangs targeted her first. Kind people die early."
Emma finally lifted her eyes — calm, steady, but soft for a fraction of a second. "What was her name?"
"...Mira."
There was silence after that. Only the wind.
Emma whispered, "Then let's make sure no one like Mira dies again."
Kane looked at her. He didn't nod, didn't smile — but something in his eyes changed. Like for the first time, he believed Emma wasn't just another killer.
Mostang, half-awake, muttered under his breath,
"…Looks like you got yourself a kid soldier, Emma."
Emma didn't respond. She just kept sharpening her blade — slow, steady, and determined.
---
Night — The Hideout
The trio arrived at their base — a dim, abandoned safehouse tucked behind a scrapyard. The walls were scarred with bullet marks, the air heavy with the smell of old metal and rain.
Diana was already there, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. Celeste sat nearby, quietly checking her medical equipment — her calm demeanor contrasted Diana's restless energy.
The door creaked open. Emma stepped in first, followed by Mostang, and then Kane — who stopped just inside, uncertain.
Diana's eyes narrowed.
"Who's the kid?"
"New recruit," Mostang said casually, brushing dust off his jacket.
Diana frowned. "You're joking. He looks like he just ran away from school."
Kane's expression hardened. "I killed twenty men this month."
The room went silent. Celeste's hand froze mid-motion, and Diana blinked — unsure if he was bluffing. But Emma, quiet as always, walked past them all and sat on the couch.
"He's telling the truth," Emma said flatly.
That was enough. No one questioned further.
Celeste looked at Emma's injuries — half-healed scars, dark circles under her eyes. "You shouldn't be walking this much, Emma."
"I've had worse," she replied, glancing at her bandaged hands.
Diana sighed, walking up to Emma. "You keep saying that every damn time, you know that?"
Emma gave no reaction. Just silence.
Mostang lit a cigarette, exhaling toward the ceiling. "So what's the plan, boss?"
Emma finally looked at the group — her eyes steady, quiet, commanding.
"We're going after Vencor's network. One by one. No survivors."
Kane clenched his fists. Celeste froze for a second — she'd heard that name before.
Diana muttered under her breath, "…So it's finally time."
Emma stood. The low light caught her face — calm, beautiful, yet filled with that cold emptiness again.
"Rest tonight," she said softly. "Tomorrow… the hunt begins."
Kane spoke: "Should we Start with Gaining, new members?"
Kane's question hung in the stale air for a beat — then another. The safehouse felt smaller, charged, like a wound about to be picked.
Emma didn't answer right away. She folded her hands, thumb tracing the edge of the couch fabric as if measuring time. The group watched her: Diana expectant, Mostang smirking but wary, Celeste tense and clinical, Kane burning with impatience.
Finally Emma spoke, all cold logic and quiet weight.
"Not… randomly."
She stood and walked slowly to the battered whiteboard propped in the corner — someone had scrawled old maps and a few contact names on it. Emma picked up a marker and wrote, one neat block at a time.
1. Need — roles required (intel, med, logistics, muscle, forger, hacker).
2. Filter — no cops, no children of gangs. No loose mouths. Past violence acceptable only if targeted at predators.
3. Test — a two-stage vetting: field test (obedience & instinct), and a moral test (will they target innocents?).
4. Veto — any member can be voted out unanimously. Betrayal = termination.
5. Exit plan — stash & IDs for any member who wants out later.
Mostang hummed low. "So you actually plan to run this like an organization. Fancy."
Emma's stare cut through the joke. "If we're going to rebuild a weapon, we need structure. Chaos gets people killed."
Celeste chimed in quietly, practical: "I can vet medical competence. I'll need time to set up triage protocols. Also—if we recruit, we need quarantine for new blood. Diseases, psych issues. I'm not patching an avoidable cluster of infections after a raid."
Diana's voice was softer, but fierce. "We should look for people like Kane — hurt enough to fight, not just angry kids who'll blow everything up. People with debts to pay, who want change. Not bloodlust."
Kane snapped his fingers. "So we bring them in, test them. Make them earn it. Teach them what control means." He looked at Emma. "You trust me to find them?"
