Attacking In A Blizzard

Three Days Have Passed.

And with the success of the previous mission, rumors began to swirl.

For the first time since its formation, whispers suggested that the 51st Teyvat Spare Squadron—the Drowned Squadron—might be under consideration for something more than just cannon fodder.

No longer just convicts.

No longer just expendable.

But real pilots.

Still, it was just speculation. Nothing official. Nothing concrete. Just the hopeful murmurs of those who had survived the last mission.

Yet, that wasn't the only thing people were talking about.

Because something much bigger had come to light.

A Truth Uncovered—Too Late

It started with hushed conversations among officers close to Commander Jakob. They spoke of a decision made by the Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force.

But that wasn't the real bombshell.

No, the real shock came from the revelation that someone had been overseeing Furina's case all this time.

A high-ranking official. A corrupt bastard sitting on the Judicial Committee.

And now?

That piece of shit had been removed.

With his departure, a new committee had stepped in—one that was relaunching the entire investigation into her so-called murder charge.

For the first time in months, the failed operation that had ruined her life was being re-examined.

And that was when the rage started creeping in.

Furina sat in the briefing room, slumped in her chair, arms crossed, legs lazily kicked up on the desk.

Her jaw clenched as she stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to process the absolute bullshit she had just overheard.

Two fucking months.

Two months of being treated like garbage.

Two months of being thrown into suicidal missions.

Two months of being labeled a murderer.

And now they wanted to reopen the case?

She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her deep ocean-blue hair, fingers gripping at her scalp.

"Can't believe this bullshit…" she muttered under her breath.

"I was sent to this hellhole because of some corrupt committee member? Fucking hell…!"

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"And how the fuck do they plan on apologizing for it?"

Her voice was low.

Dangerous.

"I lost almost everything."

Then—she smirked.

Not everything.

Her Rafale.

The one-off.

The Dassault Rafale M Évolution.

The smirk widened.

"Albedo, you cheeky bastard."

Her golden-eyed engineer had been hiding something from her.

And she had only found out yesterday.

One Day Earlier—Hangar 03

Furina had been called to the hangar.

Something about a "routine maintenance check" on her aircraft.

As she stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was that her Rafale M looked different.

Not in appearance—the deep blue, sky blue, white, and black livery was still flawless.

The golden emblem on the tail—the crown over flowing water—still stood bold and proud.

But something felt off.

Something felt new.

Her instincts told her the aircraft had been touched.

Upgraded.

And just as she was about to step onto the ladder—

"Furina? Can I speak to you for a second?"

She turned.

Albedo.

Walking toward her, hands in the pockets of his oil-streaked lab coat, eyes studying her like she was a puzzle waiting to be solved.

"Yeah, sure thing, Albedo. What's going on?"

He stopped in front of her, exhaling through his nose.

Then, he dropped it.

"I worked on your Rafale."

Furina scoffed, already halfway up the ladder.

"I know that. You did the engine overhaul, right?"

Albedo shook his head.

"No."

She paused.

He took a slow breath.

"I worked on your Rafale… when it was built."

The smirk vanished.

She narrowed her eyes and stepped back down onto the hangar floor.

"What the hell are you talking about, Albedo?"

His golden eyes flickered.

Then, he spoke.

The Truth About Her Jet

"Dassault Aviation wanted to push the Rafale's maneuverability to the next level—something that could rival even the best Snezhnayan jets and the F-22 Raptor. So, they hired me to assist in the modifications."

Furina's heart skipped.

She knew her jet was different.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

"This was the result," Albedo continued.

"The Dassault Rafale Évolution—the most responsive and agile Rafale ever built."

She crossed her arms, eyes sharp.

"Explain."

Albedo didn't hesitate.

"The Rafale already has an advanced fly-by-wire system, but they wanted it faster. So I reprogrammed the control surfaces, removing the delay on the sidestick inputs."

Furina's breath caught.

