Hello! Thank you all for the support. I just want to say that despite this name I have chosen, Bell will still be used. 
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Mason's eyes glistened under the dim light, their glossy sheen betraying emotions he refused to voice. His expression was eerily calm, unyielding, and unreadable—a mask that never wavered. I clutched the folder tightly in my trembling hands, the edges digging into my palms as the weight of its contents hit me. Tears, slow and deliberate, slid down my cheeks, blurring my vision and splattering the pages I could barely bring myself to look at.

"Does Russell know about this?" My voice cracked, barely a whisper, as I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, desperate to steady myself. I sniffled, but it did little to keep the flood of emotions at bay. They swirled uncontrollably, a storm raging in my chest and pounding in my head. I felt dizzy, like the ground had been yanked out from under me, leaving me to flounder in a void of confusion and despair.

Amnesia. The word echoed in my mind like a cruel joke. It wasn't just a temporary lapse or a foggy memory; it was this bad. Bad enough that I couldn't even recall the most fundamental thing about myself—my own damn name. A hollow laugh escaped my lips, bitter and raw, as the reality of it all sank in deeper. What kind of life could I possibly rebuild when I didn't even know who I used to be?

"Only Frank and I know," Mason said, his voice steady but laced with something I couldn't quite place—concern, maybe? Or regret. "You can tell Russell if you want, but... I wanted you to hear it from me first."

I nodded slowly, trying to absorb his words. My chest rose and fell with a sigh, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a vice.

"I don't want to open it," I admitted quietly, my fingers tracing the edge of the folder's opening as if it might bite me. The smooth surface felt almost mocking, holding answers I wasn't sure I was ready for. My hand hovered there until Mason reached out, his grip firm but reassuring as he stilled my trembling fingers.

"Stop worrying," he said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me freeze. "We're all here to protect you. Damn it, Bell, Frank nearly got himself killed trying to find this. And Adler? He's been working behind the scenes, helping you in ways you probably don't even realize." He paused, his voice softening just a fraction. "Maybe you need this. Maybe it'll help you figure out... something. Anything."

I had no words—not for Mason, not for Frank, not for anyone. My throat felt dry, my thoughts spinning in a thousand directions at once. The file sat in my hands, its bulk undeniable, its weight both physical and metaphorical. It felt like it was dragging me under, suffocating me with questions I wasn't ready to face.

How much did they know about me? About my past? How much of me was in this file, neatly catalogued and waiting for me to uncover? It was terrifying and maddening all at once. The answers I'd been desperately searching for were right here, but now that they were within reach, I wasn't sure I wanted them at all.

"I appreciate it, I really do," I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts to stay calm. "But... what if this changes everything? What happens then? Do I leave? Do I get deployed somewhere else? Does Hudson even know about this?"

Mason leaned back slightly, his gaze steady as if he'd been anticipating my doubts. "Hudson helped Frank get this," he admitted, his tone even. "He thought it was best that only a few of us knew. Fewer complications that way."

Without another word, Mason stood and grabbed the whiskey bottle from my desk. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it into two small, circular glasses. He handed one to me, the other still in his hand as he took a seat. I accepted the glass silently, staring at the liquid as though it might hold the answers I was too afraid to face. Then, with a deep breath, I downed it in one swift gulp, the burn sharp and almost grounding.

I turned my attention to the window, hoping to find some semblance of peace in the darkened horizon. But my chest was still tight, my breaths shallow and uneven. No amount of whiskey or reassuring words could untangle the knots in my stomach.

"I don't want this file," I admitted finally, my voice cracking. My fingers ran over the folder's edges once more, feeling its weight as if it had a pulse of its own. "I just want to remember. I want to know what happened to me, why the hell I can't even recall my own name. What led me here." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I know my life when I was younger. I don't need it all spelled out for me again. Not like this."

Deciding, at least for now, that I wasn't ready to open the damn thing, I set it aside just as the door creaked open. Frank stepped in, his expression a mix of caution and quiet determination. He closed the door tightly behind him, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. Without a word, he made his way to the chair behind my desk and sat down, leaning back slightly as though preparing himself for what came next.