Emma's lips barely twitched — it was as close to a smile as she'd allowed in years. "Find them. Bring one. Not a dozen. We test. If they pass, we bring one more. We grow slow. We stay invisible."
Mostang nodded, surprisingly sincere. "I can call a few old ghosts. People who owe me favors. But we move careful — Vencor has eyes. He'll smell recruitment."
Emma erased the marker line and wrote, last and large:
Rule Zero: We don't become them. We dismantle. Not replace.
She turned to face them all, the phantom and the ragged crew beneath one tiny light.
"If anyone breaks Rule Zero," she said, voice flat and final, "I'll be the one who ends it. Understand?"
They all understood.
Kane's chest tightened with purpose. Diana clenched her hands, resolve set. Celeste already started mentally cataloguing supplies. Mostang flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and looked at Emma like a man who'd just signed up for a war.
"First recruit," Emma said. "You find him, Kane. Mostang, you and I will prepare a small test. Diana, keep the base ready and the exits clear. Celeste—your quarantine."
Kane stood straighter. "I'll bring him to the pier at midnight, three days from now. Alone."
Emma nodded once. "Bring the one who hates monsters but isn't a monster himself. If he bleeds for a cause and not for rage, he earns a place."
They all dispersed, the plan settling into their bones. The hunt would begin—slow, precise, controlled. They would build a blade, one tempered recruit at a time.
---
Kane walked the alleys like he owned half the city tonight—only his chest was full of bravado and not much experience. He'd been told to bring one recruit; in his head that meant grab the first angry person who looked like they'd fight. Simple.
He found him under a flickering lamp: a man with a shaved head, tattoos running up his neck, a cheap gold chain, the kind of guy who smelled like bad decisions and payday loans. Kane's palms were sweaty, but he squared his shoulders.
"Hey," Kane said, blunt as a blade. "You wanna join something that kills gangsters?"
The man laughed — a low, hungry sound. "Kid, you lost or tryna get yourself killed?" He pushed up off the crate, cracking his knuckles. "Who sent you?"
Kane, proud and stupid, puffed his chest out. "Emma. She—"
The smile in the man's face went cold the moment the name hit the air. He glanced toward the street like a rat listening for footsteps. "Emma, huh? Big name." He circled Kane once, slow. "You bring any proof? Money? A boss never trusts a kid's mouth."
Kane fumbled. He had no ledger, no contact, nothing but his hunger and the story of his dead sister. The man's grin widened. "You listen, kid—bring me something I can spend. Bring me a cut. Bring me a sign you're not a joke. Or bring me a body I can sell. Otherwise you're wasting my time."
Kane's jaw tightened. "I'm not a joke."
The man shrugged, not impressed. Then, with the casual cruelty of someone used to getting what he wanted, he shoved Kane hard in the chest. Kane stumbled back, anger flaring into a wild, desperate swing — which the man easily caught and slammed into a rusted pipe. Kane bit blood into his lip, spit it out, then staggered to his feet.
"Listen kid," the man said, quiet now, dangerous: "You come around again without proof, I sell your face to Vencor's boys as traitor bait. They'll like little squealers. Or I take you on as muscle — pay's low, risks high, and you learn quickly that nothing here is clean." He shoved Kane another step back and walked off, smirking.
—
Kane stumbled back to the pier like a kicked dog, bruised and humiliated, grip still shaking. He'd gone to the wrong place and come back empty-handed.
Mostang was waiting in the shadows where Emma had told him to hide. He watched Kane approach, blood on his lip, eyes bright with fury and shame.
"You idiot," Mostang hissed before Kane could speak. It wasn't a safe-house scolding — it was the tone of someone who'd seen this exact ending before. "You went to the trash heap of the city and asked for permission. What did you expect?"
Kane spat on the ground. "He laughed. Said I'm a kid. Said he could sell me to Vencor." His voice broke. "I almost—"
Emma watched from the pier's edge, expression unreadable. When Kane told the story, she didn't explode. She didn't shout. She closed her eyes for one slow breath, then turned to him.
"You came back alive," she said simply. "Which means you learned two things: you're not ready, and you can't trust every hungry face. You came with words and anger. That gets you killed."
