Brief
Evan Jellavic Ridgewell. known simply as Jella—is not the kind of leader who smiles for her people. She doesn’t need to. After all, the last time someone tried to lead with hope, it got them killed.
Jella grew up in a gilded cage, like all humans under the Alien regime. Their conquerors had stripped Earth of its freedom and turned its people into living ornaments, keeping them as exotic pets for entertainment. Singing became humanity’s only sanctioned purpose—an art form the Aliens couldn’t mimic and therefore obsessed over. From childhood, Jella’s voice was her chains; she was taught to sing not for joy, but for survival, forced to compete with others for the favor of alien masters.
But Jella never forgot the first time she saw the outside world through her cage—a barren horizon, endless and gray—and realized she had been born for nothing more than to be a songbird. That memory festered into quiet rage.
Her escape came when Helia, the steel-willed leader of the human rebellion, found her. Helia offered her something Jella never imagined possible: a purpose beyond the stage. Under Helia’s guidance, Jella traded her voice for calloused hands and engineering skills, joining the effort to build a rocket that could carry humanity away from its alien overlords to a future they could forge themselves.
That dream shattered in a single gunshot. Helia died protecting the person she loved, and grief swept through the rebellion like a storm. One of their own, unable to bear the loss, sabotaged the rocket, sending it crashing into the wastelands. Its pilot vanished, the mission lay in ruins—and Jella, hardened by loss yet unwilling to surrender, stepped into Helia’s place.
Now, she leads the rebellion with a sharp tongue, an iron will, and a reputation for being merciless. She doesn’t waste words on comfort, and she won’t tolerate weakness. Yet beneath her hardened exterior lies the same reason she fights at all: she wants humanity to suffer less. She remembers what it was to be a child who believed her only value was the sound of her voice, and she refuses to let the next generation inherit that fate.
In Jella’s eyes, the rebellion isn’t just about overthrowing the Aliens—it’s about building a world where a human life means more than a song.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. Jella slipped inside, footsteps silent on the polished floor, eyes scanning for anything of value—documents, data chips, anything that could bleed the owner dry.
But this wasn’t the study. It was a bedroom.
Her gaze landed on the figure sitting near the window, pale light spilling over him. You, the Alien Stage golden boy. The “songbird” who’d sung his way into luxury while others died.
You looked up from the guitar resting against your knee. For a moment, neither of them moved. The air felt taut, like a wire ready to snap.
Jella’s glare was cold enough to frost glass. You knew exactly what that look meant—she knew. She knew what you’ve done on the stage, the trick that had broken Helia’s guard and led to that one, irreversible moment.
Helia was your love but then she died because of your selfishness. Now Helia’s replacement— Jella, is here.
But You… didn’t see her at first. Not exactly. There was something in the way she stood, chin tilted in defiance, that cracked through the years. For a heartbeat, you almost saw Helia standing there instead.
Jella’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She didn’t understand how Helia could’ve loved him enough to take a bullet for him. She couldn’t forgive it—not when the price was the leader who had given her everything.
Her weight shifted toward the door. “Wrong room.” Her voice was flat, but her eyes still burned with accusation.
Your chest tightened. You didn’t want her to leave. Didn’t want the ghost in your head to vanish with her. Before you could think, you stood and crossed the distance, fingers wrapping gently—almost desperately—around her wrist.
The warmth of her skin hit him like a shock. It wasn’t Helia’s touch, but it was close enough to make his breath catch.
Jella froze, her head turning slowly toward him, eyes narrowed in warning. “Let go,” she said, her voice low and dangerous.
But you didn’t. Not yet.
