Providing Cover

A week had passed since the last operation.

A week since Furina had earned Ace yet again.

A week since the tide had begun to shift.

Half of Drowned Squadron no longer believed she had assassinated the former President of Teyvat.

But skepticism still lingered.

Some still whispered. Still sneered behind her back.

To them, she was still the murderer of Imena.

But Furina didn't care.

Her name had begun to spread.

Not just through the squadron.

Not just through the ranks.

But beyond.

The Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force had taken notice.

They were watching.

Korovograd Air Force Base – The Calm Before the Storm

Korovograd was quiet that morning.

The sky hung low, thick with slate-gray clouds.

The wind carried the sharp bite of an oncoming storm, whispering through the airfield, howling softly against the buildings.

Furina stood alone on the rooftop of the main base, arms resting against the cold metal railing.

From up here, she could see the distant mountains, their jagged peaks shrouded in mist.

She inhaled deeply, letting the wind lash against her face, letting it whip through her hair.

The cold didn't bother her.

The solitude didn't bother her.

For the first time in a long time, her mind felt clear.

And yet, despite the storm brewing around her—both in the skies and in the war—she allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

Because for once—

She wasn't alone.

Two people had proven themselves to be more than just wingmen.

Clorinde. Wriothesley.

Two pilots.

Two allies.

She sighed, eyes locked onto the mountains.

"Clorinde and Wriothesley are both great pilots... but why the hell do they treat us like we're on death row?"

Her fingers tightened around the railing.

And then—another thought.

"Snezhnayan drones that fly like us... that maneuver like us..."

Her breath hitched.

A sharp memory cut through her mind.

One Week Earlier – Furina's Room

It wasn't a fancy place.

Just a small barracks room. A bed, a desk, a single window that barely let in any light.

Furina sat on the edge of her bed, one leg crossed over the other, while Clorinde and Wriothesley took the chairs by the desk.

The air was thick with discussion, the low hum of the base outside barely noticeable.

The conversation had shifted from idle chatter to something far more serious.

Furina leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.

"So, what about the rest of the squadron? Why are they here?"

Wriothesley exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

"No idea about Drowned Five through Eight, but…" He scowled. "Drowned Four? That guy's a fucking creep."

Furina raised an eyebrow.

"Albert?"

Clorinde scoffed.

"Yeah. Stalking charges. You know the singer-songwriter from Mondstadt? Barbara Pegg?"

Furina's eyes widened slightly.

"Wait… Barbara Pegg? The pop idol?"

Wriothesley nodded.

"Her sister, Jean Gunnhildr, is an Air Force pilot. Used to fly for the Mondstadt Air Force before transferring to the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. Guess who used to serve in the same squadron?"

Furina's expression darkened.

"Albert…"

Clorinde leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.

"Jean caught him stalking her sister's house. Apparently, he'd been at it for a while. Jean was—well, let's just say she was livid."

Furina shook her head in disgust.

"I'd be livid too."

"Yeah," Clorinde muttered. "She beat his ass and had him arrested. Five days before the war even started."

Silence.

Then—Wriothesley shifted the conversation.

"By the way, I've been digging into something. Something you might want to remember, Furina."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Enlighten me, Wolfbite."

Wriothesley leaned forward.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force hired a weapons tech company called Imperatora Industries. And guess what?"

Furina said nothing.

She was already listening intently.

"They were tasked with collecting flight data from real pilots—to feed into their drones."

Her jaw tightened.

"You're telling me those things we fought were using real pilot data?"

Wriothesley shook his head.

"Not yet. But they're working on it. And they've already got a pilot in mind."

Furina's heart skipped a beat.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force calls her The Knave."

Her expression hardened.

"A fighter pilot. Over a hundred confirmed kills. In Snezhnaya, they call her the deadliest ace in the entire Air Force."

Clorinde and Wriothesley watched as Furina's hands curled into fists.

Wriothesley continued.

"She's been deployed in this war. Last sighting? A black and red SU-57."

Furina's breath hitched.

Her mind reeled back.

Operation Liberty.

A memory—

Nocturne Two.

A desperate voice over the radio.

A missile alert.

And then—silence.

Furina snapped her gaze back to Wriothesley, her voice urgent.

"How many SU-57s are in active service?"

Wriothesley raised his hands slightly.

"Whoa, easy. There's five. But only one was deployed last month."

Her eyes twitched.