Now she understood.

Now she fucking understood.

He continued.

"Now, the control surfaces react instantly to your movements—like they're connected directly to your body."

Silence.

Then—

A single, breathless whisper.

"Wait… so you're telling me the reason I can pull those insane Pugachev maneuvers is because of… you?"

Albedo nodded.

"Yes. And this Rafale is the only one of its kind."

Her stomach twisted.

Her chest tightened.

No fucking way.

"You're telling me… my Rafale is an experimental fighter?"

Albedo smirked.

"Not quite an experiment. It's a prototype built to outmaneuver anything in the sky. And for some reason…"

His voice turned amused.

"It was assigned to you."

Furina's head spun.

This jet.

This one-off.

It wasn't just luck that she was given it.

Someone wanted her to have it.

And she was starting to think it wasn't a coincidence.

A Fighter Made for an Ace

She crossed her arms, leveling him with a look.

"So? What modifications did you do this time?"

Albedo tilted his head, smirking slightly.

"I upgraded your Engine Management Unit. Your M88 engines will now produce more thrust, and the afterburners will provide an additional 25% power boost compared to before."

Furina raised an eyebrow.

"Bullshit."

Albedo chuckled.

"No. It's not bullshit. You'll feel the difference the moment you throttle up."

Furina stared at him.

Then, she looked back at her Rafale.

Her hand instinctively brushed against the fuselage, fingers trailing along the golden emblem on the tail.

A fighter made for an Ace.

And now, with these upgrades…

Her enemies wouldn't stand a fucking chance.

For the first time in a long time…

She felt it.

Excitement.

Anticipation.

And most of all—

A hunger for the skies.

Because now, Furina De Fontaine wasn't just flying a jet.

She was flying a goddamn monster.

The Mission Briefing – A Storm on the Horizon

The briefing room was silent as the base commander entered, his presence enough to extinguish any idle conversation.

Commander Jakob stepped forward, his sharp eyes sweeping over the Drowned Squadron before he pressed a button on the control panel. The display screen flickered to life, revealing overhead reconnaissance images of the harbor at Ledovoy Ostrog.

His voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Alright, listen up. Since you all did well on the last operation, I'm sending you on a much easier mission today."

A murmur rippled through the pilots.

Easy? That's a first.

Jakob gestured to the screen as the images highlighted fuel depots, supply lines, and tanker facilities.

"Your objective is simple—wipe out the entire fuel complex at Ledovoy Ostrog. That means refineries, storage tanks, transport pipelines, and any fuel tankers docked in the harbor. If it looks like it holds fuel, turn it into scrap."

A few pilots exchanged glances. Full scorched-earth.

Jakob's voice remained cold, unyielding.

"The last thing we need is for that facility to keep feeding the endless drone swarms Snezhnaya keeps throwing at us. Cut off their fuel, and we cripple their operations. Destroying this facility will allow our ground forces to push further into enemy territory."

The screen shifted to a map of Teyvat.

Mondstadt? Liberated.

Liyue? Reclaimed.

Sumeru, Fontaine, and Natlan? Safe.

Inazuma? No longer under Snezhnayan control.

The war was shifting.

The frontlines were pushing deeper into the frozen heart of the enemy's land.

But this wasn't over.

Not even close.

The Knave was still out there.

And Furina wouldn't rest until she faced her again.

Jakob turned back to the squadron, his expression serious.

"Most of the other nations are now advancing into mainland Snezhnaya. But don't let your guard down. Even though this mission is easier, I won't hesitate to send one of your asses to solitary if you screw it up. Understood?"

A silent nod from the pilots.

Jakob gave a curt nod. "Dismissed."

The moment the commander left, the tension in the room shifted.

Conversations erupted—murmurs of disbelief, quiet chuckles, a few pilots shooting each other looks that practically screamed,

"Did he really just say this was an easy mission?"

