TRIGGER WARNING- KNIVES

I pressed the cold metal of the gun against his head, the muzzle just hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. My breath was shallow, my hands steady but my chest pounding like a drum. The sharp reality of the situation sent adrenaline pumping through my veins, a hot, pulsing torrent that made my blood feel like it was on fire. I needed this over fast—before I made a mistake I couldn't walk back from.

"You tell me where he is, and I'll let you go." My voice was low, a harsh growl that cut through the dark with brutal clarity. "You don't tell me, and you'll have your head all over that wall. Understand?"

The man's body trembled slightly under the pressure of the gun's barrel. His gaze flicked toward Frank, a flicker of desperation glinting in his eyes. Frank, standing a few feet away, was just as composed as ever, his mouth a tight line. I These guys had information, they always did. But loyalty was a twisted thing in our world—a stubborn loyalty that often manifested as blind defiance.

The guy's eyes met mine, the almost-black irises staring into me with a mix of defiance and terror. A small, fine scar cut across his left temple, a relic of a life spent in the trenches, battles fought, and debts owed. His breath was shallow, the guy reeking of sweat and fear—a heady mix that stung my nostrils.

"I don't know," he stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure. "Seriously! I don't know!"

His words hit me like a slap, the defiance in his voice grating against my patience. My finger tightened on the trigger, the cold, rational part of me warring with the furious need to end this fast. I couldn't let myself hesitate. Not now. Not with everything on the line.

But something in his voice—the raw fear, the flicker of vulnerability—made me pause. I searched his gaze, trying to gauge the truth beneath the sweat and the trembling hands. In our world, honesty was a rare currency, but lies were even more dangerous.

"You better start talking," I growled, pressing the gun a little harder against his temple. "I don't have time for games."

The guy swallowed hard, his chest heaving. The room felt like it was closing in, the shadows around us stretching tighter. Every second dragged. My heart continued to hammer in my chest, the searing need to resolve this conflict before I lost control clawing at the edges of my consciousness.

"I... I don't know where he is," he whispered, a sob hitching his breath for a split second before composure slipped back in. "I swear, man, I don't know anything."

The darkness around us felt dense, suffocating. My instincts told me this guy was holding something back, but breaking him would only push us closer to losing everything.

I took a breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. I couldn't let rage blind me—not now, not when every choice mattered.

"Fine." I lowered the gun slightly but kept my gaze locked on his. "If you're lying... we'll find out. And you don't want that."

With one last glare, I stepped back, leaving him gasping and shaking. The shadows swallowed him back into the dark corners of the room. My heart continued to race, but I forced myself to steady my breath.

In this world, loyalty was a transaction, secrets were currency, and the price of losing control was higher than I could afford. Time was slipping away, and I wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of finding him. Not lies, not loyalty, not even fear itself.

"Fuck you, yes, you fucking do!" Frank's anger erupted like a geyser, a torrent of fury that cut through the room. My breath hitched as I tried to steady myself, the adrenaline still pulsing through my system. Frank grabbed the guy by the collar of his shirt and hurled him to the floor with a brutal force that sent a sickening thud echoing through the room. The noise reverberated in my chest, each sound wave an unsettling reminder of how far things had spiralled out of control. God, I needed a drink.

"Frank, just calm down," I muttered, my voice a shaky attempt to maintain control. My finger hovered nervously over the trigger as I stowed my gun back in its holster, moving to help the dazed man off the floor. My hands were trembling, sweat trickling down my forehead, blurring my vision.

Frank's breath was ragged as he finally let go of the guy's shirt. He stood tall, sweat dripping from his brow, fury still radiating from his every pore. He rushed over after I helped the guy regain his footing, grabbing the man by the collar once more and shoving him forcefully against the wall. The impact made a loud thud that seemed to reverberate through every muscle in my body.

"Tell me where the fuck Wraith last went," Frank growled, his voice a searing demand that cut through the dim room. Every word seemed to slam into the guy's consciousness like a battering ram.

The man gasped, his eyes wide with terror. "She went to Amsterdam! Jesus, man, just let me go!"

