Pretenders.

The Next Day

A new operation.

A new battlefield.

And Furina's first sortie as a convict.

A fallen ace.

A disposable asset of the Teyvat Spare Squadron—The Drowned Squadron.

She had just finished lacing up her brown combat boots. Tight. Secure. Ready for whatever bullshit they were about to throw at her. It didn't matter anymore. She had accepted it.

She wasn't here to argue.

She wasn't here to beg.

She wasn't here to cry about how unfair it all was.

No.

Now, it was about proving something.

She stood up, inhaled slowly, and walked toward the dusty mirror in her quarters.

Her reflection stared back—sharp eyes, cold and empty, burning with something deeper than just anger.

Hatred.

She knew what she had to do.

Lowering her head slightly, she muttered under her breath.

"Time to show these lowlifes who the real ace is."

She grabbed her flight suit and stepped out, making her way toward the briefing room.

Every step echoed through the empty halls. Every step brought her closer to the damn reality of what her life had become.

This isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

The Briefing Room

Furina stepped inside. Five other pilots were already seated.

The rest of the Drowned Squadron.

A collection of criminals, outcasts, and discarded wrecks.

She took a seat. No words. Just silence.

Then, Colonel Jakob took the stage. The display behind him flickered to life—a 3D projection of Korovograd Air Force Base forming in midair.

"Alright, listen up. We got a new face today. Though I'm sure all of you already know who she is."

Jakob's cold, unreadable eyes locked onto Furina.

"This here is former Lieutenant—now convict—Furina de Fontaine. Callsign 'Waltz.'"

He let the name sit in the air for a moment before continuing.

"She was found guilty by the Teyvat Peacekeeping Court-Martial for the murder of Former President Imena. Guilty or not—whether she pulled the trigger or not—it doesn't matter anymore. She's here now. She's one of you. A member of the 51st Teyvat Spare Squadron."

"The Drowned Squadron."

Silence. No applause. No reaction.

Jakob continued.

"Let's not fool ourselves with symbolic bullshit. Each and every one of you is here for a reason. Some of you even more than others. And remember this—you cons have an obligation to atone for your crimes."

His gaze locked onto Furina again, his voice turning sharp.

"And one of you? One of you knows how to fly a little too damn well."

Furina didn't react.

Didn't flinch.

She just met his stare with that same cold, unshaken look.

"I'm looking at you, Waltz."

Jakob turned back to the display.

"HQ needs bodies to plug the gaps in our Air Force. Originally, they proposed sending you dumbasses on a recon mission at Mount Yuzwhny. But that idea was rejected outright. Instead, it's been reassigned to the newly formed Teyvat Strategic Strike Group—TSSG."

The display zoomed out, revealing the real purpose of Korovograd Air Force Base.

"Most of you already know by now—this base is a decoy. A goddamn magnet for enemy fire. And you? As its members? You'll be the ones taking those hits."

"Your job is to keep this base looking important, so the enemy keeps wasting their resources attacking us instead of targeting the actual priority sites."

"Consider it your personal atonement."

Then—alarms blared.

A distant rumble. Bombers passing overhead, their payloads detonating somewhere beyond the airstrip. The ground trembled.

Jakob sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Get that damned alarm off! It's just the usual bullshit!"

The alarms cut off. He exhaled and turned back to the squadron.

"Today's mission is simple. We're scrambling a flight to play the role of aerial guards for this base. You won't be engaging—just making noise."

"You'll be flying with limited armaments. If something happens? Pray to whatever god you believe in."

Then, he started calling out names.

"Let's start with the guiltiest of all. Waltz."

His gaze landed on Furina.

"Congratulations. You're the lead flight of the Drowned Squadron."

"Drowned One."

Before Furina could react, another voice snapped from across the room.

"Hey! What the hell!? Why am I not the lead!?"

Drowned Two. Callsign: Rapperia.

Jakob didn't even blink.

He just pointed at her like he was scolding a misbehaving child.

"Sit your ass down, Clorinde. I'm not saying it again."

Rapperia—now identified as Clorinde—clicked her tongue, scoffing as she sat back down.

"Then you, Rapperia. Then Wolfbite. Then Stalker. Then Lune."

Jakob's tone sharpened.

"That's all. Sortie now."

