The queasy feeling in her stomach refused to fade, even though the stranger hadn't given her a single reason to feel threatened. Was it because he kept the lower half of his face covered? But that was not an unusual thing during the Norwegian winters. Was she just being paranoid? A side effect of her job? Diyani couldn't tell.

When the apartment complex finally came into view, she exhaled silently, her tension leaving her body. The structure stood against the night sky, its beige walls illuminated by cold, flickering streetlights. She welcomed the sight—it meant this long night was almost over.

Finally, she'd be rid of these drunk students, and her warm blanket was already hugging her in her thoughts. Mr. Blue Eyes stepped out of the car and opened the rear door just as one of the guys tumbled out, barely managing to grab onto the tall stranger to steady himself. He sighed, clearly annoyed, and pulled the drunk guy back on his feet. "We're not carrying you up the stairs," he muttered irritably, and the young man stammered an embarrassed "Thank you.".

Diyani left her car as well, her eyes following the friends group as they disappeared into the building. "Had enough of playing hero?" she asked, her tone drained as she crossed her arms over her chest again. "Are you sober enough to drive home on your own?" The other man asked, voice calm but probing. Diyani rolled her eyes in response, "After that experience? I am more than sober." Her tone clipped before circling the BMW and opening the door. "See you."

Without waiting for a reply, she slid into the driver's seat and shut the door firmly. As the engine roared to life, she cast one last glance in the rearview mirror, the apartment complex fading into the background. In her mind, the hot water was already rinsing away the events of the evening. She felt a small sense of relief, knowing she could sleep in tomorrow. A weekend is what she really needed.

Waking up without a hangover was definitely a sign for a good day. 

The two strangers still occupied the back of her mind while she was busy cleaning her apartment; she should have asked for a name—what if they would become a problem? Then it would be her fault, and she surely did not want to deal with an angry Karl or Jigor. "To survive, you need to be invisible. If you think a fresh start includes living your life as you did before, forget it." These words were etched in Diyanis memory. She could still hear the sound of his voice and see every wrinkle on his aged face. A heavy sigh left her lips before closing the small nightstand drawer, sealing away the memories it held within. With light steps, she headed towards the kitchen and grabbed her keys. The young woman was craving a good coffee in combination with a warm Skoleboller from her favorite place. 

There weren't many places where she felt safe, but the little bakery on the other side of the city belonged to these rare sanctuaries that embraced her wounded soul. After parking her car, she wanted to grab her bag until she noticed something shiny underneath her seat. She frowned. Did she lose her earring again? Annoyed, she reached for it, and her expression instantly froze when she recognized what she was holding. 

It was a dog tag.

-

"It is not the end of the world, Sinclair." Dean looked at his stressed friend. "That only happened because of your fucking Savior complex." Said friend gave him a deadly look, which Dean ignored. "The only relevant information on it is your name. I doubt that Lass could do much with your height, blood group, and identification number." "And how do you expect me to explain it to the captain?" Was the hissed reply by the other man? "Just go to her and ask if she can give it back. I don't think she has a big interest in keeping a dog tag." Dean shrugged unbothered as always. "You better be right about this." Sinclair groaned, running a hand down his face before snatching up his bag. Dean called after him a cheerfull, "I always am!"

Getting in the car, Wystan Sinclair held a blank expression. Losing belongings wasn't something he did—ever. Especially not something as important as his dog tag. He hated dealing with civilians, especially with that brown-eyed lass. 

Something about her was off, and he could not tell what it was, but it gnawed at the edges of his mind.