"Calcagni."

Clorinde and Wriothesley exchanged glances.

"Who?"

Furina inhaled sharply.

"Nocturne Squadron's second pilot. My squadron."

Clorinde stiffened.

"Wait… your old squadron?"

Furina nodded, jaw clenched.

"Yeah. Calcagni was shot down by an SU-57."

She turned to Wriothesley, her voice low and sharp.

"Which operation was it deployed in?"

Wriothesley hesitated.

"Last sighting was Operation Liberty."

Silence.

Furina exhaled slowly.

Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced them still.

"…So it was her."

Nocturne Two was dead.

Because of her.

Reality Crashes Back

Furina's mind snapped back to the present.

"The Knave... Friendly fighters piloted by enemy technology…"

Her jaw tightened.

The idea was sickening—her comrades' instincts, their maneuvers, their very way of flying, being copied, twisted, and used against them.

She glanced at her watch.

12:50.

"Shit. Briefing's about to start."

Exhaling, she straightened, pushing away from the railing.

Boots clicked against concrete, her steps measured, controlled.

Down the cold, steel-lined corridors.

Descending into the underground levels of the base.

Where the next operation awaited.

The Briefing Room – The Next Fight Awaits

The room was already packed when Furina arrived.

The same pilots. The same weary, battle-worn faces.

Some trusted her now.

Others? Still skeptical.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't spare anyone a glance.

She walked straight to the open seat beside Clorinde and Wriothesley, settling in like she belonged.

Then—

The doors slammed open.

Commander Jakob entered, his presence cutting through the room like a blade.

No wasted movements. No bullshit. Just straight to the point.

The screen flickered on, casting a cold blue glow over the pilots' faces.

A map appeared—jagged mountain terrain, a twisting valley carving through the heart of Volchiy Omut.

Deep in Snezhnayan territory.

Jakob's voice was gravel.

"Alright. It's time for you all to actually be useful."

The tension in the room tightened.

The map shifted, a new flight path drawn over it.

"The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group is deep in Snezhnayan airspace, running recon. Due to… certain 'factors' in their original route, they've had to make adjustments."

Another flicker.

The route changed—a more direct path home.

"But that new route?" Jakob let that hang, his tone turning colder.

"It takes them straight through Volchiy Valley. Scenic. Snowy. Mountainous. And crawling with enemy radar and anti-air."

The room was dead silent.

"Their recon birds won't make it through alone. That's where you come in."

A pause. Then—

"Your mission is to escort Primordial Squadron out of the kill box and get them home. Even if it means putting your own asses on the line."

Another flicker. The display zoomed in.

Red blips. Hostiles.

"And trust me—you will. Because they will send interceptors."

A longer pause.

Then Jakob's voice dropped even lower.

"And the weather?" His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk.

"Overcast. Heavy rain. Icing conditions. Zero visibility."

He let that sink in.

"You don't get a say in this. You sortie. Now. Dismissed."

The Room Erupts into Motion

Pilots stood, chairs scraping against the floor, the air thick with urgency.

No hesitation.

No wasted words.

They moved as one, heading straight for the flight line.

Furina walked among them, the cold night air slamming into her like a brick wall as they stepped onto the vast tarmac. The rain had worsened, a steady downpour drenching everything in sight, turning the concrete into a slick, reflective surface.

But this time?

Something was different.

Her Rafale wasn't shoved to the back like before.

This time?

It sat right at the front.

She stopped in her tracks. Stared for a second.

Then—

A smirk.

"Finally."

"I'm first in the spot."

Clorinde stepped up beside her, arms crossed, her flight suit already speckled with rain.

"Looks like the ground crew finally grew a spine and arranged the planes properly—by callsign number."

Wriothesley, standing just behind them, let out a short chuckle.

"Yeah. There's some form of order now."

Furina shook her head, still smirking.

"Order? There's still one chaotic bastard. And so far? He's been the fucking hangman."

Clorinde huffed a quiet laugh.

"Oh, I know exactly who you're talking about."

Wriothesley smirked.

"So do I. Zero kills. Loves hanging around a singer's house."

No names were said.

None were needed.

The three of them shared a knowing glance.

Then—without another word—

They split.

Furina and the Three Strikes

She strode toward her Rafale M, the rain drumming against her helmet, rolling off the canopy in thick rivulets. Even under the dim, overcast sky, its paint gleamed.

