The fork rested limply in my hand as I listlessly pushed the food around my plate. I felt like absolute shit. Everything was piling on too quickly, and my past—long buried before Warsaw—was creeping back to haunt me. Old files were resurfacing, unearthing a mess of memories that I couldn't make sense of. It felt like someone was forcibly injecting fragments of a life I didn't recognize into my mind, leaving me grasping at straws for clarity. I was drowning in confusion and had no idea what to do about it.

Questions swirled relentlessly in my head. How could I not remember being part of SOG, let alone working with them? The records claimed it was only for a few months, but it felt like a lifetime I had no access to. Could they have something to do with the documents that were surfacing now? My thoughts spiralled further, my brain on the verge of a complete shutdown, when Frank entered the kitchen and dropped into the chair across from me.

"How are you holding up?" His gravelly voice cut through the chaos in my head, grounding me for a moment. He swung one leg over the side of the chair, straddling it backward with his arms folded across the top.

I leaned back in my seat, shoving the plate away as nausea coiled in my stomach again. "I'm fine. You?"

Frank arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Mason said you weren't looking too hot. What's eating at you?"

The genuine concern in his voice made me falter. For a second, I debated whether to spill everything. Instead, I forced a tight smile, though my chest felt heavier than ever.

I looked down at my plate, disbelief swirling in my thoughts. Everything felt like too much. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to retreat—to isolate myself from the chaos, the people, the files, and even my own memories.

Flashes from the last night with Russell surfaced, unbidden and vivid. His hands had moved over me like he was memorizing every inch, his lips tracing fire along my neck. The weight of his body, the heat of our breaths mingling, the rhythmic way we moved together—it was all still so palpable, etched into my senses. My nails had dug into his back, and his sweat slicked against my skin as we moved in harmony, like two halves of the same melody.

I snapped back to reality, forcing those memories of Adler into a mental lockbox as I tried to focus on Frank's voice.

"I don't know, Frank," I admitted, my tone heavy. "I miss Russell, and these damn files—every day, there's more of them. Weaver just keeps piling them on my desk. Training is kicking my ass, and my sniping? It's not what it used to be. I'm losing my edge." I exhaled sharply, leaning forward to cradle my head in my hands. "I'm not the best anymore."

It felt like the world was crumbling around me, each piece of my life breaking off and scattering into chaos.

Frank leaned in closer, his expression softening. "Bell, listen to me. This will pass. We've got a meeting with Hudson tonight—an update on how things are going. Who knows? We might even get some good news for once." He offered a reassuring grin, punctuating his words with a playful jab to my shoulder.

I tried to mirror his optimism, but my gaze drifted past him, catching sight of Mason in the next room. Even from this distance, the exhaustion was evident. His shoulders sagged, his movements sluggish, his eyes shadowed and distant. He looked as worn out as I felt.

"I think Mason's having nightmares again," I said softly, not taking my eyes off him.

Frank glanced over, his brow furrowing as realization dawned. "You've noticed that too?" he whispered, the concern in his voice cutting through the air.

I nodded. "Yeah. I thought it was just me, but he's been looking worse every day."

Before Frank could respond, Mason approached us, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. He dropped into the chair next to Frank with a loud thud, running a hand through his hair. The silence between us hung thick, unspoken truths and shared burdens filling the space.

"You all okay?" Mason's voice came low and rough, the weight of exhaustion seeping through every syllable. The dark circles under his luminous eyes made his face look even more gaunt. There was an urgency in his tone, sharp and restless, like he'd barely held himself together long enough to ask.

Frank glanced at him, his expression teetering on the edge of concern and scepticism. "We're fine. Are you?" he replied, the pointed undertone in his voice making Mason stiffen.

Mason caught it immediately, his jaw tightening as his face fell. "I know that look," he muttered, his tone defensive, his eyes narrowing as they darted between us.

"Look, Mason," I said gently, cutting through the tension. "If you're having the nightmares again, you need to tell us. You don't have to deal with this alone." I softened my words with a small smile, laying my hand on his arm to ground him. "I have meds in my room that could help if you need them. Frank and I are here for you."