Then—another voice cut in.

"Hey! What about me!?"

Drowned Seven.

Some dipshit Furina hadn't even bothered to remember.

Jakob didn't even look up.

"You're on standby in case one of them gets killed."

Drowned Seven clenched his fists, teeth grinding together.

"Screw that! I'm flying whether you like it or not!"

He stormed toward the door, fists clenched at his sides.

Jakob finally snapped his gaze up.

"If you do, your ass is going straight to solitary!"

But Drowned Seven was already gone.

Jakob sighed, rubbing his face.

"Fucking idiot."

Furina didn't care.

She was already on her feet, heading toward the hangars.

Her first sortie as a convict.

As a fallen ace.

Time to remind them who the fuck she was.

Moments Later – The Squadron Arrives at Their Aircraft

The flight line sat under the dim morning light, a row of war machines reduced to relics. Frost clung to their cold metal frames, scarred fuselages whispering stories of past battles—of pilots who never came back.

It looked less like a squadron.

And more like a graveyard.

Some aircraft were old. Some were rusted. Others still bore the wounds of dogfights from wars long forgotten.

Then, there was hers.

Furina's Dassault Rafale M.

Unlike the others, her jet still gleamed under the morning sun, its airframe sharp, sleek—lethal.

But not untouched.

No.

It now bore a mark of shame.

Three black slashes across the tail.

The Sin Lines.

A symbol of exile.

A death sentence in the sky.

She hated them.

But they were permanent now.

A constant reminder of the weight she carried.

Her gaze shifted to the others.

To her right, a Su-27, painted in dull blues, a single sin line marking its tail.

Drowned Two—Clorinde. TAC name: Rapperia.

A duelist. A swordswoman. A woman who killed her opponent in a duel gone 'wrong.'

Beside it, a Mirage 2000-5, bearing two sin lines.

Drowned Three—Wolfbite. Real name: Wriothesley.

A brawler. A former enforcer who got too deep into the criminal underworld.

Then, the F/A-18. Battered. Scarred. But still standing. Two sin lines.

Drowned Four—Stalker. Real name: Albert.

A ghost. A former special forces operative turned rogue.

Next, an F-15, its once-proud frame now patched together with scavenged parts. A single sin line.

Drowned Five—Lune.

No real name. No past.

Nobody knew who the hell he was.

And then, the wildcard.

A MiG-25 Foxbat. A fucking relic from another war, barely holding together. Two sin lines.

Drowned Seven.

The idiot. The suicidal bastard.

On standby, a Eurofighter Typhoon. One sin line.

Drowned Eight.

These were her new squadmates.

These were the damned.

This was Drowned Squadron.

Furina climbed the ladder, her boots hitting the cold steel rungs. She was halfway up when Clorinde's voice cut through the morning stillness.

"Waltz! Don't think you're lead flight. I'm in command!"

Furina didn't even spare her a glance.

She scoffed under her breath.

"Shut the fuck up, my god."

Then, without another word, she dropped into the ejection seat, pulled her harness tight, and slid her helmet over her head.

A sharp click.

Her oxygen mask locked into place.

The world became silent.

The only sound now—her own breathing.

And then—the engines.

Her twin M88s roared to life beneath her, the airframe trembling as raw power surged through the fuselage.

She exhaled.

"Let's get this over with."

Taxiing Out – The Convicts Roll to War

One by one, the squadron began rolling forward, their movements mechanical. Cold.

Like prisoners marching to the gallows.

Furina was last, her Rafale trailing behind Clorinde's Su-27.

Then—the radio crackled.

"All aircraft, check altimeters and taxi out."

A second voice—Clorinde's—cut in immediately.

"Tower, send me out first."

Before the tower could reply—

"Drowned Seven, what the hell are you doing!?"

The controllers had spotted him.

The MiG-25 was moving—without clearance.

"You're not cleared to taxi or take off! Turn around and shut it down!"

Drowned Seven's voice spat back over the radio.

"Go to hell."

Furina's grip on the sidestick tightened.

"Fucking idiot."

Then—the tower's warning.

"All aircraft, watch out for Drowned Seven! He's forcing a takeoff!"

As the rest of the squadron continued rolling toward the runway, Clorinde's voice came through the comms.