Sleek. Clean. Meticulously maintained.

The best-kept fighter on the tarmac.

But her eyes drifted to the tail.

The markings were still there.

Three sin lines.

Three strikes.

A branding of guilt. A sentence of exile.

Furina exhaled sharply, scowling.

"Once I'm out of here, I'm peeling that shit off."

She reached out, fingers tracing the protective film over the markings.

"Or hell—maybe it'll rip itself off with the speed I'm flying."

A bitter chuckle.

Then—

She climbed the inbuilt ladder, settling into the cockpit with the kind of fluid ease that only came from years of experience.

Helmet on.

Harness tight.

Flight plan reviewed.

Canopy sealed shut.

Outside—

The storm loomed, heavy and merciless.

Inside—

Furina was ready.

Through the Storm

The clouds hung low, swallowing the jagged peaks of Volchiy Valley in a dense, turbulent fog.

Visibility?

Absolute shit.

Furina led the formation, her Rafale M slicing through the storm-laden skies like a blade through flesh. Wind shear buffeted the airframe, rain streaked across the canopy in rapid torrents, and lightning split the sky in jagged flashes.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling across the mountains like the growl of a waiting beast.

This wasn't just a battlefield—

It was a goddamn death trap.

Then, cutting through the static—

AWACS Justice.

"Drowned Squadron, don't waste any time today. Take out all enemy AA and radar sites—quick and fast. ETA on Primordial Squadron's arrival: fifteen minutes."

Furina's grip on the stick tightened.

"Fifteen minutes, huh? We'll have the skies cleaned up before they even show up."

Justice continued, his voice flat.

"And remember—these sites are dug into the mountains. Rugged terrain, cloud cover—a whole lot of it. You screw up your approach, you're part of the terrain."

Then—Drowned Eight's voice crackled over the comms, laced with frustration.

"Hey! Who's the dumbass that came up with this fuckery of a plan!?"

A long-suffering sigh from Justice.

"Just obey the goddamned orders."

Furina smirked, fingers twitching over the throttle.

"Alright, let's turn and burn!"

She shoved the throttles forward—

Afterburners roared to life.

A sudden, violent thrust kicked her into her seat as her Rafale punched through the thick patches of storm-laced clouds, vapor shearing off the wings.

The rest of Drowned Squadron peeled off, breaking formation—each pilot diving into the fog-choked abyss below to find their targets.

The Mountain Strike

Furina's HUD flickered.

Interference.

The storm was hell.

Winds howled.

Rain lashed against the canopy.

The clouds swirled, suffocating and endless.

She gritted her teeth.

"This is bullshit."

Then—she remembered.

Her Rafale was equipped with an advanced IR camera system—designed to cut through the worst conditions like a god's eye.

She tapped her central display.

Radar—active.

TAC Mode—enabled.

Two new windows flared to life—one fixed on the ground, the other aligned with her nose cam.

The feed?

Crystal clear.

A sharp grin curled on her lips.

"Sweet. Love ya, Dassault."

Her eyes locked onto her first target—an AA gun with a radar dish nestled between the cliffs.

She pushed forward, slicing through the cloud cover in a steep descent. The altitude tape on her HUD spun down fast.

Lock.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

A laser-guided bomb detached, screaming toward the target below.

Furina yanked the stick hard—her Rafale rolled into a steep climb just as the explosion erupted behind her.

"Drowned One, direct hit!"

Another explosion.

"Drowned Three, target destroyed!"

And another.

"Drowned Two, target destroyed!"

AWACS Justice's voice cut through the comms.

"I'll hand it to you, Drowned Squadron. You're doing well. Six more to go."

Furina's eyes darted to her radar display.

There—

Another SAM site tucked against a mountain ridge.

Beside it?

A radar vehicle.

She exhaled sharply.

"Tricky son of a bitch."

She snapped back on the stick—vertical climb.

Her stomach twisted as the Rafale rocketed straight up—slicing through the storm, G-forces hammering against her chest.

Then—she inverted.

The world flipped upside-down as she dove—fast, steep, merciless.

The terrain rushed up to meet her.

Lock.

TONE.

"Bombs away!"

The instant she released, she wrenched back on the stick—her fighter groaning under the strain as she pulled up just meters from the rocky surface.

Then—

Impact.

A shockwave rippled through the air.

"Drowned One, SAM site down!"