For a moment, Mason's walls faltered. His eyes flicked to mine, his lips pressing into a thin line as he swallowed hard. "I had one last night," he admitted quietly, his voice almost breaking. "I saw them again." His hand trembled as he ran it over his face, trying to shake off the memory. "The bloody numbers." 

⁹⁰²⁴⁷⁸¹

The room fell silent. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, like a ghost we all recognized but wished we didn't. 

Frank and I exchanged a glance, our eyes heavy with concern as we looked at Mason. The strain on him was undeniable, and it was beginning to take a toll on all of us.

"Mason," I said softly, my voice carrying a mix of reassurance and understanding. "If it gets bad, come to my room. I'm not sleeping much either. At least we can be miserable together." I tried to offer a faint smile, though my exhaustion bled through. Just then, Weaver strolled into the kitchen, a new stack of files in his hands, his timing impeccable as always.

"Training's at seven tonight, wraps at eight. Hudson will be here at nine for the briefing," he announced, almost mechanically. "Oh, and Bell, this is for you." Without so much as a second glance, he dropped yet another file onto the table in front of me.

I raised an eyebrow, lifting the folder with mock enthusiasm. "Why, thank you, Weaver. More bedtime stories to haunt me." My tone dripped with sarcasm as I waved him away, watching as he turned on his heel and left. Once he was gone, I let out a sharp exhale, the weight of the files growing heavier in my hands.

It had been two weeks since I'd last seen Adler, but his absence was a constant presence in my mind. He was the first thought that greeted me every morning and the last that clung to me every night. I missed the way his skin felt against mine, the warmth of his hands on my hips, the taste of his lips. I missed his sharp wit, his rare but genuine laugh, and the steady instincts that had always seemed to guide him.

The ache of missing him was suffocating, but I buried it as I returned to my room. Dropping into my chair, I flipped open the top file on the ever-growing stack that cluttered my desk. As the words blurred together in front of me, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever untangle the pieces of myself that felt so far away, or if Adler was the missing piece I'd never truly recover.

1974
Munich
Safehouse
Operations Bell
Missing ***
File no. 2891
******

I kept reading, my eyes darting between every word and period, my focus sharpening despite the fatigue creeping into my bones. The files blurred together after a while, their contents a frustrating tangle of half-truths and redacted nonsense. When I reached the last file Weaver had handed me, I couldn't help but mutter under my breath, "Lucky file, come on. Give me something about those damned documents."

My mind wandered briefly to what I could recall about the documents. Back in London, I'd taken a job—something I now deeply regretted—out of sheer desperation. The bottom line was simple: I needed money. The kind of money that could get me to America, that could secure the next step of my life. It was a straightforward exchange: retrieve the files, deliver them, and walk away. Working solo had its perks back then, but the deal had been about survival, not strategy.

That memory felt murky now, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that these resurfacing files might somehow be connected. Doubt clouded my mind as I hesitated over the folder, steeling myself for another dose of frustration. I flipped it open and started carefully reading every word, analysing each line as if it might hold the missing piece of a puzzle I barely understood.

Then I saw it. On one of the tabs inside, the scribbled heading caught my eye:

1974
London
Operative: Bell
Document number: 39108

The rest of the page was a battlefield of black marker, whole paragraphs obscured by thick, angry lines. Names, dates, and locations were obliterated, leaving only faint impressions where the ink hadn't quite covered the text.

My breath hitched as I stared at the fragments that remained. This was it—this had to be connected. The numbers, the dates, my codename scrawled at the top—it all screamed familiarity, yet nothing about it made sense. My fingers hovered over the file, tracing the edges of the redacted lines as though I could will the truth to bleed through the ink.

What was this supposed to mean? Why now? And why was this particular job clawing its way back to me after all these years?

Operative Bell
1974
MIA/KIA
****

I stared at the words, my fingers gripping the edges of the paper so tightly I thought I might tear it. I blinked hard and rubbed my eyes, as if doing so would somehow change what was written in front of me.

"What?" The word came out in a whisper, barely audible. My vision blurred as I leaned closer to the page, the stark letters almost merging into a single smudge.

"What in the name of hell are you doing?"