"I'll take command. Any objections?"

A beat of silence.

Then—Wriothesley.

"Uhh, yeah? Waltz is lead flight. She's in command."

Clorinde scoffed.

"As if."

The tower made the call.

"Waltz, your callsign is Drowned One. You're lucky you're lead flight. Don't disappoint."

Furina didn't hesitate.

"Sure."

One by one, the planes launched, taking off in 25-second intervals.

Clorinde's Su-27 lifted off.

Then—Furina.

"Drowned One, cleared for takeoff."

She didn't reply.

Instead—she slammed the throttles forward.

The afterburners ignited. A wall of heat and fire roared down the runway.

Faster. Faster.

100 knots.

150 knots.

200 knots.

Then—rotation.

She pulled back on the sidestick, feeling the familiar resistance.

The nose lifted.

The wheels left the ground.

She was airborne.

Gear up.

She banked right, climbing, circling the airbase.

The Drowned Squadron was airborne.

The Unfair Game – The Convicts' Loadout

As they climbed, Furina checked her weapon systems.

LRAAMs. HCAAs.

A full loadout.

The others?

Light weaponry.

Barely enough to fight back.

Not a coincidence.

A message.

Jakob had made it clear—Furina wasn't like the others.

She had been an ace.

She had been a hero.

Now?

Now, she was just a convict with three black slashes on her tail.

Now, she was just another disposable pawn in a war that had already cast her aside.

But if they thought for even a goddamn second that she was just going to roll over and take it?

They were in for a fucking surprise.

Furina tightened her grip on the stick.

Her breath steadied.

Her eyes narrowed.

Her heart pounded.

"Alright, you sons of bitches."

"Let's see who crashes and burns first."

The comms crackled with laughter.

"Yes! My blood is boiling!"

Drowned Seven's voice dripped with adrenaline—like a man already in a dogfight that hadn't even started.

Tower responded, deadpan.

Like they'd seen this shit before.

"Toss his ass in solitary when he lands!"

Furina rolled her eyes.

"Fucking moron."

Then—Clorinde.

"So, our weapons are locked. Again. Not surprised here."

Furina scoffed.

"Doesn't matter. Just defend."

Clorinde clicked her tongue, irritation seeping through the radio.

"Like you were here in the past, murderer."

Furina's fist clenched around the throttle.

But she didn't respond.

Not yet.

AWACS Justice – The New Overlord

Then—a new voice joined the frequency.

Not Zaytun.

This one was colder.

Sharper.

Dripping with sarcasm.

"Convicts don't get to use weapons."

"Not even a fucking pencil sharpener."

AWACS Justice.

Furina exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing.

This was her new reality.

This was Drowned Squadron.

A squadron of criminals.

A squadron of disposable bodies, sent to die before anyone else.

Time dragged on.

They kept flying in circles, playing the role of an "aerial defense" for a base that wasn't even real.

A joke of a mission.

A waste of fuel.

A waste of her fucking patience.

Then—Drowned Seven's voice cut in again.

"Here comes Imena's murderer."

Furina's fingers twitched on the sidestick.

Then—Wriothesley's voice joined in.

"Shot a missile right by her right side. Didn't even stand a chance."

A scoff from Clorinde.

"Always in the know, huh, Wolfbite?"

Wriothesley chuckled.

"In this war? It's all about intel, my friend. Always."

Then—AWACS Justice chimed in, still dripping with amusement.

"Settle down, you two. Excited to have another murderer in the squadron? Just remember—you're all just here to make noise. If you get locked onto by a missile? You've got flares. Use them."

Clorinde sighed loudly.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's see if Waltz can last against a wave of bombers."

Wriothesley smirked.

"If you've seen the reports on how Waltz flies, you'd be thinking you were in a nightmare."

Clorinde's tone sharpened.

"What the hell do you mean by that, Wolfbite?"

Wriothesley's grin was almost audible through the radio.

"You'll see when she gets into action."

The Attack Begins

Then—the enemy radio cracked open.

"This is the bombers. We're ready to launch the payload."

Another voice confirmed.

"Roger. Release them on the airbase."

A few moments later—

The TU-95 bombers opened their bomb bays.

Then—hell rained down.

Explosions ripped across the fake airbase, sending fireballs and smoke spiraling into the air.