The radio crackled with more confirmations—

"Drowned Five, SAM site and radar destroyed!"

"Drowned Eight, AA gun and radar destroyed!"

"Drowned Six, SAM site and radar facility destroyed!"

Drowned Squadron was carving through the enemy's defenses like a scalpel.

As they continued to destroy more ground targets, a new voice cut through the radio frequency.

Female.

Confident.

Commanding.

"To allied fighters, this is Primordial One. We are seven aircraft. Standby—we're arriving shortly. Be advised: we're low on ammunition. Engagement will be difficult."

Furina's smirk faltered for just a moment.

Then she whispered, almost to herself—

"Jean Gunnhildr… Dandelion."

AWACS Justice responded immediately.

"Primordial One, this is Justice. Mission's almost complete. Standby."

Then—the final three strikes.

Furina locked onto a SAM site.

"Fox Three!"

Wriothesley blasted an AA site.

"Scratch one!"

Clorinde nailed another SAM.

"Good hit!"

Then—silence.

A moment of relief.

Then AWACS Justice's voice returned—calm.

"All targets destroyed. No complaints here."

Furina sighed, sinking slightly into her seat.

But before anyone could breathe easy—

Justice's voice snapped—sharper, angrier.

"Except for you, Drowned Four. What in the Archons' name are you doing!?"

A pause.

Then—a sheepish, pathetic voice.

"…I... uhh…"

Justice didn't even let him finish.

"Save it! Your ass is in solitary again! Useless."

The squadron's comms went dead silent.

Then, someone chuckled.

Furina?

She just smirked.

"Alright," she exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Escort duty begins. Let's get them home."

As they began forming up, the radio crackled with panic.

"All aircraft! This is Dandelion! Primordial Squadron is being chased by drones! Take them out!"

Furina's gut twisted.

Fucking drones. Again.

AWACS Justice's voice followed—sharp, urgent.

"Drowned Squadron! Eliminate those drones!"

Then—the boom of thunder.

A deep, rolling roar shook the sky as Primordial Squadron scattered. The thick storm clouds churned violently above them, streaked with forks of lightning. Turbulence rocked the fighters as the battle erupted in the heavens.

One pilot—Spindrift—screamed over the radio, panic creeping into her voice.

"If things can get worse—LIGHTNING! If we get hit, we're done for!"

Dandelion's voice cut through, firm and unshaken.

"Primordial Squadron! Get above the clouds—NOW."

The seven fighters of Primordial Squadron punched upward, disappearing into the storm-choked abyss.

For a moment—silence.

Then—they broke through.

A scattered formation, drones swarming like vultures. Dark, soulless machines with no fear, no hesitation, no instinct. Just algorithms and programmed killing intent.

Furina's grip tightened. Her eyes flicked to her radar—fourteen targets.

Her heartbeat kicked up.

"Drowned Squadron, let's help our friends!"

Her squad snapped into action, breaking formation and diving into the fight.

One Kill, Two on Her Tail

Furina spotted her first target.

A drone was chasing Primordial One—Dandelion herself.

She rolled her Rafale onto its side and dropped altitude, her HUD marking the drone in bright red. Radar lock acquired.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

A long-range missile shot off the rail, its plume flaring against the storm-dark sky. The missile closed the gap in seconds, slamming into the drone with a brilliant detonation.

AWACS Justice confirmed the kill.

"Waltz—nice work. Primordial One, you're in the clear. Break away!"

Jean's voice followed, steady yet appreciative.

"Waltz, thank you. Primordial One—breaking away."

She banked hard, vapor trailing off her wings as she maneuvered to safety.

But then—

Furina's threat warning screamed.

Two drones—locking onto her.

A new voice cut in—Primordial Two, Outrider.

"Waltz! Behind you!"

Furina's smirk returned.

"Not today, you unmanned piece of shit."

She shoved the throttle back to idle, wrenching the stick into her gut.

Her Rafale M pitched up into a brutal cobra maneuver—nose high, nearly vertical—bleeding speed in an instant.

Outrider's voice cracked over the radio, stunned.

"Holy shit! What in the hell!?"

The two UAVs shot past her—overshooting, unable to compensate for the extreme maneuver.

Perfect.

Furina slammed the throttle back to full, rolling her jet downward.

Her crosshairs aligned.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

Two MICA missiles leaped off the rails.

Both drones exploded in rapid succession.

AWACS Justice confirmed the kills.