I flinched at the sound of Mason's voice, my concentration shattered. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement. A short laugh escaped him as he took in my disheveled state.

I slammed the file shut with a snap and leaned back in my chair, forcing a neutral expression onto my face. "Nothing," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid drumming of my pulse. "Just going over some files Weaver gave me."

"Files so interesting your nose was practically glued to them?" Mason quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips. He gestured loosely with one hand before stepping closer, his gaze flicking to the folder in my grasp. "Must be something good."

Before he could reach for it, I snatched the file away and held it protectively against my chest.

"You okay, Bell?" His voice softened slightly, but his raised eyebrow told me he wasn't buying my casual act.

"Absolutely." I tightened my grip on the file, feeling the heat of Mason's questioning stare.

"Let me see the file, Bell." His tone shifted—calm, but firm. The playful teasing was gone, replaced by the no-nonsense authority he wielded so effortlessly. My chest tightened, and I could feel my heartbeat quickening.

I hesitated, swallowing hard. "Listen, this is going to sound crazy—"

"You know how I feel about crazy," Mason interrupted, his arms dropping to his sides as he crouched slightly to meet my eyes. "Try me."

I glanced down at the folder again, its worn edges frayed from years of handling. My thumb traced the embossed lettering on the cover as I tried to find the words to explain the inexplicable. "It's just... this file. It's about someone I thought—no, someone I know—shouldn't be in it. Or at least not like this."

Mason's expression shifted, his smirk gone, replaced by a cautious curiosity. "Who?"

I opened the file, reluctantly exposing its contents to the faint light of the room. My finger tapped the page, right below the damning line: Operative Bell – MIA/KIA – 1974.

Mason leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the page. His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't speak.

"That's me," I said, my voice trembling. "Or at least it's supposed to be. But I'm standing right here, Mason. I'm not MIA. I'm not dead. So what the hell is this?"

---------

"She's a fucking liar!" Frank's voice thundered through the small room, his hand steady as the gun in his grip pressed cold and unyielding against my temple. The metallic chill sent a shiver down my spine, but I kept my composure. My mind was racing, trying to find a way out of this mess.

The room was tense—a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. Weaver stood silently to the side, his face impassive but his eyes darting between Frank, Mason, and me, clearly calculating his next move. Mason, for his part, looked completely thrown, his wide-eyed expression showing his disbelief at the scene he'd just stumbled into.

"Put the fucking gun down, Frank," I said through gritted teeth, forcing my voice to remain calm, steady. "Let me explain."

"Explain?" Frank barked, his finger twitching slightly on the trigger. "You've got about two seconds before I stop caring about explanations."

Weaver finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "These documents... who needed them?"

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. "Someone in SOG," I said, my jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might crack.

"Bullshit," Frank spat. He turned his glare to Weaver. "Does Hudson know about this?"

That hit like a punch to the gut. The mention of Hudson sent an ice-cold wave of dread washing over me. He had to know by now. If not already, he was certainly on his way. MACV-SOG wasn't exactly known for letting things slide, and I wasn't sure if they'd see me as a liability or worse.

Weaver shifted his weight slightly, his stoicism cracking ever so slightly. "Hudson's aware," he said finally, his voice low and deliberate. "He's already en route."

Frank's gaze snapped back to me, his eyes burning with accusation. "Then you'd better start talking, Bell. Fast."

My breathing hitched, and for a moment, all I could hear was the deafening drumbeat of my pulse. "I remember them, okay?" I said, my voice sharp with urgency. "Just let me explain. Please."

Mason, who'd been standing frozen until now, finally stepped forward. He moved cautiously, deliberately, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "Frank," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Back off. Let her talk." He reached out, gripping Frank's shoulder firmly and easing him back a step. The gun wavered, then lowered, the immediate danger receding but not disappearing.

I let out a shaky breath, my chest heaving as the tension eased just enough for me to think clearly. Memories, fragmented and painful, swirled in my mind as I tried to gather my thoughts. "You think I wanted this?" I snapped, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I was holding in. "I've been dragged through the mud for years, trying to piece together what the hell happened."

Frank wasn't buying it. His glare remained locked on me, his lips curled into a snarl. "If you're lying..."

