The briefing room was colder than usual, the fluorescents casting everything in sterile, blue-tinged light. Phoenix's upper circle — operatives, strategists, handlers — filled the seats. All eyes turned as Aara walked in without being called.
She wasn't scheduled to speak.
She didn't care.
Arlen was mid-sentence when she crossed the room, the dull thud of her boots loud against the concrete.
"You're interrupting," he said without looking at her.
"Good."
Murmurs rippled across the room. Phoenix didn't do chaos. They did order, structure, hierarchy.
Aara had always been their exception. And now, she was about to become their problem.
She stepped in front of the projector, blocking the tactical map on the screen behind her. The glow backlit her silhouette like a halo made of static.
"I want it on record," she said. "I am no longer to be referred to as Subject 9. Nor by my birth name. Nor by any label that Phoenix deems suitable for messaging."
Arlen folded his arms. "What brought this on?"
"Freedom," she said flatly. "And the realization that surviving doesn't mean I owe you obedience."
Another ripple of tension. Someone at the back clicked a pen nervously. Another cleared their throat.
Haru stood in the corner, silent, arms crossed. He hadn't known what she planned to say — only that something had changed in her since Hollow's message. A quiet storm had started inside her. It wasn't rage. It wasn't fear.
It was resolve.
"I've bled under other people's names for too long," she continued. "DaeCorp branded me. Phoenix marketed me. Even the resistance forums call me by things I didn't choose."
She stepped forward.
"So here it is. My name. The one I give myself."
She paused, then said it like she was daring the room to flinch:
"Ash."
No fanfare. No explanation. Just the word — sharp, clean, final.
Because what rises from fire doesn't need permission to exist.
Later, Haru found her alone on the rooftop again.
She sat on the ledge, legs dangling three stories above the alleyway. Her posture was loose, but her jaw was tight — still carrying the weight of what she'd just done.
He didn't sit beside her. Not at first.
"You chose 'Ash,'" he said, leaning against the wall beside the stairwell exit.
"It's what's left when everything else burns," she replied.
He nodded. "It suits you."
"No," she said. "It warns them."
He smirked faintly, then walked over and sat beside her. Their shoulders brushed. She didn't pull away.
"You know this changes things," he said after a while.
"How?"
"They'll start questioning you. More than they already do. Phoenix doesn't like leadership it can't control."
"I'm not interested in being their leader."
"Doesn't matter. They've been treating you like a weapon. Now they'll see you as a rogue element."
She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Let them."
Then she looked at him. "You still with me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Always."
But not everyone shared his loyalty.
That night, a notice was slipped under her door. Thin paper. Black ink.
No sender.
No signature.
Just a warning:
"Names mean nothing when you're dead."
She read it once. Then burned it in the sink.
In the days that followed, things shifted.
Small things, at first.
People stopped talking when she entered rooms. Briefings she was once invited to were now "internal only." Jin's name was never mentioned again. When she asked for updates, she got vague answers or redirections.
Phoenix was closing ranks — around her, not with her.
And still, she did not retreat.
Ash, as she now insisted to be called, began running solo drills again. Haru helped her — sometimes as a sparring partner, sometimes just spotting her as she trained for hours without pause. He didn't ask questions. He didn't push.
He simply stayed.
Sometimes, that meant more than anything he could've said.
One evening, while walking back from a recon exercise, Haru handed her a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Something I found in one of DaeCorp's digital dumps. They leaked a list of terminated experimental subjects. Names, numbers, dates. Most of it was redacted."
She unfolded the page.
Midway down the list, her original ID was printed: #9-013.
Status: Deceased.
Date of termination: Six months ago.
Haru watched her as she read it.
"They declared you dead before you ever escaped," he said.
"No," she whispered. "They erased me. So they could rebuild me."
She folded the paper again and tucked it into her jacket.
"Then let them know I'm alive. Let them see what I become."
Back in their shared room, Haru moved quietly while she sat on the bed.
He placed something small in her palm — cold, metallic.
A ring.
Worn. Simple.
"What's this?" she asked, startled.
"My old family ring," he said. "I had it modified."
She studied it. The engraved crest had been filed down, replaced with a symbol she recognized — an open flame.
She looked at him, questioning.
"I figured if you were going to rise from the ashes, you should have something that didn't belong to anyone else. Not even me."
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't need to.
She slipped it onto her finger.
And when she looked at him again, there was something new in her eyes.
Not softness. Not surrender.
Just a kind of shared ruin — rebuilt with intent.