Furina sat in the corner, idly twirling a pen between her fingers. Her ice-blue eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as she stretched her legs under the table. The Speedmaster on her wrist caught the light, its navy-blue NATO strap snug against her skin—just the way she liked it.

Her smirk widened.

"Easy? Bullshit. It's never easy."

Not for them.

Not for the Drowned Squadron.

The last mission had proven one thing—

She wasn't just any pilot.

She had been given a monster of a jet.

And now?

She was ready to use it.

The Flightline – A Walk Toward War

The air was thick with the distant roar of warming engines. The scent of jet fuel, grease, and ozone clung to the air like a second skin.

Korovograd Air Base had seen countless sorties, but today, something was different.

For the first time since the war began, the Drowned Squadron wasn't just flying to survive.

They were flying toward something bigger.

Maybe even freedom.

Furina walked alongside Clorinde and Wriothesley, their boots crunching against the tarmac as they neared their aircraft. The rising sun stretched long shadows across the apron, painting dark streaks over the scarred war machines lined up in the distance.

This could be their final operation as Spares.

Their last mission before they were pardoned.

And yet—it didn't feel real.

A Conversation of the Condemned

Wriothesley exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

"Hard to believe we might be getting out of this hellhole soon."

Clorinde smirked, adjusting her grip on her helmet.

"No kidding. I've been fighting like a damn stray dog since the war started. And now? Finally, a chance at freedom."

Then—she turned to Furina, curiosity flashing in her eyes.

"Tell me, Furina—what do you think about the rumors that the head of the investigation against you was corrupt?"

Furina scoffed, her lips curling in disgust.

"Putain d'imbécile."

She shook her head, fingers twitching at her side.

"Whether it's true or not, they still threw one of the best pilots from my old squadron into this place. That alone makes them a bunch of merde-eating bureaucrats."

A slow exhale.

She raked a hand through her deep ocean-blue hair, her fingers briefly clenching at her scalp.

"I arrived at the start of June. Now it's almost the end of July."

Her voice dropped, low and sharp.

"They stole two damn months of my life."

Wriothesley nodded, arms crossed.

"I feel you, Furina. Considering you're the best damn pilot in Drowned Squadron, they'll have to reinstate your rank after this."

Furina smirked.

Damn right, they will.

As they reached the aircraft, the trio split—each heading toward their own war machine.

The Ace's Machine

Furina stopped just short of her aircraft, her icy gaze locking onto the tail.

The three-strike emblem.

Once a mark of disgrace.

Now?

A worn insignia of defiance.

The paint protection film was peeling, barely clinging to the airframe. Torn by high speeds, violent G-forces, and maneuvers no normal aircraft—or pilot—should be able to survive.

She smirked.

"Tch. I'll let Mother Nature rip that shit off."

She climbed the built-in ladder in one smooth motion, boots tapping lightly against the fuselage. The airframe vibrated beneath her touch, almost as if it was alive—eager to be unleashed.

Settling into the ejection seat, she inhaled deeply.

Oil.

Metal.

Sweat.

The scent of battle.

The scent of home.

Pre-Flight Rituals

Her hands moved automatically.

Harness—secured.

Flight controls—checked.

Engine start—engaging.

With a flick of a switch, the twin M88 engines rumbled to life, a deep, growling roar that sent a shiver down her spine.

The HUD flickered on.

Glass cockpit displays flared to life, scrolling through pre-flight data.

Everything was green.

Perfect.

One by one, the rest of Drowned Squadron followed suit.

The airfield hummed with raw power as turbines screamed to life, filling the morning with an electrifying tension.

Engines spooled up.

Canopies sealed shut.

Final checks—complete.

Then—

The first aircraft began rolling onto the taxiway.

Furina glanced at her mirrors, watching as the squadron lined up behind her.

The Takeoff – A Thunderous Departure

The Korovograd airstrip trembled under the weight of their combined presence.

