The force of my kick had left Woods clutching his ribs, but to my surprise, he was back on his feet in no time. His face twisted in mock amusement as he straightened up, his hands on his hips.

"Go on, hit a little harder. You kick like a pussy," he taunted, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I didn't waste time. I pulled my leg back and delivered another swift, powerful kick directly to his ribs. This time, he let out a grunt, bending over slightly in pain.

"Okay, maybe you don't," I muttered under my breath, stepping back and shaking out my leg. "Fucking hell." Woods stood there, gasping for air, as Adler walked into the training room with his trademark grin plastered across his face.

His voice echoed through the room, sharp and mocking. "She kicks like a pussy? Why you bent over, Woods?"

I couldn't help but chuckle at Adler's timing. Woods just shot Adler a glare, barely able to straighten up from the hit.

The training room was spacious, perfect for this kind of physical combat. Black pads were laid out across the floor for wrestling drills, and the boxing ring sat in the centre, ready for action. Weights lined the walls alongside punching bags that hung at varying heights, a reminder of how serious the training sessions could get. This was one of the best setups I had seen in Berlin, a place where we could push ourselves beyond our limits.

I wiped some sweat from my forehead, feeling the soreness in my muscles, but it wasn't the same kind of pain that had haunted me for weeks. My body was finally starting to heal, my strength coming back bit by bit. It felt good. Really good.

"You alright?" Adler asked, still standing with that grin on his face as he looked between me and Woods.

"I'm getting there," I said, flexing my foot and making sure there was no lingering discomfort from the kick. "I've got more strength now, but Woods—" I glanced over at him, still nursing his ribs. "He's still a little slow."

Woods gave me a half-hearted glare before shaking his head. "Fuck off. I'll get you next time."

"Sure you will," I replied, not taking him seriously.

Adler moved to the side, giving me space to keep training. "Keep it up, Bell. You're getting stronger every day."

I nodded, feeling the pride swell in my chest. It hadn't been easy, getting back to this point, but I was starting to see the results. I still had a lot of work ahead of me, but at least for now, I was in a good place.

"Bell, can I speak to you for a minute?" Russell's voice carried over the hum of the gym, his tone unusually light, almost cheerful.

I tugged the worn training pads off my hands, wiping a bit of sweat from my brow before nodding at him. His upbeat demeanour sent a ripple of curiosity through me, sparking a flicker of anticipation. Whatever this was about, it didn't seem like bad news.

As I pushed open the door, the sight waiting for me made my heart skip a beat. There stood Adler, leaning casually against the frame, a bottle of water in his hand and that mischievous glint in his eyes I knew all too well.

"Here," he said, holding out the bottle.

"Thank you," I murmured, taking it.

Before I could unscrew the cap, Adler dipped down to my height—a bit of a feat, given my smaller frame—and planted a soft kiss on my forehead.

The gesture was so tender, so Adler, that warmth blossomed in my chest. I slipped an arm around him, pulling him closer as a reflex.

"You stink," he quipped, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

"Fuck you," I shot back, laughing. My free hand found his side, nudging him playfully.

The grin widened, and before I could think twice, I slid my hand up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. With a gentle tug, I pulled him in for a kiss.

It was more than just a kiss—it was everything. Passionate, fulfilling, electric. The kind of kiss that makes your knees feel like jelly and sets your soul alight. A small, uncontrollable smile tugged at my lips even as we kissed, a sign of just how much joy Adler brought me in moments like this.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine as he whispered, "You've got to stop grinning when I kiss you, or I'll think I'm funny instead of irresistible."

I laughed softly, still holding him close, feeling like I was exactly where I belonged. 

"I needed to talk to you about Wraith."

The sound of her name immediately set my nerves on edge, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. My mind raced ahead, trying to predict where this conversation might lead. I glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised in quiet curiosity, though the uneasy twist in my stomach betrayed my calm exterior.

I took a slow sip from my water bottle, preparing myself for the worst. "What about her?" I finally asked, keeping my tone steady.

Russell hesitated for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. "Remember when Hudson said she was in London?"

I nodded silently, my grip tightening on the bottle.

"Well," he continued, "she didn't find anything on you. You've been cleared of that."

The tension in my chest loosened slightly, and I nodded again, this time with a bit more ease. Taking another sip, I said, "I honestly thought the news would be worse than that."

Russell cracked a faint smile. "No, but it does mean they might lose interest and let you go."

I tilted my head, letting his words sink in. They might let me go. The concept was strange, almost alien. Still, I shrugged as casually as I could manage. "And? I'm here anyway. I've doubled down on my training, sharpened up my shooting. If they come near me, they'll regret it."

I meant it too, every single word. There was no guilt, no hesitation, just a quiet, unshakable certainty in my abilities. I'd worked too hard to feel otherwise.

For the past several weeks, I'd thrown myself into an unforgiving routine. Five days a week, two-hour sessions focused on weapons handling, combat strategies, and both defensive and offensive techniques. It wasn't just training; it was transformation. Every bead of sweat, every aching muscle was proof of how far I'd come.