"Splash Two, Waltz! Good work!"

The Battlefield Turns

Another drone went down—this time, one chasing Primordial Two.

"Splash one, Drowned Two! Good work!"

Outrider's relieved voice came through.

"Thanks for the help! Primordial Two—breaking away!"

Then another.

"Splash one, Drowned Six!"

"Primordial Three—breaking away! Thanks!"

And another.

"Splash one, Drowned Eight!"

Primordial Five, Raiden, checked in.

"Thanks for the help! Primordial Five—breaking off!"

The battle was shifting.

What was once an overwhelming, chaotic fight had now turned in their favor.

The Drowned Squadron, the so-called penal unit, was cutting down the drones like vultures picking apart a carcass.

Praise from the Primordials

As the fight raged, Primordial Squadron took notice.

Primordial Three, Tianquan, spoke first, a mix of curiosity and admiration in her tone.

"For a penal unit… their formation is flawless."

Outrider agreed, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yeah. And whoever's leading them? One hell of a pilot. A Cobra maneuver in a Typhoon!? Unbelievable!"

Furina clenched her jaw, fighting through the G-forces as she dove onto another drone's six.

"No... This... Is.. A... Ra—Rafale!"

Her lock tone blared.

TONE.

"Fox Two!"

A Sidewinder streaked from its rail, spiraling toward its target.

Direct hit.

AWACS Justice confirmed.

"Another kill, Waltz! Keep it up!"

Then—two more hostiles.

Primordial Six and Seven—both under fire.

"Get these things off my ass!" Primordial Seven barked, tension rising.

Furina pulled into a steep climb, rolling her jet inverted to get the perfect angle.

Lock.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

Two LCAA missiles streaked ahead—tracking true.

Both drones were obliterated in fiery bursts.

AWACS Justice confirmed.

"All targets destroyed!"

Primordial Six, Cullinen, exhaled sharply over the radio, his voice shaking.

"Th—thank you, Waltz! Primordial Six, breaking off!"

Then, the last one—Primordial Seven, Kiongozi.

"Thanks for the assist, Waltz! Primordial Seven—breaking away!"

Mission Accomplished

AWACS Justice came through, his voice finally calm.

"Nicely done, Drowned Squadron. You did well."

Then—his tone shifted.

Darker. Sharper.

"As for you, Drowned Four—you need to get your fucking ass out of the goddamned gutter and start shooting down enemies. Three in a row, and you didn't fire a single missile. You are useless. Absolutely useless."

Silence.

Furina simply exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the adrenaline settled.

Another mission complete.

But war never ends.

Not yet.

A long, painful silence followed.

Then—Dandelion.

"Justice. Who is the lead flight of the squadron? Tell him—or her—I'm grateful."

AWACS Justice responded, his voice steady.

"The best pilot I've ever seen in this damned squadron. Drowned One. TAC Name—Waltz."

Then, his final call.

"Everyone, RTB."

Furina exhaled, a smirk tugging at her lips.

She rolled her Rafale, breaking into formation for the flight home.

A Warning Too Late

Just as the tension began to settle, AWACS Justice's voice cut through the radio again—sharp, urgent.

"Everyone, stand by! Fast-moving bogey!"

Then—

"Stalker! It's heading to you!"

Furina's stomach dropped.

"All available aircraft, support Drowned Four!"

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Throttle—FULL.

She wrenched her Rafale into a hard turn, yanking against the G-forces as she ripped through the storm-choked sky, afterburners screaming. She pushed the airframe to its limits, closing the distance as fast as her jet would allow.

"Waltz engaging! Hang on tight!"

Then—Albert's voice, crackling with stubborn defiance over the comms.

"No! I got this! I'm no Hangman! I'll show you all!"

Furina gritted her teeth. "You fucking idiot—"

Then she saw it.

A sleek, black-and-red fighter. Cutting through the storm like a wraith.

A cold, unnatural silhouette—shrouded in mist and shadow.

An Su-57.

And it was hunting Albert.

Then—AWACS Justice confirmed it.

"All aircraft, it's a Red-and-Black Su-57!"

Furina's pulse spiked.

Then—a new voice. One she immediately recognized.

Dandelion.

"That's the Knave!"

The radio crackled again—Albert's voice, ragged with panic.

"It's glued to my tail! But it's still not firing!"

AWACS Justice's voice barked through the comms, strained, urgent.