A dozen war machines, all lined up, waiting for the command.

Then—

"Drowned Squadron, cleared for takeoff."

One by one, the aircraft surged forward.

Engines screamed.

Afterburners ignited.

The runway blurred beneath them.

Then—

Rotation.

Furina pulled back on the stick.

Her Rafale lifted effortlessly into the sky.

The morning sun caught the edges of her airframe, glinting off the golden emblem on her tail.

The three strikes still visible.

Still defiant.

Still fighting.

Another mission.

Another battle.

And maybe, just maybe—

One step closer to freedom.

Ledovoy Ostrog Strike – Fire and Ice

The skies above Ledovoy Ostrog were clear, an uncommon sight in Snezhnaya's frozen north.

Drowned Squadron sliced through the frigid air, their jet engines rumbling in a steady rhythm. Below them, the sprawling industrial complex stretched along the icy coastline—fuel depots, refineries, and storage tanks lined up in neat, vulnerable rows, just waiting to be turned into a raging inferno.

Then, the radio crackled.

AWACS Justice's sharp, no-nonsense voice cut through the static.

"Drowned Squadron, this is AWACS Justice. You've reached the target area. Take everything in sight—out."

A brief pause.

"And be advised—you only have five minutes until Blizzard Storm Snezhna One arrives. So move your asses!"

Furina smirked, fingers tightening around the sidestick.

"Wilco. Drowned Squadron, spread out and take out the facilities!"

For the first time in ages—true, coordinated order.

"Drowned Two, engaging!"

"Drowned Three, engaging!"

"Drowned Five, engaging!"

"Drowned Six, engaging!"

"Drowned Eight, engaging!"

The squadron fanned out like predators descending upon helpless prey, each pilot zeroing in on their chosen targets.

Furina's First Strike

Her heads-up display flickered, target indicators dancing across her canopy as she lined up her first attack run. A cluster of oil tanks gleamed under the weak northern sun—titanic cylinders filled to the brim with volatile fuel, their metallic shells practically screaming to be torn open.

A shrill tone pierced her headset.

TONE. LOCK.

"Bombs away!"

She yanked the stick back, pulling her Rafale into a steep climb just as her payload detached.

A second later—

BOOM.

A monstrous fireball erupted from the impact zone, the explosion's deep, guttural roar shaking the very air around her. The shockwave thundered outward, rolling across the frozen landscape and sending plumes of jet-black smoke billowing into the sky.

Fuel tanks ruptured instantly, triggering a cascade of secondary explosions.

The refinery was turning into an inferno.

The radio flared to life.

"Quarter of the oil tanks and refineries destroyed! Good work, Waltz!" – AWACS Justice.

Then—Clorinde's voice, half-scolding, half-impressed.

"Holy Archons, Furina! Take it easy!"

Furina chuckled, rolling her shoulders as her Rafale banked for another run.

"Come on! Oil explodes—it causes a chain reaction!"

The rest of the squadron wasted no time tearing into the facility.

"Anti-air weapon destroyed!" – Wriothesley, callsign Wolfbite.

"Tanker destroyed!" – Clorinde, callsign Rapperia.

The Chain Reaction

Furina dove back in, her eyes narrowing as she zeroed in on another refinery sector.

Another row of storage tanks.

Another opportunity to burn.

TONE. LOCK.

"Bombs away!"

Her payload streaked downward—

Then—

Impact.

And then—

Hell on earth.

A devastating shockwave tore through the complex, igniting fuel lines and setting off a catastrophic chain reaction.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Storage tanks detonated in sequence, sending searing-hot fireballs roaring into the sky. The inferno consumed everything in its path, molten debris raining down as the refinery collapsed into a flaming graveyard.

The radio exploded with chatter.

"Holy shit! Massive fireball!" – Drowned Six.

But Furina barely had time to admire her handiwork.

Her HUD blared red.

LOCK WARNING.