Kane's anger turned inward, shame burning hot. He opened his mouth to protest, but Emma held up a hand.
"Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, Mostang takes you out on a run. You follow. You watch. You don't speak. You learn. If you want to be useful, you'll make yourself unbreakable first."
Kane nodded, hard and immediate. He had been foolish, but the anger in him steadied into something else: focus.
Mostang hooked an arm around Kane's shoulder, squeezing. "Good. We break hunters into soldiers. Mess up again, and you'll be training in a cell until you learn humility."
Kane swallowed. He had wanted to tear everything down yesterday. Now he understood the price of impatience.
Emma looked out over the water again, voice quiet: "Bring one recruit who already knows what they'll die for. Don't bring us a confused child."
Kane clenched his fists in the dark, promising himself he'd be the latter — not a child, but someone who could keep up. The lesson had been brutal, but it had landed.
---
Night. The city smells like oil and rain. Mostang moves like a shadow — all economy of motion and irritation — and Kane follows, two steps behind, trying to match the rhythm. No lights, no cigarettes; Mostang smashes the habit for discipline tonight.
Mostang's rules are simple and spoken once, low and flat:
1. No noise.
2. No hero moves.
3. Watch first. Move only when I say.
4. If you're unsure, freeze.
They slide through alleys, duck behind dumpsters, cross under scaffolding where spotlights miss. Mostang points with a chin, not words — a man with a limp, a lookout, a kid smoking behind an auto-repair shop. Kane's eyes are hungry; he wants to charge every wrong. Mostang clamps a hand on his shoulder — gentle but iron — and Kane clamps down on the impulse.
Lesson one: Tail, don't confront.
A courier walks by, leather satchel tight. Mostang signals. Kane's job: follow at two streets over, count exits, memorize the buildings the courier uses. Kane's breath fogs the air; he wants to sprint. He walks. He counts. He watches the way the courier dips into a bakery three blocks later, exchanges a small envelope for a wrapped loaf, then leaves by a different lane. Kane sees the pattern. He reports it in whispers — accurate. Mostang nods once. That's a win.
Lesson two: Pick pockets quietly; take nothing that leaves trace.
Mostang demonstrates on a drunk who'd stumbled into the lane. Fingers like a magician; a cigarette packet and a coin roll slide into the old man's sleeve without the man noticing. Kane tries. He fumbles and almost drops the roll. Mostang freezes his hand mid-move, eyes cold. "You learn by not bleeding." Kane swallows, tries again — slower, smoother. He succeeds. Tiny victory. Kane grins without meaning to. Mostang snorts, pleased.
Lesson three: Read people, not weapons.
They watch two gang kids arguing. Mostang whispers what to note: stance, eye contact, the slight pivot that signals a blade. Kane learns to predict the swing before the swing. When the fight starts, they're gone; no glory, only information. Mostang's voice: "We don't start wars. We end them when we choose."
At one point, Kane's adrenaline spikes — a man in a leather jacket starts toward an unattended bike. Kane reaches to stop him, fingers twitching for a punch. Mostang's hand clamps down, hard. "You don't touch unless you can take the consequences." Kane freezes, then slowly lets his hand drop.
They finish the run at a junkyard where Mostang keeps old contacts: one blurred face, two safe-house numbers, a route map. Kane's shoulders ache; he's exhausted but wired. He's learned patience in a single night enough to bruise.
On the walk back, Mostang finally speaks softer, almost like a warning turned promise:
"You wanted to rip everything down. Good. First you learn to build the blade. Then you learn to strike. Get those reversed, and you die a stupid death."
Kane nods, quiet now. He's not a child who stumbled into revenge anymore — he's starting to be the kind of man who knows the cost.
They return to the safehouse just as dawn touches the horizon. Emma is there on the porch, watching them return. She scans Kane — his hands, his gait, the way he hides his excitement. She lifts a single eyebrow, small approval. It's not praise; it's an acknowledgment: he didn't break. That's enough for now.
Mostang drops Kane by the door, mutters, "Sleep. If you snore loud, I'll find a way to make you sing." Kane laughs, hollow and tired. He steps inside and collapses.
Training has begun.