I glanced back at Russell, who was watching me with a thoughtful expression.

"You seem pretty confident," he said.

"I am," I replied, meeting his gaze. "And I've earned it."

"Alright, Bell. Weaver's heading here tonight. Says there's intel available."

Adler's voice was calm, but there was a weight to his words that hinted at the importance of the news. I nodded in acknowledgment, then leaned in to give him one last kiss before stepping away.

"See you later," I murmured, squeezing his hand briefly before heading back into the gym.

The familiar clang of weights and the rhythm of heavy footfalls greeted me. Mason was there, stretching out his legs on a nearby bench, while Woods and Sims were mid-conversation by the punching bags. I hadn't seen much of Sims or Park lately, but every time I did, I made a point to savor those moments. With how unpredictable things had been, time with friends felt like a luxury.

"What's up?" Sims called out, his smile easy and warm as he approached me. He pulled me in for a quick hug, punctuated by a hearty thud on my back.

"Weaver's coming later," I said with a slight roll of my eyes, a touch of exasperation creeping into my tone.

Mason, who was close enough to overhear, smirked and let out a soft giggle.

"Deal with it, Bell," Woods cut in, his breathing still labored from his recent workout. "He might be a regular 'round here now."

"A regular?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him, but Woods just gave me a cryptic shrug, clearly too winded to elaborate.

As I turned to walk away, I couldn't resist tossing a jab his way. "Still recovering from that kick?"

Woods groaned dramatically, but I didn't stick around to hear his comeback. His words about Weaver lingered in my mind as I crossed the gym. What did he mean by that? Was Weaver planning on staying here? Becoming part of our crew?

Shaking off the thought for now, I grabbed my stuff and headed for my room. A long, hot shower was calling my name, and I wasn't about to argue with it.

-----

BELLS PAST IN PACT

"I can't let him go, Stone. That man's done terrible things, and for that, he shall pay."

Stitch's voice was as cold and unyielding as the snow swirling around us. His words landed heavy, like boots sinking deep into muddy ground. Stone shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward Wraith, who met his gaze briefly before turning to look at me.

The weight of the moment hung in the air, and I found myself staring at Stitch, trying to gauge just how far his obsession would take us this time.

"What the fuck do you want us to do, Stitch?" Kitsune snapped, breaking the tense silence. Her sharp tone sliced through the icy night like a blade. "You drag us out to Amsterdam, make us raid a nightclub, and now here we are, standing in this pishing snow. We're getting to our wits' end, Stitch."

Kitsune had only recently joined Warsaw, but she was already over the constant chaos and Stitch's relentless demands. Her frustration was written all over her face, and for once, I couldn't blame her.

Stitch didn't flinch. He simply turned his steely gaze toward her, as unbothered as ever. "Clear the end tunnels out by the east," he said flatly. "Pick out what you can."

And with that, he walked off, leaving us standing there like chess pieces he'd just moved into place.

Kitsune muttered something under her breath in her native tongue, a string of curses I didn't need a translator to understand.

"I'm fucking sick of this," I said aloud, my breath visible in the frigid air. The cold was relentless, gnawing at my exposed arms, each gust of wind cutting deeper than the last.

I reached into my pocket, pulling out a cigarette with shaky fingers. Flicking my lighter, I let the flame catch and inhaled deeply, the warmth of the smoke a welcome reprieve from the icy bitterness around me.

As I exhaled, watching the smoke mix with the frosty air, I found myself staring down the darkened street. The snow-covered ground reflected a dim, pale light, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered what the hell we were even doing here.

No answers came, just the crunch of snow underfoot as Kitsune moved off toward the east. I stayed rooted for a moment longer, cigarette in hand, wishing for nothing more than to be anywhere but here.

Adler. Russell Adler.

Who the hell even cared? Apart from Stitch, of course. He was the only one obsessed enough to keep chasing after Adler, but even he wasn't going to get his revenge. At least, that's what I thought.

Adler wasn't stupid—he had to know we were on his trail. His play was obvious: feed us cold leads, one after another, while we burned through time and resources chasing ghosts. And Stitch, the dumbass, kept falling for it. Every. Single. Time.

Wraith and I knew better. We saw through the game, but we never said a word. It wasn't worth it. Stitch's blind determination made him impossible to reason with, and we figured it was easier to let him spiral than to try and drag him back to reality. Still, it was wearing on all of us.

Stone wasn't as convinced about the cold leads as I was, but deep down, even he had to suspect it. NATO and the BND always seemed to have sharper systems in place, with smarter people running the show. We, on the other hand, were just stumbling through Stitch's personal vendetta, and it was starting to piss us all off.

As the night dragged on, the biting cold drove me downhill, away from the nonsense. I found myself stepping into a small, dimly lit bar. Inside, the warmth was a welcome relief, even if the place reeked of cheap liquor and stale air. The crowd was a mix of drunks and sobers, though the former far outnumbered the latter.