The rows of fake aircraft were incinerated instantly, flames reflecting off the snow-covered tarmac.

Furina scoffed.

"Look at them. Bombing fake planes. What idiots. I'd see that from a mile away."

But then—disaster.

A panicked voice—

"Hey! One of the bombers hit the control tower! No response!"

Then—the base commander's voice.

Confused. Alert.

"What the hell is with the shak—"

Silence.

AWACS Justice's voice turned razor-sharp.

"Commander Jakob? Commander, do you read!?"

Nothing.

The Snezhnayans came more prepared than before.

Then—AWACS Justice took full control.

"This is AWACS Justice. All aircraft—shoot down every enemy fighter and bomber in the air!"

Furina's weapon systems flashed from red to green.

IFF updated.

Enemy aircraft.

Red targets.

Everywhere.

Furina grinned.

"Alright. Time to show them who the real ace is."

She slammed the throttles forward, the twin M88 engines roaring to life, afterburners igniting in twin streaks of blue fire. The Rafale shot forward like a missile, slicing through the sky.

The Dogfight Begins

Clorinde's voice cut in.

"Alright! All aircraft, support me!"

"As if!" Wriothesley shot back. "Waltz is lead!"

Clorinde scoffed.

"As if!"

Then—a sonic boom.

A blur of blue, white, and gold tore past Clorinde at nearly Mach 1.

She barely had time to react.

"Whoa! What the hell was that!?"

Wriothesley chuckled.

"Looks like you triggered Waltz."

Furina locked onto her first targets.

Two TU-95s.

Her HUD blinked. LRAAMs ready.

Two locks.

She fired.

"Fox Three!"

The Rafale pitched hard left, breaking away at 6Gs, her body pressing into the seat.

Two direct hits.

AWACS confirmed it.

"Drowned One, splash two. Good work."

Clorinde growled.

"Good work!? She stole my kills!"

AWACS Justice's voice was flat.

"Shut your trap, Rapperia. First come, first served."

Furina ignored them.

Her eyes locked onto another group—enemy fighters near the real airbase.

Time for a dogfight.

She dove in.

Three Su-33s.

One broke left.

The other two held formation.

Furina chose her targets.

Lock. Tone.

Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

A direct hit.

"Splash one, Waltz."

Then—her radar screamed.

"MISSILE INBOUND!"

AWACS called it.

"Waltz, missile inbound!"

Furina's breath steadied.

This was it.

She glanced at the RWR. The missile was coming fast.

Too close for flares alone.

She snapped the sidestick left, yanking the Rafale into a tight barrel roll while slamming the throttle into full afterburner. The G-forces crushed her into her seat. The missile's trail curved, struggling to keep up.

Too late.

Furina popped flares—a brilliant burst of white-hot fire in the sky.

The missile bit—but not her.

It detonated just off her six, sending shockwaves rippling through her frame.

She grinned.

"Now, watch, you pricks."

She slammed the throttles to idle.

Pulled hard on the stick.

The Rafale pitched up at a perfect 90-degree angle, nose reaching for the sky.

Drowned Three—Wriothesley—watched in pure disbelief.

"What in the fuck!? How did she—"

The Su-33 blew past, momentum carrying it forward, its pilot too slow to react.

Too late.

Furina rolled the Rafale over in a crisp half-loop, seamlessly locking onto the enemy fighter below.

Tone. Lock. Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

A Sidewinder shrieked off the rail, cutting through the sky in an instant. The Su-33 pilot had no time—no chance—to evade. The missile struck home, fire and shrapnel ripping through the airframe.

"Waltz, splash one!"

Clorinde's voice cracked over the comms, still rattled from Furina's absurd maneuvering.

"What the hell is on with you, Wolfbite!?"

Wriothesley was just as stunned.

"She... She just pulled a Pugachev!"

Clorinde sounded completely lost.

"Who!?"

Wriothesley exhaled, shaking his head.

"Waltz!!"

Then—Furina's voice cut through.

Cold. Calm. French.

"Regardez et apprenez, salauds. Je vais vous montrer qui est vraiment un Ace Pilot."

Clorinde's voice was completely thrown.

"Did... What!?"

Wriothesley laughed, shaking his head.