"I'm not," I interrupted, louder than I intended. I met his gaze, unflinching, even as I felt the weight of his suspicion pressing down on me like a vice.

Mason stepped between us, his hand still on Frank's shoulder. "Enough," he said firmly. "She's got a chance to explain, and we're going to let her."

I nodded, swallowing hard, and forced myself to steady my breathing. The room was still on edge, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, but I knew this was my only shot. As I prepared to speak, I glanced at Frank one more time. He still didn't look happy—but at least, for now, the gun was no longer pointed at my head.

"I worked in London, as you all know," I started, my voice flat but edged with a kind of bitterness that I couldn't suppress. "Weaver knows most of it." I pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down heavily, needing the space between us as I exhaled, the tension in my body still gnawing at me. "I needed money to get to America, and the documents were supposed to be the exchange. Someone in SOG told me that if I got them, I'd get the cash to make the move. So I did it. Got the documents, ended up in MACV-SOG, and somehow... I was listed as KIA, or MIA. That's around the time Stitch captured me, and, well, I think I blocked out everything about those damn documents."

Mason looked at Weaver, the silence in the room stretching as they exchanged an unreadable glance.

Weaver was the first to speak. "She's right. We've been trying to figure out who needed the documents ever since we found out just how classified they were. Whoever wanted them is still out there, and we haven't been able to track them down. That's why we've been trying to jog Bell's memory with all these damn files. We're hoping she'll remember something—anything."

Frank muttered something under his breath, a string of curses that I barely caught, but the venom in his voice was clear. "Fucking douche canoe." He rolled his eyes and shot Weaver a one-finger salute.

"Yeah, well, this is probably why you assholes dragged me into this mess." My frustration reached its boiling point, and I stood abruptly, shoving the chair back into the table with a loud scrape. I crossed my arms, glaring at them all with a mixture of anger and resentment. "You think I'm just gonna sit here and play this game?"

Weaver stepped toward me, his hands raised in a calm-down gesture. "Bell, calm down. Let's talk this through."

I shoved him back, my hands pushing against his chest, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. "No. I've had enough of this shit." My voice cracked as I fought to control the rising tide of frustration. "Tell Hudson I want out. Tonight. I don't care what it takes."

Weaver opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to hang in the air, uncertain. It was clear he wasn't sure whether pressing me further was a smart move.

"Can you remember what the documents were about? The person you were doing the deal with? And just so you know, Hudson won't let you leave until Stitch sets off a ping." Weaver's voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension.

I let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing my temples. "I do. I remember everything about those damn documents. And you better tell the president to start sitting on the edge of his chair, because if this goes south, we're all screwed." My voice was sharp, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

Without another word, I turned and walked away, heading straight for my room. I collapsed onto the bed, the rush of memories and dread flooding my mind. The documents, the deal, Frank and Mason—there was no way they didn't hate me now. This was spiralling fast, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was on the brink of falling apart.

I sat there, feeling sick, the worry knotting in my stomach like a lead weight. I needed a moment, but it felt like I didn't have one to spare.

The door creaked open, and there they were. Frank and Mason, standing in the doorway. Frank's face was flushed with anger, and Mason looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

Mason spoke first, breaking the silence. "How come we didn't run into you all those years ago?" His voice was low, almost like he was speaking to himself.

"Fuck knows, Mason," I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. "I was only there for a few weeks."

I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting too long, and grabbed the stack of files. I handed them to both of them, one in each of their hands. "Look at the dates. The times. The moment I was reported missing or killed. Look for anything that links this up. Anything."

There was a long pause. Frank didn't say a word—his face was a mixture of frustration and guilt, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Finally, Frank cleared his throat. He shifted on his feet, looking awkward, like he wasn't quite sure how to approach the situation. "Look, Bell..." He hesitated, glancing at Mason for a moment before returning his gaze to me. "I'm sorry for getting on like that earlier. I had no reason to go off on you like I did."

I snorted softly, a humourless laugh escaping me. "It's fine. You did have a reason, Frank. And honestly? I get it." I paused, meeting his eyes as I softened. "Just know this... I don't turn my back on family."