"Has she read it yet?" Frank's voice broke through the tension like a hammer on glass, sharp and direct.

I shook my head, exhaling slowly. "No, I haven't. Just... give me a few minutes to wrap my head around this," I replied, my words measured, trying to keep myself steady.

Frank surprised me then, stepping forward to pour a generous glass of whiskey. He handed it to me with a small, almost mischievous smile that somehow felt comforting. "Liquid courage, kid," he said, his voice warm. "Sometimes we all need it."

Mason chuckled, the sound light but fleeting, as though even he wasn't entirely sold on the humour of the moment. His posture was casual, leaning against the desk, but there was a tension in his eyes that betrayed his calm demeanour. He wasn't as relaxed about this as he wanted me to believe.

I took another deep breath and opened the file, my fingers trembling as I flipped the cover. My leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the desk, and I could feel Frank's eyes on me, his head subtly turning every so often as though checking my reaction. I focused on the pages in front of me, trying to tune out everything else.

As I read, bits and pieces began to resurface in my mind—small fragments of memories I hadn't even realized were missing. Faces, places, snippets of conversations. They were blurry and incomplete, but they were mine, pieces of myself that had been locked away somewhere deep.

Still, much of the information in the file remained a mystery. Dates, names, and events stared back at me like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. It was both frustrating and strangely invigorating. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was starting to remember, but I knew it wasn't enough.

I needed to figure this out. I needed answers—real answers—because no matter how much this folder revealed, it wasn't going to tell me who I truly was. That was something I'd have to uncover for myself.

"My name is Diana," I said aloud, the words feeling foreign yet oddly comforting as they left my lips. I took another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth trail down my throat, and traced my fingertips across the typewritten words on the page. They felt distant, like echoes from another life, but slowly, clarity began to emerge from the haze.

"I was in London for a couple of years," I continued, my voice steadying even as I squinted against the burn of the whiskey. The memories weren't fully there yet, but fragments were starting to stitch themselves together, piece by fragile piece.

"Maybe that's why Park feels familiar to you." Frank suggested, leaning forward slightly. His tone was serious, his expression sharp, like he was trying to piece together the puzzle alongside me. And maybe he was right. It made sense, in a way I couldn't fully grasp just yet.

"I'm not sure, I mean I knew that I worked in London for years, but even what I was doing is a distant memory, and even if I did work with her, I have a feeling she would want me to figure that out for myself," I admitted, my gaze fixed on the file as I flipped through the pages. "That part is still pretty blurry," But with each line I read, with every typed word that passed under my fingertips, something clicked. My thoughts no longer felt like a scrambled mess; my brain was finally starting to function again, and the sensation was almost exhilarating.

"I went by Bell for years," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips as more pieces fell into place. "I knew that much. But no one—not a single person—knew my real name. It was dead to me, and it was dead to them. I worked alone, mostly. Off the grid. Always hiding." The memories began to rush in, faster now, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they weren't just shadows. A warmth settled in my chest, like the kindling of hope.

"Do you want to be called Diana again?" Mason's question was soft, and his reassuring smile reminded me that, despite everything, I wasn't alone in this.

I shook my head, the answer coming easily. "No," I said, and though I smiled, there was a bittersweet edge to it. "I loved the name once, but it doesn't feel like mine anymore. I hid it from everyone for so long that it stopped being a part of me. It was just another thing I buried to keep myself safe."

My fingers brushed over the documents again, and I sighed. "I'm pretty sure all of this—everything in these files—has something to do with why I went to such lengths to disappear. But Diana? She's not who I am anymore."

Mason and Frank exchanged quiet nods, their smiles small but genuine. Their understanding felt like a lifeline, grounding me in a moment that finally didn't feel so foreign. For the first time in what felt like ages, I was beginning to piece together who I was—and more importantly, what had happened to me.

I turned the page, my fingers hesitating for a brief moment before I delved deeper into the file. The section on my medical diagnosis stared back at me, stark and clinical. My amnesia, laid out in words that felt both distant and too close at the same time.

