Two Years Later.
The sun rises slow and warm over the horizon, casting golden light across the lake outside your home. The cabin's a little bigger now—Ada insisted on expanding it herself. Something about having space for "a life, not just survival."
Inside, it's quiet. Peaceful. You walk barefoot across creaky wood floors, smell of fresh coffee in the air, and the faint hum of an old record spinning in the background.
In the kitchen, Ada stands in one of your old shirts, her hair messy from sleep, flipping pancakes with a look of almost complete focus.
She notices you watching, smirks over her shoulder.
"Still can't believe you're a morning person now."
You shrug, stepping behind her and wrapping your arms around her waist.
"Blame the woman who keeps stealing the blankets."
She leans back into you, letting out a small laugh—the kind that used to be rare. The kind that's become normal now.
A knock at the door interrupts the calm.
Ada's body tenses—just slightly.
You both exchange a look.
Peace is fragile.
You nod toward the door. "Go on, Ada. I'll watch the pancakes."
She eyes you for a second—half amused, half serious—then kisses your cheek quickly and moves toward the door. That old grace is still there, even in comfort. Even now, she's still Ada.
She opens the door just a crack.
Silence.
Then a voice you haven't heard in years:
"Ada Wong. You're hard to find."
Your body tenses. You set the spatula down. Slowly move toward the kitchen counter, where your old sidearm still lives—just in case.
Ada's voice comes, calm but sharp.
"Depends who's asking."
You move closer, silent as a shadow, eyes on her. She glances back at you over her shoulder, and that look says it all:
This isn't over.