"Only if you understood what she said. I'm impressed, Waltz."

Furina grinned inside her helmet, already lining up her next kill.

"Watch and learn, fuckers."

The radio crackled with an urgent update from AWACS Justice.

"More bombers incoming. Bearing 010. Altitude—8,000."

Clorinde snapped in immediately.

"En route!"

Furina smirked.

"Pas sous ma montre." (Not on my watch.)

She rammed the throttles forward, afterburners igniting in twin streaks of searing blue. The Rafale banked hard, carving through the sky like a missile in human hands.

The Bomber Threat

Tu-22Ms.

Fast. Sleek. Long-range bombers built to deliver destruction from a distance.

They couldn't be allowed to get close.

Clorinde climbed to intercept—

Then something tore past her at a speed so absurd she nearly flinched.

A blur of motion.

A fighter almost breaking the sound barrier.

Clorinde's eyes widened.

"Who the hell is that!?"

AWACS responded.

"Élégante Et Efficace, Rapperia."

Clorinde blinked.

"Who!?"

AWACS Justice scoffed.

"You'll see."

Waltz Unleashed

Furina's HUD locked onto three bombers.

Tone. Lock. Missiles away.

"Fox Three!"

Three AMRAAMs streaked forward, their smokeless trails blending into the sky.

She broke off hard left just as an escort fighter—a MiG-29—dived toward her.

Behind her—three eruptions ripped the sky apart.

AWACS confirmed.

"Waltz. Three more splashes. Great work."

But there was no time to celebrate.

She could feel it in her gut.

The next kill was already lining itself up for her.

The Kill Count Skyrockets

With every passing minute, the kill count spiraled higher.

Furina—Thirteen confirmed kills.

Wriothesley—Four.

Clorinde—Three.

The rest? Two apiece.

Except for Drowned Four.

Zero.

Clorinde's voice dripped with cockiness.

"Hey, Waltz. Let's count our kills when we're done."

AWACS Justice chimed in, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"There's nothing for you to count with Waltz if you're still at three, Rapperia."

Clorinde clicked her tongue in irritation.

Meanwhile—Furina was locked in.

A MiG-29.

Full retreat.

The enemy pilot was fighting for his life.

Desperate evasive maneuvers. Twisting. Turning. Banking erratically.

It didn't matter.

Tone. Lock. Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

The Sidewinder streaked forward.

A direct hit.

AWACS confirmed it.

"Splash one, Drowned One!"

Then—disaster.

Another MiG-29 swung into her six.

Her radar screamed.

"MISSILE INBOUND!"

Most pilots? Panic.

Most pilots? Flinch.

Furina?

She grinned.

The Pugachev's Cobra – Again

Throttle—IDLE.

Stick—HARD PULL.

Rudders—LEFT KICK.

The Rafale snapped backward, nose pitching violently high as she executed a perfect Pugachev Cobra.

Clorinde watched in absolute horror.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK!?"

The MiG-29 overshot.

Too late.

Furina rolled the Rafale over, locked on, and squeezed the trigger.

"Fox Two!"

Another Sidewinder.

Another direct hit.

AWACS Justice confirmed.

"Waltz, another splash."

A beat of silence.

Then Clorinde's voice crackled in.

"Okay. I'm gonna admit. That was fucking badass."

Wriothesley chuckled.

"You have to stop underestimating Waltz, Rapperia. And start being friendly with her. She might be a great asset for you, ya know."

Furina ignored the chatter.

She was already scanning for the next kill.

The Head-On Bomber Slaughter

Then—AWACS Justice called out.

"Four bombers. Low flying. TU-95s."

Furina adjusted her heading.

"Roger."

She banked hard, her Rafale slicing through the air.

Then—Drowned Seven chimed in, his tone dripping with amusement.

"Hey, Waltz. Don't die now. I got good money riding on your survival."

Then—Drowned Four spoke up, smirking.

"I'm betting she won't make it back."

Furina didn't respond.

Her eyes locked on the incoming bombers.

Altitude—Low.

Speed—Slower than they should be.

Big mistake.

She rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles inside her gloves, then pushed forward.

They were coming straight at her.

Head-on.

Furina narrowed her eyes.

"Let's see how you bastards handle this."

She squeezed the trigger.