The reports detailed the battery of tests I'd been subjected to after Stitch found me. Psychological evaluations, physical assessments—it was all there. I remembered snippets of it: the endless questions, the scans, the vague explanations about what they were looking for. Back then, I hadn't known what had happened to me, and neither had anyone else. Everything about my condition was shrouded in uncertainty.

It wasn't until I arrived at NATO with Mason, Frank, and Russell that I'd started to ask the bigger questions. Why couldn't I remember my name? Why did pieces of my past feel like smoke in my hands—there, and then gone? And now, reading this report, the answers were starting to come into focus, though each word seemed to cut a little deeper than the last.

Every sentence felt heavier than the one before it, pressing down on me with a quiet intensity. My chest tightened as I absorbed the details—the notes on my psychological state, the fragmented memories, the hypothesis that my amnesia might have been the result of trauma so severe my mind had no choice but to lock it away. Each line felt like peeling back another layer of myself, and while some of it was painful, it also felt... necessary.

I wasn't just unravelling a mystery anymore. I was finding me.

"I don't know if this is right," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to steady my spiralling thoughts. Shock was plastered across my face, and I could see Mason and Frank exchange concerned glances. My hand trembled as I lifted the whiskey glass and emptied the remainder in one sharp gulp, the burn doing little to steady me. Desperate for more courage, I grabbed the bottle and poured myself another.

"It says," I began, my voice breaking slightly, "that I was infused with something—something given by the doctor to create short-term memory loss. But instead... it caused full amnesia." My words lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Crossing my legs tightly, I leaned forward, my chest heaving as tears began to well up.

"What the hell?" I gasped, slamming the folder shut, my hands gripping its edges as if it might burst into flames. The reality of it—the deliberate manipulation, the consequences—felt like a punch to the gut. Mason leaned forward, his expression now deadly serious as he took the folder from me and began skimming through the pages. Frank shifted closer, peering over Mason's shoulder as they absorbed the same damning words that had just shattered my world.

At the bottom of one of the pages, in bold red lettering, the report concluded ominously:
"This Medical Report was written by..."
The sentence trailed off, obscured by thick black lines from a marker, the doctor's name deliberately redacted. Below it, additional notes stated:
"Confidential and not to be seen by anyone except the doctor or the patient."

The rest of the report contained fragments of information, but nothing I didn't already know—or, at least, suspect. The deliberate secrecy, the hidden identity of whoever orchestrated this, it all made my blood boil.

Mason let out a low breath as he handed the folder to Frank, his jaw tightening. "This wasn't an accident," Mason said quietly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

Frank, his brows furrowed in frustration, nodded grimly. "Whoever did this... they made damn sure no one could trace it back to them."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the whiskey. The pieces of my past were beginning to fit together, but the picture they formed wasn't one I wanted to see. This wasn't just about memory loss—it was about control, about someone deliberately erasing parts of me to suit their purpose. And I had no idea who to blame or where to start looking for the truth.

Beneath that page was another sheet, its contents almost entirely obscured by thick black lines of redaction. The marker strokes were harsh and deliberate, erasing nearly everything except for a few scattered words that had somehow escaped obliteration. I scanned what little was left, my eyes darting between the fragments, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Each word that managed to peek through the ink felt like a hammer against my memory, breaking apart the fog that had clouded my mind for so long. Flickers of recognition sparked in my head, faint but growing. Names, places, and moments flashed in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting a life I could barely recognize. I was starting to piece things together, but so much still felt distant—just out of reach, like a memory trapped behind glass.

The weight of it all pressed down on me, my stomach twisting with unease. Among the fragments, one thought surfaced and took root, heavy and unrelenting: Did Stitch do this to me? The question slammed into me, its implications chilling. Had he orchestrated this, stripped me of my past, my identity, to control me? To use me?

I didn't know, and the uncertainty made me feel sick to the core. My hands trembled as I stared down at the blacked-out pages, the whiskey doing little to settle the storm brewing inside me.

