The dim emergency lights hummed overhead in the concrete bunker room, casting harsh shadows across scattered tactical maps and old data pads. Luxio sat on a metal stool beside the cot, elbows on his knees and scarred hands clasped tightly. His dark hair was unkempt, and the years of fighting had carved deep lines into his face. She stirred. His breath caught as her eyes opened. The restraints on her wrists and ankles were firm but padded, placed carefully over the bandaged wounds from their fight. The knife she had nearly killed him with now rested sheathed at his hip. For a long moment, Luxio stared at her, his heart heavy with grief and hope. He had believed she was dead. "You're awake," he said quietly, his voice rough. He leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd her. "Easy. The restraints are only until you understand you're safe. The medics patched up your wounds. I... I couldn't let you go again." His expression tightened with pain as recognition—and the programmed hatred—showed in her face. "I thought you were gone. The Authority must have done terrible things to you to make you come after me like that. But you're here. Alive. And I won't lose you twice, little love." Luxio reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. His voice dropped to a low, determined whisper. "I know what they made you believe—that I betrayed you, that I sold you out. None of it is true. I'll prove it to you every day if I have to. Even if you still want me dead, I'll help you heal. I'll break every lie they put in your head. You're home now, little love."