AWACS Justice's voice snapped through the comms.

"Waltz, enemy interceptor behind you! F-4 Phantom!"

Furina scoffed.

"An old-gen fighter? Tch—piece of cake."

She reacted instantly.

Throttle—IDLE.

Stick—HARD PULL.

Her Rafale snapped back, its nose pitching up at a perfect 90-degree angle.

A 90-degree Pugachev Cobra.

The Phantom shot past her, completely overshooting its mark.

Furina's icy-blue eyes gleamed as she slammed her throttles forward, her afterburners roaring as she pitched down—falling right behind the enemy fighter.

"Got you."

TONE. LOCK.

"Fox Two."

A Sidewinder missile streaked forward like a viper striking its prey.

Direct hit.

The Phantom erupted mid-air, its fuselage shattering into flaming wreckage before vanishing into the abyss below.

"Splash one, Waltz! Nice work!" – AWACS Justice.

Final Destruction—Time Running Out

The squadron kept up their relentless assault, reducing Ledovoy Ostrog's once-massive fuel complex to a smoldering ruin.

"Drowned Five, fuel tank destroyed!"

"Drowned Eight, oil refinery destroyed!"

"Drowned Six, tanker destroyed!"

Fire and death consumed the industrial sprawl. Smoke columns rose like funeral pyres against the frozen sky.

Then—

The radio clicked.

AWACS Justice's voice carried an unmistakable edge.

"Timer's up, Drowned Squadron. The blizzard is moving in. RTB. Great work."

Furina exhaled, her pulse still racing as she pulled her Rafale away from the inferno below. Her eyes flicked to the north—where an ominous wall of white loomed over the horizon.

The storm was here.

And soon, the battlefield would be wiped clean.

She smirked, shaking her head.

"Hey, hey! Looks like Justice's mood is improving!"

A dry, exasperated sigh came over the comms.

"Shut it, Waltz."

Furina chuckled, adjusting her flight path.

The mission was over.

Until—

A crackled transmission from the enemy's comms bled through on COM3, distorted but clear enough to send a chill down Furina's spine.

"Bring the trucks out and spread them through the blizzard! Make sure each route is split far and wide!"

Then—an IFF update.

AWACS Justice's voice cut in, grim and sharp.

"Twenty trucks have escaped! All of them carrying oil!"

Furina's grip tightened on the stick.

"You've got to be shitting me!"

Clorinde's voice flared up, her frustration boiling over.

"You're expecting us to take out twenty oil trucks in a fucking blizzard!?"

Justice sighed, his exasperation evident.

"Just obey orders and take them out!"

Furina's eyes flicked to her HUD.

Beyond the swirling wall of snow, three trucks sped away from the burning wreckage of the refinery.

No chance.

She shoved the stick forward, diving hard to intercept.

TONE. LOCK.

FIRE.

Her 30mm cannon roared, tracer rounds ripping through the blizzard, barely visible before they found their mark.

Metal shredded. Fire erupted.

Three direct hits.

Three fireballs.

"Waltz, three trucks down." – AWACS Justice.

But then—her IFF display flickered erratically.

The truck markers ghosted in and out.

Drowned Five's voice crackled through the comms, irritated.

"Hey, what the hell is going on with the IFF system?"

AWACS Justice was already on it.

"The blizzard is interfering with their signals. But for you? No big deal."

Furina tapped her central display, flipping her TAC Mode switch.

Two new windows popped up—one for ground scanning, the other for infrared targeting.

Her advanced IR camera system flared to life, slicing through the storm like a goddamn razor.

Then—more bad news.

"Bogeys inbound—MQ-99 drones!" – AWACS Justice.

Furina groaned, gritting her teeth.

"Oh for fuck sa—GIVE ME A BREAK!"

The storm howled, her canopy rattling as she plunged deeper into the whiteout.

Her vision turned to hell.

A swirling nightmare of frost and wind.