"DROWNED FOUR, DO NOT DOGFIGHT IT! I REPEAT, DO NOT DOGFIGHT IT!"

Albert scoffed, defiant.

"No! I'm no Hangman!"

Furina's eyes widened in horror.

"STALKER, DON'T—"

Too late.

The F/A-18 pitched up, attempting the Pugachev Cobra.

Trying to mimic her.

But Albert wasn't her.

The maneuver was sloppy—too fast, too steep.

The Su-57 followed—effortlessly.

Then—lock.

A tone.

A missile away.

A direct hit.

Albert never even had the chance to scream.

The F/A-18 exploded mid-air. Flames swallowed the wreckage. Smoke curled into the sky.

Static.

Furina's throat clenched. "Stalker! Stalker, respond!"

Nothing.

The Su-57 sliced through the smoke. Untouched. Unbothered.

Then—a new voice.

Cold. Detached.

"You could have done that sooner, Knave."

A second voice—the Knave herself.

"I always try to understand the enemy."

AWACS Justice's voice was grim.

"Drowned Four—lost."

Furina's hands shook against the throttle.

She inhaled sharply.

Then—she snarled.

"Alright, you bastard. Let's see how you fly."

The Duel—Knave vs. Waltz

Furina slammed her throttles forward.

Her afterburners roared, launching her into a high-speed pursuit as she locked onto the Su-57.

The enemy fighter dived below the clouds, streaking low through the valleys, barely skimming the mountain ridges.

Furina followed. Chased. Hunted.

Then—AWACS Justice's voice, frantic.

"WALTZ, DO NOT ENGAGE!"

She ignored it.

Lined up the shot—

Gunfire.

Tracer rounds ripped through the sky—two direct hits.

The Su-57 didn't even flinch.

Furina fired again.

More hits.

Still nothing.

Her eyes widened. "What the hell is her plane made of!?"

Then—an idea.

She switched—locked on.

Missiles.

A tone.

"FOX TWO!"

The missile streaked forward—

The Su-57 pulled into a Pugachev Cobra.

Furina overshot.

And just like that—the Knave was behind her.

"Shit."

Then—the warning tone.

Missile launch.

Furina's instincts screamed.

Throttle—Idle.

Stick—HARD pull-back.

Rudder—full kick.

Her Rafale pitched up—

90-degree vertical climb—

Then spun—

A perfect Pugachev Cobra.

Now—she was behind the Knave.

The enemy radio crackled.

"She's a good pilot. A very good one indeed."

Then—another voice.

"Knave, the weather is getting bad. RTB."

A pause.

The Knave hesitated.

Then—

"Fine."

The Su-57's afterburners ignited. The sleek fighter punched above the clouds.

Furina chased—but as she broke through the cloud cover—

Gone.

"WHERE DID IT GO!?"

AWACS Justice responded.

"She's long gone, Waltz. Return to your squadron."

Furina exhaled sharply, banking back toward her squadron.

Drowned Five's voice came through—bitter.

"Kindness can get you killed, Waltz."

Furina scoffed. "Shut your damn trap, Drowned Five."

Surprisingly—AWACS Justice defended her.

"She tried. But she held her own. RTB."

Then—Dandelion's voice again.

"Hey, Justice. Who was that pilot that chased the Knave?"

Justice responded without hesitation.

"That would be Waltz."

A pause.

Then—Jean's voice, curious.

"And the real name of this pilot?"

Justice replied.

"Furina de Fontaine."

Silence.

Then—Jean spoke again.

"Furina. This is Dandelion—Jean Gunnhildr. Great work holding up. Still begs the question—why are you in this hellhole in the first place?"

Furina scoffed, her tone dry.

"It's complicated."

AWACS Justice cut back in.

"Primordial Squadron, head toward Korovograd Airbase. You can rest and refuel there. But I doubt you have enough fuel."

Jean responded.

"Sure thing. Thanks for the help."

The two squadrons formed up, flying together toward Korovograd Air Base.

The storm still raged around them.

The battle was over.

But Furina's war was far from finished.

Because this wasn't just about survival anymore.

This was personal.

Aftermath—The Question That Lingers

Hours later, the Drowned Squadron touched down, engines cooling in the cold, biting air of Korovograd Air Base.

Despite the loss of Albert—Drowned Four—Stalker, there was no room for grief.

Not here.

Not in a squadron of disposable pilots.