Her aircraft's machine gun roared, 30mm rounds ripping through the first bomber's cockpit.

The massive aircraft lurched—engines stalling—before dropping from the sky.

One down.

She shifted targets.

A second burst of gunfire chewed into the next bomber's wing.

The left engine caught fire—then exploded.

Two down.

Another burst—third bomber down.

She rolled left, twisted, and lit up the last bomber.

The fourth TU-95 spiraled, engines failing, before slamming into the mountains below.

AWACS Justice was silent for a moment.

Then—

"Four machine-gun kills from Waltz."

The Final Targets – Waltz Goes for the Kill

Drowned Five let out a low whistle, his voice crackling over the radio.

"Holy shit. This thing flies nice. Whatever that aircraft alchemist has done is amazing."

Clorinde scoffed, her Mirage banking smoothly to the left as she kept a watchful eye on the battlespace.

"If you saw Waltz pull off the Pugachev's, you'd be thinking otherwise."

Drowned Five chuckled, pulling his jet into formation.

"I know, I know. But still—what the hell did that guy and his assistant do to these aircraft? Can you believe these were supposed to be scrapped?"

Wriothesley's voice snapped through the radio, sharp and authoritative.

"Doesn't matter. Fly it and take the enemies out!"

The HUD flickered with updated enemy data. The fight wasn't over yet.

Target Update – Six Bombers Bearing 360°

"Six bombers inbound. Bearing three-six-zero," AWACS Justice called out.

Furina's response was immediate, her voice clipped and cold.

"En route."

AWACS Justice sighed, almost exasperated.

"Come now, Waltz! Let the others have some kills too!"

Furina's reply was sharp. French. Drenched in unwavering confidence.

"Aucune chance en enfer." (No chance in hell.)

Her gloved hands tightened around the flight stick. She adjusted her throttle, her Rafale M smoothly accelerating as she climbed for an attack vector.

TWS lock. Two targets.

The growl of the missile tone filled her headset.

Fox Three.

The MICA missiles streaked forward, their smokeless trails carving through the sky.

Two direct hits. The bombers erupted into fireballs, debris scattering as Furina punched through the inferno, rolling right to avoid the largest chunks of wreckage. Heat warnings flared momentarily, but she paid them no mind.

"Splash two, Waltz!"

She pulled into a steep ascent, her airframe groaning under the sudden G-load.

Then—she snapped her jet downward into a precise dive.

Lock. Fire. Break.

Another pair of MICAs launched. The missiles arced toward their marks, their seekers locking onto the massive thermal signatures of the bombers' engines.

Both found their targets. Two more bombers disintegrated midair, leaving only fiery remnants spiraling toward the ground.

Still had altitude. Still had energy.

Two bombers left.

She adjusted her angle, bringing her nose to bear on the final pair of bombers. The Rafale's targeting system gave her the tone she was waiting for.

Lock. Fire. Break.

She squeezed the trigger. The missiles detached, rocketing forward at Mach speed.

Direct hits.

AWACS confirmed it.

"All enemies confirmed eliminated."

A cheer erupted across the comms.

Drowned Seven laughed.

"Hell yeah! Still alive, Imena's murderer? Dinner is on me tonight, Waltz!"

Furina exhaled sharply, her patience thin.

"Ne m'appelle pas comme ça." (Don't call me that.)

AWACS Justice cut in, voice sharp.

"Cut the chatter, Drowned Squadron. RTB."

Final Score?

Furina – 21 kills.

The rest combined? Not even close.

Half an Hour Later – The Return to Base

The entire squadron returned safely—an outcome that defied the hellish odds stacked against them.

As Furina taxied down the runway, the radio crackled one last time.

"Waltz. I lost a lot of money today. Don't forget that."

AWACS Justice.

Furina smirked. With a practiced hand, she flipped the switches, shutting down her Rafale's twin M88 engines. The cockpit's displays flickered off one by one, leaving only the distant sounds of the airbase—the whine of turbines, the shuffling of deck crews, the occasional static-laced radio chatter.

She pulled off her helmet, shaking out her long dark hair. It cascaded over her shoulders, slightly damp with sweat from the intensity of the mission.

Then—she keyed the radio one last time.

"Next time, don't bet against the Ace."