Frank's gaze flicked over to me for a brief moment. Sweat slid down my temples, stinging my eyes, blurring everything around me. A wave of memories and flashbacks surged through my brain—moments of betrayal, deals gone wrong, the kind of loyalty that twisted into loyalty only for power. My head felt like it was spinning, the room swaying as if I were floating just beyond reality.

For a second, I felt a disorienting haze settle over me. My breath came in shallow gulps, my limbs trembling slightly under the weight of everything that had brought me here.

"Let's move," I finally managed, my voice a hoarse whisper, pushing through the fog in my mind. Frank wasn't the only one feeling the pressure now—I was caught in the same storm, every choice, every action driving us closer to an edge we might not come back from.

The shadows in the room seemed to shrink away, but the path ahead was fraught with danger. Each step we took would have to count because in our world, mistakes meant consequences that no one could walk back from.

"I'll make sure Adler never sees you again and I'll make sure you feel this pain forever."

The knife glided across my back as I screamed in absolute agony.

Flashes went by me so fast as my breathing hitched. "Get the fuck out of here." Frank basically threw the guy by the collar.

I was having major flashbacks. To the point where I couldn't see, or hear, anything at all. I managed to let myself out of the room and run to the truck.

------

"Come here." Adler's arms opened wide, and I stumbled into them, the world around me momentarily fading away. In his embrace, I felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and safety—an anchor in a storm I didn't know I was caught in. I rarely got flashbacks, but when they hit, they came with a brutal intensity that left me reeling. My head throbbed, a relentless hammer of pain, and my ears rang with a deafening, chaotic noise. In Adler's arms, though, a fragile numbness settled over me, dulling the sharp edges of everything that had gone wrong.

I collapsed onto the worn couch by his side, breathing raggedly, each inhale and exhale a shaky attempt to steady the chaos inside me. The room felt like a sanctuary, the noise of the city beyond the window fading into distant murmurs. The presence of Adler's steady, calm energy made everything else feel just... quieter.

"It's all coming back somehow," I choked out, a sob threatening to escape. My voice was barely a whisper.

He tightened his hold on me, pulling me even closer, his stubbly chin brushing against my forehead. My leg rested against his, my trembling hand seeking the steady rhythm of his chest. The blanket was pulled up around us, a small barrier against the cold memories that had begun to creep in again.

"I know, Bell," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the sharp edges of my thoughts. "It happens. But try not to dwell on it. You're safe here. With me."

His words felt like a shield, a promise of protection that seeped into my chest. Adler had a way

-----

I woke up with a jolt, the room eerily quiet. Adler was nowhere to be seen. No sounds of movement, no familiar presence. The house felt hollow, a cavernous emptiness settling into my chest. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, the cool morning air brushing against my skin through the thin window curtains. Still in my black joggers and worn green shirt, I dragged my feet as I made my way out of the bedroom.

The house was silent as I trudged into the kitchen. The kind of silence that gnawed at your nerves, a restless void where something felt off. No Adler, no footsteps, no distant mutterings—just a chilling absence that pressed down on me like a weight.

Suddenly, a hand landed on my shoulder, and I jumped so hard I almost crashed into the refrigerator. Without thinking, my fist flew up and connected squarely with his gut. The sound of impact echoed through the kitchen. Emerson doubled over, coughing, the wind clearly knocked out of him. His knees wavered, and he crumpled onto the floor.

"Oh, fucking hell. I'm so sorry." I knelt down, guilt clawing at me as I watched him struggle to catch his breath. My hands trembled slightly, and I tried to steady myself as I looked into Emerson's face.

Emerson groaned, his eyes squinting through the pain. "Thanks," he managed, a wry, almost sarcastic grin tugging at the corner of his mouth even as he winced.

"Emerson, don't fucking do that," I snapped, my voice cracking under the tension that had taken up residence in my chest. "Just say it from a distance. I don't need... surprises."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. The truth was, ever since Stitch, ever since the torture sessions that left scars I couldn't shake, even the smallest actions felt like threats. My entire body was a bundle of nerves, an awareness of danger that never quite left. Emerson, with his casual familiarity and sometimes reckless confidence, was a reminder of how close vulnerability could cut.

I felt a pang of regret, guilt settling in my chest as I helped him onto the kitchen table chair. My head started to throb, a dull ache that crested with every anxious thought. I studied his face more carefully now—the tan, the stubble, the worn edges of his features. Despite everything, despite our chaotic past, there was still a strange intimacy there. An intimacy that had led to things I wasn't proud of, things I couldn't entirely let go of.