No one spoke his name. No moment of silence. No final salute.

The only thing that remained of him was the empty slot in the formation, the unoccupied chair in the debriefing room.

Maybe… in some twisted way, it was for the better.

Furina barely even noticed the dull thud of her boots against the tarmac as she climbed out of the Rafale's cockpit, the hiss of the canopy sealing behind her. The fight replayed in her mind on loop—the chase through the storm, the SU-57 vanishing like a ghost, Albert's F/A-18 bursting apart in the freezing clouds.

She clenched her jaw, rolling the tension out of her shoulders.

This war had already taken so much from her.

One more casualty shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

And that pissed her off.

She inhaled sharply, holding the breath for a second before exhaling slow.

Forget it.

She had bigger things to worry about.

The Debriefing Room

The squadron gathered, the weight of battle still thick in the air.

Nobody spoke at first.

Even the usual shit-talkers—Drowned Five, Drowned Seven—were silent.

The reality of war had hit them square in the face.

At the front of the room, the large mission display flickered, casting cold blue light over the pilots' tired faces.

The timeline played out—

AA eliminations.

Drone engagements.

The final dogfight.

Then—Commander Jakob stepped forward.

For once, his expression wasn't dripping with contempt.

If anything—he looked almost… impressed.

A moment passed.

Then, his verdict.

"Good work, Drowned Squadron."

A pause.

"You did great as escorts. Today—nobody is going into solitary. Keep it up. Dismissed."

For the first time in what felt like forever—

No punishments.

No degradation.

No threats of solitary confinement.

Just—acknowledgment.

It wasn't praise. Jakob wasn't the type.

But it was something.

The Commander turned and left, heading toward the next debrief—this time, with Primordial Squadron.

The room stayed silent for another beat.

Then—Clorinde scoffed, leaning back in her chair, arms folded.

"Huh. No threats today. No 'shut up and die' speech. A goddamn miracle."

Furina exhaled, finally allowing herself to relax.

She leaned back, a rare look of satisfaction on her face.

But even now—her mind wasn't done racing.

The Discussion—Unraveling the Knave

Clorinde turned toward her.

Her expression wasn't one of hostility. Not anymore.

No, now—it was curiosity.

"What in the hell was that, Furina? An SU-57?"

Furina nodded.

"Yeah. Apparently, it's the Knave."

The name hung in the air.

That call sign. That reputation.

And more importantly—what it meant.

Wriothesley frowned, arms crossed tightly. "The Knave? Did it have the same paint scheme?"

Furina's voice was flat. "Yep. Black and red. With a red X on the tail."

She thought back to the fight—

The impossible maneuvers.

The ruthless precision.

The eerie composure over the radio.

That SU-57 didn't fly like any ordinary fighter.

It was silent death in the storm.

A monster in the sky.

And yet—

For Furina—

It had been exhilarating.

She had felt alive in that chase.

A razor-thin line between victory and death.

Between ace and ghost.

It was the first time since her conviction that she felt like herself again—

Not just Furina.

Not just a convict.

But Waltz.

An Ace Pilot.

And now—she had a new question.

The Lingering Question

Clorinde tapped her fingers against the table, deep in thought.

"Can Waltz take out the Knave?"

The room fell silent.

Wriothesley let out a slow breath.

"That's the real question, isn't it?"

Furina said nothing at first.

She just stared ahead.

The gears in her mind turning, calculating, analyzing every moment of that dogfight.

Could she do it?

Could she take her down?

Could she win?

…Maybe.

But then—another thought.

One that cut deeper.

A question she hadn't even considered until now.

Furina's gaze hardened.

She turned to Wriothesley.

Her voice was low. Steady.

"You dug through a lot of shit before, Wolfbite."

Wriothesley's eyebrow arched. "Yeah?"

Furina's fingers curled into a fist against the table.

Her next words came slow.

Deliberate.

"Find out who she is."

Wriothesley's expression darkened.

He hesitated for just a moment—just long enough for Furina to notice.

Then, a nod.

"Got it."

The Hunt Begins

The storm outside howled.

The world moved on.

Pilots left the room one by one.

But Furina remained seated.

Still.

Thinking.

Planning.

The Knave had made a mistake.

She let Furina live.

And that meant Furina had another chance.

To fight.

To win.

To find out the truth.

Because Waltz wasn't done yet.

And when the time came—

She would be ready.