"You don't owe the world anything, Y/N."
"I know," she said. "But I've seen it burning-in my dreams. And if I don't go... I think it'll burn for real."
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The zipper clicked shut with finality. One last breath. One last glance around the room that had held her secrets, scars, and slow healing. Y/N let her hand linger on the worn notebook tucked in the side pocket of her duffel. It throbbed with weight—memories, warnings, sketches of flowers she'd never seen and shadows she couldn't name.
She rose, brushing the dust from her jeans. The oversized brown leather jacket slid into place like armor—worn at the elbows, a bit heavy on the shoulders, but unmistakably hers. Underneath, the black tank top clung comfortably, grounding her. The baggy jeans swayed against her legs with every step as her white sneakers thudded softly against the hardwood floor.
Downstairs, Elaine had stopped pretending to clean. She stood by the kitchen island, wringing her hands around a dish towel like it was the only thing holding her together.
"You've got everything?" she asked quietly.
Y/N nodded. "Clothes, skin care, gear, meds. The dumb serums you always yell at me to remember."
Elaine gave her a look, half-exasperated, half-proud. "And your creams? Lip balm?"
"Yes, mom." They shared a tight smile. The kind only two people who've survived something together can manage.
Her two large black suitcases waited by the door. Inside them: – Weeks' worth of folded outfits (casuals, tactical layers, sleepwear,under wears,etc.) – Her skincare pouch (cleanser, serum, sunscreen, moisturizer, tinted balm) – A smaller velvet bag for makeup (light and practical—brow gel, concealer, perfume, etc.) – Fingerless gloves – A single backup pair of boots – Her journal and sketchpad – Two hand-forged knives Tom gave her on her 14th birthday – And a pressed flower in a hardbound case. Just in case she forgot who she was.
Elaine approached and helped her lift one of the bags. "You don't have to be strong for them. They're soldiers. You're still a kid."
Y/N tilted her head. "They didn't look at me like a kid."
"That's what worries me."
The sound of tires rolling over gravel reached them again. This time slower. Purposeful.
Y/N walked to the window. The same black SUVs were back. Price stood leaning against the hood, talking into a radio. Soap waved at the window when he caught her eye. Ghost didn't wave—just nodded once. That was enough. Gaz was crouched near the trees, eyes scanning the forest like he expected it to attack them.
"Time to go," Y/N said, lifting her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder.
Tom appeared from the hallway, arms crossed. "You give 'em hell."
"I'm not going to war, Tom," she said.
"You're going to a battlefield. Doesn't matter what they call it."