Furina's Warpath – Targeting in a Storm

Through the chaos, three more trucks appeared on her IR feed, parked ahead, barely visible.

No IFF markers. Just ghostly outlines on her thermal scope.

She needed confirmation.

Her thumb flipped to optical zoom, sharpening the shapes—wheels, a cab, fuel tanks.

IFF LOCK.

TONE.

"FOX THREE!"

A LACM missile streaked into the storm.

Direct hit.

The shockwave rattled her airframe as the trucks were reduced to nothing but flaming wrecks beneath her.

"Three down, Waltz!" – AWACS Justice.

Furina flicked the radio as she pulled out of the blizzard, her engines screaming against the ice buildup.

"Listen up! Everyone, take the drones! I'll handle the tankers! My aircraft has an advanced IR camera—I can see through the blizzard!"

Drowned Eight scoffed, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"And you're telling us this now!?"

Furina rolled her eyes, snapping back.

"Shut your trap, Drowned Eight! If you did your research on Rafales, you'd know they all have an in-built advanced IR system!"

No time for arguments.

Another lock. Another tone.

"Bombs away!"

She pitched up, escaping the blizzard just as another explosion shook the sky behind her.

"Another three down. Thirteen to go."

Furina banked hard, heading 185 to intercept another tanker.

The Squad Hits Back

AWACS relayed the kill count.

"Splash one, Rapperia."

"Splash one, Drowned Five."

"Splash one, Wolfbite."

"Splash one, Drowned Eight."

Then—five targets.

A convoy of trucks barreling through the storm, their wheels kicking up ice and snow.

But this time—they weren't alone.

A mobile AA truck rolled alongside them.

Furina dove in, her HUD flashing red as the AA site locked onto her.

A solid lock.

Incoming missile warning.

She ignored it.

IFF LOCK.

TONE.

"Bombs away!"

She yanked the stick back, pulling out just as her payload connected.

A firestorm erupted, the AA truck and convoy disintegrating in the blink of an eye.

"Five trucks and an AA vehicle—good work!" – AWACS Justice.

Eleven down. Nine to go.

The Argument in the Storm

Drowned Six muttered, half-expecting a way out.

"They'll run out of fuel, right?"

Drowned Five snorted.

"They got trailers full of it!"

Clorinde cut in, annoyed.

"You dumbasses—it's jet fuel. Aviation gas! Not for trucks!"

Wriothesley sighed, exasperated.

"Trucks run on diesel. Do you people not know this!?"

AWACS Justice cut through the nonsense.

"Quit your yapping and take out the targets!"

Furina ignored them, lining up another run.

Two more trucks—gone.

"Two down! Seven to go, Waltz!"

Drowned Eight caught sight of the explosion.

"Wait—was that a blue hue?"

Wriothesley's voice tightened.

"Blue fire? That's… ethanol."

Clorinde frowned.

"Invisible to the naked eye… It might be something else."

Then—

Drowned Five's voice came through, shaky.

"Drowned Five, breaking off! Good luck with your new friends! I can't fight with this IFF acting up!"

Furina's blood boiled.

Her grip turned white-knuckled on the stick.

"YOU DUMBASS—GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR AND TAKE THOSE DRONES OUT! YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING DIE!?"

No response.

Only static.

Furina's breathing turned sharp.

"Fucking coward."

She dived again, locking onto three more trucks.

Bombs away.

Direct hit.

"Four to go, Waltz!"

The Final Blow – Waltz's Ace Move

Then—

Wriothesley's voice cracked over comms.

"I got four tankers below me! My IFF flashed them for a millisecond!"

Furina's pulse spiked.

"Marking location now!"

She yanked the stick hard left, her Rafale rolling into a brutal 90-degree bank. The airframe groaned under the strain as she slammed the throttles forward, afterburners roaring to life.

The engines screamed, vapor trails swirling in the frigid air as she punched through the storm.