---
The training room was barebones: a threadbare mat, a stack of worn tires, and a dented punching bag that had seen better wars. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly and casting long shadows. The air smelled of sweat, oil, and something metallic — adrenaline waiting.
Kane stood in the center, fists taped awkwardly, jaw clenched. He wanted to explode — every fiber of him begged to shove, strike, scream. Emma watched him without expression, arms folded, nothing wasted on sentiment.
"Start with stance," she said flatly.
Kane planted his feet the way he always had — angry, forward, as if every fight were a charge. Emma shook her head once, almost pitying.
"No. Too eager. That's childish." She stepped in, adjusted his feet with two deliberate touches, placed his weight lower. "Relax your shoulders. Chin down. Eyes not on hands — on hips, watch center mass. If you breathe first, you lose second."
She demonstrated: small, economical movements — no wasted motion. Her punches weren't pretty; they were efficient, each strike an answer to a question. When she struck the bag, it didn't swing much. It folded. Power without showmanship.
Kane tried to mirror her. His first jab was wide, windmilling and winded. Emma intercepted his wrist with a sharp twist and shoved him off balance.
"Again," she said. No anger. No praise. Just command.
She drilled him on basics for hours. Jab. Cross. Parry. Hip-turn. Foot placement. She corrected his breathing — inhale on chamber, exhale on strike. She made him hold positions until his legs trembled. When he dropped his hands, she slapped the back of his shoulders hard — not to hurt him but to make him remember.
"Fight is math, not emotion," she said once, voice low. "Two strikes to create an opening. One strike to finish. If you think with anger, you'll die with your face broken."
They moved to clinch work. Emma put him into tight holds, teaching escapes: how to rotate, how to use a trapped shoulder as a lever, how to bend at the hips and dump weight. She showed him how to turn an opponent's push into a pivot — using their force to throw them off balance. Kane learned to fall without breaking his spine. He learned to take a hit and make it matter.
Halfway through, Mostang appeared at the door and lingered like a guard who'd come to observe. He said nothing; his cigar glow was the only witness.
Emma didn't teach only technique. She taught mind.
"See the gap between their eyes and mouth?" she asked during a pause. "That's where you'll find lies. That's where fear starts to breathe. Make them use that space to bleed."
She forced him into situational drills. Surprise attacks from the dark. Disarming a knife-wielding foe. Using improvised weapons (a rolled-up magazine, a belt). She had him spar against a heavier local — someone fast enough to test his reflexes but controlled so it wouldn't be lethal. Kane bled, learned where to absorb, how to angle away from power, how to steal rhythm.
At one point, Emma slammed him with a sequence so fast he tasted metal. He stumbled back, knuckles skinned, breath ragged. For a second his face contorted — pain, anger, the urge to strike back. Emma leaned close, untouched by the fight's heat.
"You felt your rage there," she said quietly. "That's fine. Harness it. Turn it into timing. Never let it be your first move."
Kane nodded, wiping blood from a split lip. He tried again, slower, tighter. His movements began to clean up; his jab stopped swinging, his steps started to mimic the correct channel. Emma didn't smile — she rarely did — but the corner of her mouth lifted the tiniest fraction when he finally executed a perfect hip-turn throw she'd shown him minutes earlier.
They trained until the bulb buzzed with fatigue. On the mat, Kane lay flat, lungs burning, sweat cooling on his skin. Emma stripped his tape off methodically, hands steady as a surgeon's.
"Good," she said finally, the word a closed fist. "You learned faster than most. But you're not done. Not by far."
Kane pushed himself up, bruises mapping his arms like a badge. Hunger and pain warred in his eyes — he wanted more, and he wanted to vomit it all into motion.
"Tomorrow," Emma added, voice gravel-soft, "we put weight on your shoulders. You run farther. You clinch harder. You don't think about dying. You think about what you need to protect."
Mostang blew out smoke, watching the boy with something like approval. "You did good," he muttered, not meaning the compliment as sweetness.
Kane looked at Emma, chest heaving, and for the first time, it wasn't all fury — there was steadiness growing there, a new rhythm. "I won't mess up again," he rasped.
Emma's eyes were flat then, but there was a promise in them that felt almost like trust. "Don't promise me that. Prove it."
