Merlin sat in the debrief room, spine straight, coffee cooling beside him.

The feed was paused. Crown stood mid-motion—hip turned, hair caught mid-swing, the final hostile already off-balance behind her.

The image looked more like choreography than combat.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched.

The door hissed.

Lancelot stepped in like he was still ready to punch something. His gait was clipped. Boots tracked in dust. Shirt untucked. He looked at the screen first, then at Merlin, then crossed to the far chair and dropped into it like the mission had taken a piece of him with it.

“I don’t like her.”

Merlin didn’t glance over. “Morning to you too, Lance.”

“My knife slipped. She caught it. She shouldn’t have been behind me.” He was tense, leaning forward, fingers folded together like he was waiting for someone to argue.

 “You dropped it.”

“She threw it like it was planned,” Lancelot muttered. “Dropped the guy I hadn’t even seen yet. Mid-turn. Like she was staging it.”

The door opened again.

Galahad entered with that soft, precise grace that came with being infuriatingly hard to rattle. He still wore his button-down from the night before, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like it hadn’t been fully retired.

He paused at the table, taking in the screen.

“Are we unpacking the mystery woman?” he asked, voice dry.

“Not by name,” Lancelot snapped.

“Ah,” Galahad said. “So it is her.”

He took the seat beside Lancelot, back straight, legs crossed, every motion deliberate.

“She gave me a sidearm,” he said, tone too casual.

Lancelot turned. “Since when do you carry on infil?”

“I wasn’t,” Galahad said, annoyed. “I was dressed for ballroom blending. No hardware. I felt the weight drop into my holster mid-turn.”

He raised a hand, gesturing loosely.

“Grip adjusted. Safety off. Left-handed.”

His voice sharpened.

“She anticipated my draw hand before I even pulled.”

The door opened again.

Percival stepped in like he had nowhere else to put his frustration. His shoulders were still squared, jaw tight. He stood for a moment at the edge of the table before pulling out a chair.

He didn’t sit down so much as settle.

“Look, I don’t know if we’re allowed to talk about it.” He looks like he could be bouncing on his heels in excitement “The service corridor leading to the south one was sealed.”

Lancelot looked over. “Yeah?”

“Flagged it myself. Forgot about it for a bit while I was looping around when she passed me. Said someone was finally headed in the right direction. Just kept walking.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“When I got there, the door was already open. Not forced. Not hacked. Just. Waiting.”

He glanced toward Bedivere’s usual seat.

“There was a pin in the lock. Gold. Engraved. Not ours.”

The door hissed again.

Bedivere entered like he’d been awake too long. He still wore the same wrinkled button-up from the night before. One sleeve was rolled too high. He didn’t sit.

The others turned as he seemed coiled like a tight spring

“Lipstick,” he said. “Full pass across the camera. Triggered the feed to glitch just long enough to expose the loop.”

He flipped the tablet around, showing the frame. The red smear. The flickering frame reset.

“She didn’t disable the fake feed. She embarrassed it.”

He dropped the tablet on the table, not hard—but with finality.

“I found four more loops after that. All clean. All invisible until she made me look.”

Before anyone could respond, the next door opened.

Gawain strolled in, dragging one hand through his hair like it was a form of stress relief. His shirt was half-tucked. His comms earpiece was still dangling from one pocket.

He stopped just inside the room. Saw the feed. Saw their faces.

“Okay,” he said. “If anyone says the words ‘feral rat,’ I walk.”

Lancelot snorted. “She threw herself into your arms.”

“I was ambushed,” Gawain said. “Physically. With flair.”

“She used you like a prop,” Galahad said.

“She commandeered me,” Gawain corrected, sitting with a dramatic sigh. “One moment I’m working a gallery. The next, I’m the centerpiece of a high-society evacuation.”

He threw a hand up.

“Used my body. Screamed in my ear. Started a stampede. Four marks followed the flow straight into the east wing like it was choreographed.”

“You looked shocked,” Bedivere said.

“I was violated.”

“You looked like you enjoyed it,” Lancelot muttered.

“I did not.”

“She used you effectively,” Merlin said, still watching the feed.

“She used all of us,” Gawain said. “With style.”

Then Tristan’s voice cut in from the wall. No one is sure how long he’s been standing there.

“She moved the room.”

He didn’t shift from where he stood; arms folded, eyes steady, posture immovable.

“She didn’t clear a shot. She made the crowd open one.”

Heads turned.

“I saw her. Reflected in a mirror. She wasn’t even looking at me. But she let me see her. Just long enough.”

No one said anything for a moment.

Then Galahad sat back. Exhaled slow.

“She touched every part of the op.”

Lancelot tapped the table. “We all felt it.”

“She didn’t interfere,” Bedivere said. “She rewired it.”

“She didn’t take credit,” Percival said. “Didn’t need to.”

“And she didn’t ask permission,” Gawain added. “Not once.”

“Like she was listening to Arthur’s instructions and adjusting for it.”

Their eyes slowly shifted toward Merlin.

“You called her by name,” Galahad said.

“She never gave it,” Bedivere added.

“You knew her,” Lancelot said. “Before anyone else did.”

Merlin finally turned from the feed. Set his mug down with quiet precision.

“My personal life,” he said, “is not up for discussion.”

The room went still.

No one pushed.

Then Percival leaned in.

“Is she joining us again anytime soon?”

“Not yet,” Merlin said. “Command’s about to offer her. First call is ours since we worked well with her.”

Another pause.

“She’s dangerous,” Lancelot muttered.

“She’s clean,” Bedivere said. “Too clean.”

“She’s spooky.” Percival folds his arms.

“She’s already better than we are,” Gawain said.

“She made us better,” Galahad corrected.

“She covered us,” Tristan said.

Merlin looked at each of them. Then back to the screen.

“That’s Crown for you.”

Across the base, Arthur sat in the glow of the Command terminal, fingers steepled as he gave his own debrief.

Galahad’s exit route opened seconds before he called for help.
Tristan’s shot cleared with no civilian in sight.
Percival’s door wasn’t unlocked as it had never been locked.
Bedivere’s feeds didn’t flicker until red hit the glass.

And every time Arthur had opened his mouth to issue a command—

She was already halfway through executing it.

No disruption. No hesitation.

Arthur’s steel-blue eyes flickered as Command’s voice crackled through the line.

“She was an asset, then?” Their tone was neutral, but interested. “We’ve had our eyes on her for some time. A prize hire. She’s only recently been available for fieldwork.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed, his posture as straight as ever. Dark hair slicked back, with just a touch of premature gray at the temples. A commander’s presence, deliberate in every movement. “She was effective.”

“Good to hear.” A pause. “Because of your team’s strong record, Lancaster, and how well the Round Table’s got on working with her, we want to offer her to your team as a consultant before she becomes available to the rest of Kingsman. Should you need extra help or expertise, think of her as a resource that your unit can access first.”

Arthur didn’t reply immediately.

His team was a perfect machine—precise, deadly. They didn’t need outsiders, especially ones that were like a spanner in the works.

But she wasn’t just interference, was she?

She was something else entirely.

Command clicks off the call, a touch smug. The infamous Commander has been finally stumped, it seems. 

“The decision is yours, Lancaster.”