"I'm pointing out the truth." Sombra argues in return, as though that makes a difference. Her fingers curl over the lid of the box, weight shifting more comfortably to settle down across the sofa's arm rest: he might be done, but she isn't.

There's an itch along her mechanical spine— something nagging, something narrow— and a beat later, she acts on it.

"Talon isn't here, you know."

They're free agents, held together by goals, by wants, by needs and the shadows of who they could have been.