With that, she unbuckled from the cockpit and climbed down, her boots hitting the tarmac with a solid thud.

She didn't bother looking back at her aircraft.

Instead, she strode away, heading straight for the main base.

She had nothing more to prove.

For now.

Minutes Later – The Debriefing Room

The mission timeline played across the main display, mapping out every dogfight, every kill, every maneuver with cold precision.

Red dots—enemy fighters and bombers.

Blue dots—Drowned Squadron's aircraft.

Every confirmed kill was marked.

At the top of the scoreboard, a single name stood above the rest.

DROWNED ONE – WALTZ

21 KILLS.

The room was silent. Not the relieved silence of a job well done—no, this was something else. A heavy, stifling quiet that carried the weight of judgment.

The commander stood at the front, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the gathered pilots.

"Alright. I'll hand it to you all. You defended the base well."

Then—his eyes locked onto one person.

Stalker.

The tension thickened.

A long pause.

Then, the inevitable.

"However—Stalker didn't get a single kill."

The room froze.

Furina barely exhaled, already knowing what was coming.

The commander's voice turned sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Throw him into solitary."

A ripple of unease passed through the squadron.

Two armed guards stepped forward.

Albert—TAC Name: Stalker—stiffened.

"Wait! Come on, I—"

"Save it." The commander's voice cut like a blade.

"Maybe next time, you'll actually fight."

The guards grabbed him.

His protests turned to strained grunts as he was dragged toward the door.

The metal slammed shut behind him.

And just like that—he was gone.

No one said a word.

The commander turned back to the rest of them, his expression unreadable.

"Everyone else did well. Dismissed."

Without another word, he left.

The squadron slowly began to disperse, chairs scraping against the cold floor.

Furina rose from her seat, running a gloved hand through her hair, exhaling softly.

Then—movement.

She turned.

Clorinde and Wriothesley.

They were walking toward her.

A Change in the Air

Clorinde sighed, arms crossed.

Her voice wasn't sharp this time.

"Alright. I'll admit it, Waltz."

A pause.

"I underestimated you. I was an ass earlier."

Furina arched a brow.

"Not a big deal."

Clorinde hesitated, then extended a gloved hand.

A rare gesture.

A sign of respect.

"It's nice to meet you, Furina."

Furina glanced at the hand.

A long pause.

Then, she gripped it. Firm. Decisive.

"Nice to meet you too, Clorinde."

She turned to Wriothesley.

He, too, extended a hand.

She shook it.

No words were needed.

The silent understanding was there.

Not trust. Not friendship.

But—acknowledgment.

And maybe—just maybe—mutual respect.

Furina stepped back, nodding once before turning away.

She walked toward the door, heading for her quarters.

Behind her, Wriothesley and Clorinde exchanged glances.

"She's something else," Wriothesley muttered.

Clorinde nodded slowly.

"Yeah… You were right about those reports you dug up."

Her gaze drifted toward the mission logs still glowing on the screen.

"She really is an Ace."

Wriothesley chuckled.

"Best you don't piss her off."

Clorinde exhaled.

"Yeah. Let's get on her good side. The last thing we need is the only pilot who might actually keep us alive deciding to ditch us and leave us to die."

Wriothesley nodded.

"Agreed."

A Lone Walk – Furina's Thoughts

The halls were dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of fuel, sweat, and metal.

Furina walked with slow, measured steps, her boots echoing against the cold floor.

Something had shifted.

Her mood had lightened—just a little.

Maybe—just maybe—she had found allies in this forsaken squadron.

Not friends. Not yet.

But allies.

She reached her quarters, stepping inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Dark. Silent. Cold.

Just like before.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her gloved hands.

Her fingers curled slowly into fists.

Then, she exhaled.

Even as exhaustion crept into her bones, her mind refused to settle.

One question remained.

A dreaded, unshakable thought.

How long will Furina stay here?

Will she survive long enough to clear her name?

Or is she doomed to be buried in the shadows of the Drowned Squadron?

Her jaw clenched.

Her head fell back against the wall.

And then—

She whispered to herself.

"One day…"

"I'm getting out of here."

Her voice was quiet. Resolute.

"And when I do…"

Her eyes burned with unshakable determination.

"I'm taking back my fucking name."