She walked away, leaving Kane and Mostang in the dim afterglow of the room — one boy learning to be a weapon, one man learning to shape him, and one woman carving the rules.
---
[Scene: Night – Outside the Prison]
The wind howled across the cracked perimeter walls of the women's prison. Floodlights swept lazily over the yard, their hum mixing with the low buzz of electric fences. The same place Emma had once been trapped in — the place she had vowed never to see again.
Now she was back.
Emma stood by the hood of the black car, black gloves on, her hair tied tight behind her head. She looked at the building like she was staring at an old scar. Her face didn't flinch, but her eyes flickered — just for a second — with something close to hate.
Mostang leaned against the driver's door, cigarette between his lips. "You sure she'll come with us?" he asked, voice calm, but his hand was already resting on the holster beneath his coat.
Emma didn't answer immediately. She studied the guard rotation, counted silently. "She will," she finally said. "Valeria owes me. But… more than that. She misses freedom."
"Freedom?" Mostang smirked. "You make it sound like a luxury."
Emma gave him a sideways glance. "To people like us, it is."
They moved. Quiet. Calculated.
Emma knew the back routes — the same maintenance tunnel she once used to get air when she was locked there. Mostang followed behind her, silent, steps light despite his height. The smell of dust and mold filled the narrow space.
When they reached the inner block, Emma stopped. The same walls. The same corridors. Echoes of women laughing, fighting, whispering behind bars.
She remembered the showers. The stares. The smell of iron.
She pushed it aside. No time for ghosts.
"Cell 12," she muttered. "Valeria should still be there."
Mostang cracked his neck. "You sure she didn't change?"
"She doesn't change," Emma said coldly. "She adapts."
They reached Cell 12.
Inside — Valeria sat on the edge of her bunk, hair longer now, rougher, but her eyes still wild. She looked up when the door slid open — expecting a guard. But when she saw Emma standing there, her jaw dropped.
"…You've gotta be kidding me," Valeria breathed. "Emma?"
Emma just stared. "Get up. We're leaving."
Valeria laughed. A short, bitter laugh. "You walk in here after disappearing for months and say that like it's nothing?"
Mostang stepped in, his voice low. "You can talk on the way, sweetheart. We don't have time."
Valeria turned her glare to him. "Who the hell's the pretty boy?"
"Someone who's about to drag you out of here if you don't move," he shot back.
Emma cut through the tension. "Enough." She tossed a small object — a folded prison keycard, carefully remade. "Use that to get out. The outer gate's timed. Two minutes. Move."
Valeria stared at the card, then back at Emma — confusion softening into something else. Trust.
She finally stood up. "Still bossy as hell," she muttered with a smirk. "Guess some things never change."
They moved quickly — shadows weaving through light.
Two guards turned a corner — Mostang silenced them before a sound could leave their throats, his knife quick and silent. He dragged their bodies behind a supply rack.
Valeria whispered, "You got yourself a psycho now?"
Emma replied flatly, "He's useful."
The sirens suddenly flared — one of the cameras had caught motion near the exit.
"Time's up," Mostang growled.
Emma didn't hesitate. She sprinted forward, grabbed Valeria by the wrist, and yanked her toward the main gate. Bullets cracked the walls as alarms screamed across the compound.
Mostang covered their backs, returning fire with sharp precision.
"Go, go, go!" he barked.
Emma slammed the emergency override on the door. The gate buzzed, metal grinding painfully. For three seconds, it didn't move. Then — click.
They burst through into the open air.
The car was already waiting — Mostang's setup from earlier. They jumped in. Tires screeched, lights flashing behind them.
Valeria, panting, glanced at Emma as they sped into the night.
"So… what now?"
Emma looked straight ahead, eyes sharp on the road. "Now," she said, voice low, "we start building."
Mostang chuckled under his breath. "Building what?"
Emma's gaze didn't waver. "An army."
The city lights blurred behind them — the night swallowing three ghosts reborn into something far deadlier.
---
[Scene: The Hideout — Evening]
The air inside the hideout was heavy — the kind of silence that hung after days of planning and sweat.