Rolling my eyes at the cacophony of slurred voices and raucous laughter, I approached the bar. A man with a rag slung over his shoulder was busy pouring beer for a customer.

"Do you do whiskey?" I asked, keeping my voice polite.

He glanced up, his eyes locking with mine. "Sure do. Here's one on the house," he replied with a smile, sliding a glass toward me.

"Thanks," I said, offering a small smile of my own as I took the drink.

It wasn't until I took a sip that I really looked at him. Brown hair, tousled just enough to make it look effortless. Eyes that were warm and captivating, a shade of hazel that almost glowed in the dim light. His nose had a slight bump near the bridge, giving him a distinct, rugged charm, and a dimple on his left cheek appeared whenever he smiled.

He was... something else.

As I took another drink, I felt my frustrations melting away—at least for the moment. The whiskey burned just enough to take the edge off, but I knew my weakness. Once I started drinking, it was hard to stop.

Tonight was no exception. I was already pissed—at Stitch, at the team, at everything. And then there was him, the bartender, who somehow made the chaos fade, if only for a little while.

One drink led to another.

And later that night, in a quiet room away from the noise and the cold, we returned favours. His touch was kind, his presence comforting. For the first time in a while, I let myself get lost in something other than the madness of this mission.

The next morning

My head was pounding, each dull throb echoing in my skull like a distant drum. My ears rang faintly, a lingering reminder of the whiskey-fueled haze from the night before. Yet, despite the chaos in my head, my body felt... comfortable. Cozy, even.

The sheets were new, pristine white with a fleecy texture that felt soft and warm against my skin. I instinctively pulled them closer to my bare chest, savoring the momentary comfort.

Beside me, Emerson was still asleep. His arms were loosely draped around me, his chest rising and falling with each deep, steady breath. The sight of him was disarming—peaceful, even. It was almost enough to make me stay. Almost.

But shit, I needed to leave.

Carefully, I untangled myself from him, doing my best not to disturb his slumber. He stirred slightly but didn't wake, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Quietly, I slid out of bed, grabbing my boots, trousers, and shirt from the floor, along with the overshirt that had been tossed onto a chair.

As I dressed, my eyes scanned the room, searching for something to write on. A notepad and pen caught my attention on the small desk by the window, and I moved quickly but silently to grab them.

Sitting at the desk, I scrawled a quick note, each word feeling both rushed and deliberate. I thanked him for the night, for his kindness, for the warmth I hadn't realized I needed until I found it in his arms. I told him how beautiful he was, how his smile had stayed with me long after the whiskey and the heat of the night faded. And I admitted, perhaps too earnestly, that I hoped to see him again.

I folded the note and placed it on the pillow where I'd been lying. One last glance at Emerson, and I couldn't help but linger. His tousled brown hair, the way his features softened in sleep—he looked impossibly serene.

But reality was waiting, and it wasn't as kind.

If Wraith or anyone else found me here, I'd be as good as dead.

Pulling on my coat, I slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind me. The chill of the morning air hit me as I stepped onto the street, a stark contrast to the warmth I'd just left behind. I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking, each step carrying me further from the fleeting escape I'd found in that room.

------
Present

I woke up with a banging headache, the dull pounding in my skull making it hard to focus. Yet, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, visions rushed to the forefront of my mind—fragments of memories I hadn't touched in a long time. My time at Warsaw. The choices I'd made. The person I'd become. It all came flooding back, vivid and unrelenting.

And then it hit me. Sleeping with another man? Shit. I'd changed a lot.

But those thoughts dissolved as soon as I felt Adler's arms around me, his steady warmth grounding me in the present. His chest pressed against my back, and I couldn't help but feel a soft release in my chest—a deep exhale of warmth, love, and contentment. Despite everything, I had found my place here, with him.

Slowly, I untangled myself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and slipped out of bed. My feet padded quietly across the cool floor as I made my way to the bathroom.

In the mirror, I saw myself—really saw myself. My reflection was more than just a face; it was a roadmap of everything I'd been through. Scars crisscrossed my skin, each one a stark reminder of battles fought and pain endured. They weren't just marks—they were stories, memories I'd spent years trying to forget. Now there were new ones, ones that would take a lifetime to forget. 

My fingers brushed over a particularly deep scar along my collarbone, and the weight of it threatened to break me. Tears welled up, and for a brief moment, I let myself feel the rawness of it all. But then I pulled back, tearing my gaze away from the mirror. I couldn't let those scars have power over me, couldn't let them define me.

Taking a deep breath, I tiptoed back into the bedroom. Adler was still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic. I crawled back into bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight.

Before I could even settle, he stirred, his arms instinctively wrapping around me. He pulled me closer, his embrace as gentle as it was secure. I rested my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—steady and strong, like a rhythm meant to calm my chaos.

What a good place to be, I thought, letting myself melt into the safety of his arms.