Sixty seconds later—

She was there.

Below—four oil tankers barreling through the snow, barely visible through the blinding whiteout. Their plumes of exhaust flickered in the dim light.

Furina exhaled sharply.

She had one shot.

Her grip on the stick tightened.

Then—

She cut throttle to idle and yanked the sidestick back.

The Rafale reacted instantly.

A brutal 270-degree Pugachev Cobra.

The world inverted. Snow and sky flipped in her vision as she rolled into a near-vertical dive.

Her HUD flashed.

IFF LOCK.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

The LACM missile streaked free, its exhaust flaring against the storm.

Furina snapped the stick left, pulling the Rafale into a near-impossible barrel-out as the missile hit home.

BOOM.

A blinding fireball consumed the last of the tankers, the shockwave buffeting her airframe as she leveled out.

Then—

AWACS Justice's voice confirmed it.

"Five tankers down. All targets destroyed."

Mission Accomplished

"Good work, Drowned Squadron. RTB."

Justice's tone shifted, grim.

"Taking down those tankers and the oil plant will starve their drones and aircraft for a while. We bought some time."

The squadron formed up on Furina, breaking away from the battlefield.

Cheers erupted over comms.

Clorinde let out a breath. "What do ya know? We made it."

Wriothesley chuckled. "Yep. Stick with Waltz, and you'll make it."

AWACS scoffed.

"If you really think that's all you need to survive in this squadron, then you might wanna get your goddamned last rites ready now."

Furina smirked.

"Shut your trap, Justice."

Justice sighed.

Korovograd Air Base – The Weight of Victory

The briefing room was silent.

The mission was a success.

But something felt off.

Commander Jakob stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His sharp gaze swept over the squadron, lingering just a second too long on each pilot before locking onto one.

Drowned Five.

The tension in the air thickened.

Jakob's eyes darkened.

"To everyone—good work."

Then—his voice turned razor-sharp.

"As for you—"

His gaze snapped to Drowned Five, the weight of his words crushing.

"You failed your mission. And you abandoned your squadron."

Silence.

Drowned Five stiffened.

Then—Jakob's voice thundered through the room.

"So how about I toss your ass into solitary!?"

Two MPs stepped forward without hesitation, their boots clanking against the cold concrete floor.

Drowned Five panicked, voice cracking.

"Commander, please—"

Jakob didn't let him finish.

"Shut it. Get him out of my sight."

The MPs grabbed him, dragging him toward the exit.

The door slammed shut.

And then—nothing.

No one said a word.

No one even moved.

For a few agonizing seconds, the only sound was the distant whir of jet engines outside.

Then—Jakob's gaze softened, barely.

He exhaled. His tone evened out, but the steel remained.

"As for the rest of you—good work. Dismissed."

No congratulations.

No grand speeches.

Just another mission.

Another pilot thrown into solitary.

The squadron filed out, exhaustion weighing them down.

Furina's Quarters – The Weight of Uncertainty

The door clicked shut behind her with a dull thud.

Furina barely made it two steps before collapsing onto the thin mattress, arms spread wide, eyes hollow as they fixed on the ceiling.

Her body ached.

Her muscles burned.

Every fiber of her being screamed for rest—yet her mind refused to yield.

The dull glow of her watch caught her eye.

6:30.

A slow, tired sigh left her lips.

"When will this end…?"

The words barely held form, slipping into the stillness of the room like a whisper to the void.

She turned onto her side, staring at nothing. The ceiling blurred as fatigue gnawed at the edges of her vision.

None of it mattered.

In five days, there would be another mission.

Another target.

Another battle.

The details? Irrelevant.

The only thing that lingered, gnawing at her mind like a ghost, was a single unshakable question.

"How much longer will I stay here?"

No answer came.

Just the distant hum of the base.

The muted roar of engines in the cold evening air.

And the weight of uncertainty pressing down like a storm that never passed.