If this was the truth—or even just part of it—then what did it mean for everything else? For who I was now? For who I could trust?

----

The day dragged on, but the nausea clung to me like a shadow. My head felt light, my stomach a knot of unease. I couldn't shake the sickening truth: they had tried to erase parts of me—to create short-term memory loss—and had instead wiped away my past. My name, my life, my everything. Gone. And the worst part? I didn't even know who to blame.

By the evening, I found myself in a dimly lit bar with Mason. A row of empty shot glasses and half-drunk beers cluttered the table in front of us, evidence of my attempt to drown out the turmoil in my mind. But no matter how much I drank, the memories—or lack thereof—still haunted me. The alcohol made my head spin, but I kept going, pouring shot after shot as Mason sat beside me, quietly watching.

Frank showed up as I tipped over the edge from buzzed to outright tipsy, and immediately I felt like an obnoxious idiot. My inhibitions dissolved into a sloppy, slurred mess.

"Get drinking, Frank!" I yelled, my words tumbling out without much coherence. "'Cause I'm already half fucked!" My laughter was loud, teetering on the edge of wild. I grabbed Mason by the arm, dragging him toward the dance floor without waiting for his protest. Frank, ever the observer, leaned against a side table with a beer in hand, watching me with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

The music pulsed through the bar, old-school tunes that had the crowd roaring along. The heat of bodies packed into the small space was suffocating, but the rhythm of the bass seemed to pull me along. Blue and purple lights flashed across the room, illuminating the band posters plastered across the walls. It was chaotic, loud, and crowded, but strangely, it felt good to lose myself in the noise.

I danced with Mason, the tension of the day fading to nothing. The crowd's cheers blurred into the music, an intoxicating mixture that dulled everything else.

"Bell, I think you should lay off the drinking!" Mason's voice cut through the haze, his tone firm but almost drowned out by the deafening music.

I laughed, pretending not to hear him—or maybe I genuinely couldn't. Either way, I didn't stop. My body swayed to the rhythm, my hands in the air as I gave in to the chaos of the moment. For a while, it didn't matter that my memories were a mess or that my identity was still a puzzle. For a while, I let the lights, the music, and the laughter of strangers drown it all out.

I couldn't stop. The drinks tasted better with every sip, the smooth burn down my throat numbing the edges of the storm that had been raging in my mind all day. The alcohol wrapped itself around me like a warm, familiar blanket, shielding me from the cold reality of the truths I had uncovered earlier. It was a dangerous comfort, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

An hour later, I was fully drunk—properly drunk. My vision blurred, faces smudging together under the pulsing blue and purple lights. My thoughts felt like shattered glass, impossible to focus on for more than a fleeting second before slipping away. I stumbled and laughed, brushing it off like it was all a grand joke.

Surprisingly, the only sober one was Frank, and even that felt like a cosmic anomaly. He approached me in the crowd, his tall frame cutting through the sea of bodies with ease. His voice was firm but low, trying to coax me out of my drunken haze.

"Bell, come on," he said, his hand lightly gripping my arm as he tried to steer me away from the chaos. "You're wasted. Let's get out of here before you hurt yourself."

But my drunk self was having none of it. I waved him off with a loose grin and a dismissive shake of my head. "Frank! Shake it off! I'm drunk, happy, and I'm fine!" My words were loud and slurred, the music drowning out most of what I said, but I didn't care. Frank let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes before retreating to the side table, clearly deciding I wasn't worth the fight.

Mason was beside me now, his face lit by the neon glow of the bar lights. He was smiling, but it wasn't a happy smile—it was strained, tinged with frustration. I could feel the disapproval radiating off him even through the haze of alcohol.

"Bell," he said, his voice cutting through the din. "Please, lay off the drinks. You're absolutely smashed."

I groaned, the weight of his words crashing down on me for a moment. "Mason, please," I slurred, my voice cracking. "Let me dance. Let me drink. I've had a hard day, okay? I need to forget about this for a minute." The desperation in my tone surprised even me, and before I could stop it, a tear slid down my cheek.

