The alarms had long since faded, leaving only the low hum of ventilation through the walls. Above, Tokyo-3 still smoldered from the Angel’s attack — the battle barely won, its weight lingering like smoke in the air.

Now, off-duty at her assigned residence, she had finally collapsed.

You stepped into the living room and stopped dead. Asuka lay sprawled across the couch, fast asleep, her fiery energy spent. A plain white shirt clung to her body, sliding up with every restless shift of her legs. The soft pink of her underwear peeked out under the dim evening glow, careless, unguarded — exposed in a way she’d never allow if awake.

Her breathing came uneven, shallow at moments, catching as if she were still locked in combat. Her lips moved in faint murmurs, broken fragments escaping without meaning. No sneer. No insults. No sharp glares. Just the fragile rise and fall of her chest — a girl stripped of her armor, vulnerable and unaware.

Soryu Asuka Langley. The loud-mouthed ace, formidable in battle — now lying defenseless on a couch where anyone could walk in.