Kane lay flat on the mat, chest rising and falling, shirt drenched in sweat. He had bruises on his forearms, his knuckles were raw, and his breathing came in short bursts.
Diana stood over him, arms crossed, her tone calm but firm.
"Get up, Kane. You won't always get time to rest when you're fighting monsters."
Kane groaned, rolling onto his side. "You've been saying that for three hours…"
Diana's eyes narrowed. "And yet you're still talking. Means you're not tired enough."
She was about to pull him up again when the door creaked open.
Footsteps.
Emma walked in first, her usual composed stride echoing through the quiet hall. Mostang followed behind, tossing his jacket over a chair. And behind them—
Valeria.
Her presence alone was loud — fiery hair, sharp grin, the kind of energy that filled the room even when she said nothing. She scanned the hideout, recognizing none of it — except Emma.
Diana froze for a moment, her training stance breaking. Her eyes met Valeria's.
Two strong personalities — fire meeting calm.
Valeria broke the silence first. "You're Diana, huh?"
Diana nodded slowly. "And you must be Valeria."
There was a brief pause — not hostility, just measuring. Both could feel it.
Valeria smirked. "Emma's told me nothing about you. Which probably means you're important."
Diana raised a brow. "And she didn't tell me you existed until today. So that makes us even."
The tension broke when Kane, still on the floor, lifted his head weakly.
"Hey… can we continue this dramatic introduction after I breathe again?"
Mostang laughed under his breath. "Kid's got a point."
Emma ignored them all, moving toward the table, laying down a small map. "Enough talk. We have a new structure forming. Kane needs to improve, Diana will continue his training. Valeria, you'll back me up on field missions. Mostang handles logistics and connections."
Valeria crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "Straight to business, huh? Don't even let me unpack."
Emma didn't look up. "You don't need to. We move tomorrow."
Everyone fell quiet.
The only sound was the low hum of the single light above, and Kane's faint exhale.
Valeria's gaze returned to Diana — curious now, maybe even respectful.
"Guess we're teammates," she said, voice softer this time.
Diana nodded, finally letting a small smile break her usual stern look. "Guess so."
Mostang smirked, lighting a cigarette. "This is gonna be one hell of a team."
Emma, staring at the map, whispered under her breath — words only she could hear:
"It better be."
-----
The air was tense, thick with anticipation.
Celeste stepped forward, removing her gloves and setting down the medical kit. Her sharp, professional movements contrasted with the chaos of training and strategy surrounding them.
"I'm done here," she said calmly, looking at Emma. "Everyone's patched up. Injuries, bruises, small cuts—nothing permanent."
Emma glanced at her briefly, nodding once. "Good. That's enough for now."
Mostang smirked, leaning against the wall. "Finally, no whining about bandages."
Kane, still nursing his sore muscles, muttered, "You guys work fast."
Valeria rolled her eyes. "You should've trained harder if you wanted to keep up."
Diana just stood silently, arms folded, watching Emma carefully. There was pride in her stance, but also concern.
Emma then walked to the center of the room. The dim lights reflected faintly off her eyes — cold, calculating, and ready.
"Everyone," she said, voice cutting through the chatter. "We're no longer scattered. We move as one. And from now on, nothing can break us."
Slowly, the rest of the members stepped into the frame, forming a rough semicircle around Emma.
Valeria — arms crossed, confident, fiery.
Diana — alert, protective, poised.
Kane — exhausted but determined, fists still raw.
Mostang — casual, calculating, cigarette in hand, eyes sharp.
Celeste — precise, professional, medical expertise ready.
The camera of the scene — imagined or narrative — slowly panned across their faces. Each one told a story of survival, pain, and loyalty. Together, they looked more than a team. They looked like a force to be reckoned with.
Emma, standing slightly ahead, tilted her head. Her eyes, piercing and unreadable, swept across everyone.
"It's not full. But enough for now" she whispered. "we finish everything that deserves to end."
The room fell silent. The weight of those words settled in.
And for the first time in years, Emma allowed herself a fraction of satisfaction. She wasn't alone anymore.
All the members, faces illuminated by the dim overhead light, stood together — ready.
The camera fades to black.
Chapter End