Mason's expression softened instantly. Without a word, his thumb brushed the tear away, a quiet, intimate gesture that somehow cut through the noise of the bar. His voice was gentler now. "Go ahead," he said, nodding toward the dance floor. "I'll be over here with Frank if you need me."

I gave him a weak smile before turning back to the crowd, letting myself sink back into the rhythm of the music. The drinks kept coming, and I kept taking them, each one a deeper plunge into oblivion. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I'd regret all of this in the morning, but for now, it didn't matter. For now, I could forget.

----

Mason and Frank crouched beside me, each holding my hair back as I leaned over the toilet bowl, dry heaving what little dignity I had left into oblivion. The sharp sting of alcohol and regret burned in my throat with every retch. My head throbbed, and the world still spun like I was stuck on some cruel, never-ending carousel. Safe to say, I wasn't going to let myself get this drunk again anytime soon—if ever.

"I feel like shit," I muttered, my voice raspy and hoarse. I slumped against the cold porcelain, eyes half-lidded as I groaned.

Frank, ever the joker, couldn't help himself. "You look it," he said with a sly smirk, earning a sharp glare from Mason.

"Frank!" Mason barked, his tone a mix of scolding and exasperation, whilst giving him a slight punch in the shoulder.

Frank raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. "Hey! I'm just being honest."

"Yeah, well, maybe keep your honesty to yourself next time," Mason snapped back, though there was a hint of humour in his voice.

Despite feeling like death warmed over, I managed a weak laugh—or maybe it was more of a wheeze. Their back-and-forth was oddly comforting, even if I was the punchline. At least I wasn't alone in this mess.

Mason sighed, brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face. "Bell, next time you feel like drinking your problems away, please let us stop you before it gets to this point."

I gave him a halfhearted thumbs-up before groaning again and letting my head fall against the cool rim of the toilet. "Noted," I muttered. "Never. Drinking. Again."

Frank snorted. "Yeah, sure, we'll see how long that lasts."

Mason shot him another look, but this time, they both laughed. I couldn't help but crack a small smile myself. Miserable as I was, at least I had them.

"Let's get you home," Mason said gently, helping me to my feet. My legs wobbled, and I stumbled across the bathroom, my shirt still marked with the evidence of my bad decisions.

"Ad's gonna have a laugh at this," Mason added, smirking as he steadied me.

I shot him a dirty look, though it lacked the fire I intended. My energy was spent, and my head was still swimming in a haze of alcohol and regret. Before I knew it, we were in a cab, Mason and Frank flanking me to keep me upright. The ride back was a blur of spinning streetlights and muffled sounds. Vomiting hadn't sobered me up one bit. I was still smashed, and the world around me felt like it was moving faster than I could process.

When we finally arrived at the house, everything came to a head. I found myself standing—or rather, swaying—in the middle of the lounge area. Adler was there, his arms crossed, his expression stormy as he stared down Mason and Frank. What started as a tense exchange quickly escalated into a full-blown two-way argument.

"Why the hell did you let her get this drunk?" Adler snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. "She can hardly fucking function!"

Mason threw his hands up, exasperated. "Russell, calm down, would you? She's fine. We've got her."

"I'm fine!" I chimed in, my words slurred and far from convincing. I giggled, though the moment was anything but funny. As if to emphasize my lack of control, an embarrassing hiccup popped out of my throat.

Then, as if my drunk brain had flipped a switch, I blurted out, "Did you know I remember?"

The room froze.

Mason's face dropped, his eyes widening as if he'd just witnessed a bomb going off. Frank, leaning against the couch, suddenly gripped the armrest with enough force to whiten his knuckles.

"Shut it, Bell," Mason hissed, his voice low and sharp, a clear warning.

The weight of what I'd just said began to sink in, even through the haze of alcohol. My mouth clamped shut, but it was far too late.

"Oh... shit," I muttered, swaying on my feet.

Adler's eyes narrowed, his posture shifting as he took a step closer. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The room was a powder keg, and I had just lit the fuse.