He was older than me, by at least ten years. Yet, in that messed-up, tangled reality of ours, I still slept with him. A confusing mix of comfort and danger wrapped up in late-night encounters that left me feeling both grounded and fractured.

I glanced away, trying to push the thoughts from my mind. "Are you good?"

Emerson didn't answer right away. He just sat there, slouched slightly, still catching his breath. The air in the kitchen felt thick, every second stretching longer than the last.

"I'll get you some water," I finally muttered, standing up and heading for the cabinet. The tension in my chest didn't lessen, but for now, all I could do was move forward—through the mess, the memories, and the fragile connections that kept us together in a world where stability was a fleeting illusion.

"I'm really sorry." I let out a long, shaky sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little as I rubbed my temples. My head was a mess of confusion and guilt, a swirling storm of thoughts that refused to settle.

"It's okay," Emerson finally said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the awkwardness. "I should have expected it."

I glanced at him, guilt prickling at the edges of my chest. I realized I'd been hard on him since he'd joined us. Maybe it was the awkwardness of our past—those nights we shared that left scars deeper than just memory. Or maybe it was the uneasy knowledge that Adler didn't know. Not that it mattered now. Not with everything else we had on the line.

"No, you shouldn't have. It was my fault," I finally admitted. I tried to smile, a small, tentative curve of my lips that felt forced and hollow. "I'm just... jumpy. These days, everything feels like a threat."

Emerson nodded, his eyes searching mine for something I couldn't quite name. I felt like a bastard, treating someone who had shown up to help us with such coldness. He didn't deserve this.

"It's okay." Emerson's gaze shifted, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through his usual confident mask. "Can we just... put the whole sleeping together behind us? I'm not here for that, Bell. I'm here to help get Stitch."

His words landed differently than I expected. The tension in my chest lessened slightly, but I still felt like a wreck. I nodded slowly, the weight of past choices settling back into the pit of my stomach.

"I know," I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry for being a bastard about it. Honestly, I'd be just as afraid of Russell finding out. Not that he'd care much. I was in Warsaw when it happened, but... me now and me back then, we're two very different people."

I looked away, the memories of Warsaw flickering in the back of my mind. Back then, I was reckless and untethered. Now, every choice felt like a calculation, every action a battle against consequences I couldn't afford to face.

Emerson sat there in silence, his eyes not leaving mine. There was a strange honesty in his gaze, a willingness to push past the awkwardness and focus on what really mattered now.

"I've noticed." Emerson raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. Without waiting for another word, he turned and hesitated for a brief moment before heading out of the kitchen. His arms were muscular, a result of years of hard work and time spent in places I never fully understood. The light streaming through the kitchen window highlighted the contours of his biceps, a reminder that he was stronger than he looked. For a fleeting moment, I couldn't help but notice that he looked kind of good—something I quickly pushed away.

Just as that unsettling thought settled into the back of my mind, Mason appeared through the back door, a casual whirlwind of energy. He peeped his head around the corner, his brows furrowed with curiosity as he shoved his bag into the kitchen compartments.

"Everything alright?" His voice was laced with a mix of care and concern, his eyes searching mine for an answer.

"I punched Emerson." I let out a shaky sigh, my gaze shifting up to the ceiling as if seeking refuge in the drywall itself. Sheepishness made my chest tighten.

"Purposely?!" Mason's eyes widened, his brow furrowing even deeper as he rushed into the kitchen, his curiosity turning to shock.

"Kind of? Kind of not?" I stammered, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. "I came in here, and he scared the shit out of me. Like, seriously. I didn't see him, and before I knew it, my fist was up. I might've punched him in the gut. Hard. Winded him, I think."

Mason stood there, a mix of confusion and disbelief settling on his face. His expression shifted to something deeper—disappointment, maybe? Concern? The kind of look that made my chest grow heavier than I expected.

"I don't get it, Bell." His voice was softer now, a quiet disappointment that gnawed at me. "Emerson's here to help us. We're supposed to be working together, you know? Why'd you have to—"

"I don't know." My voice cracked. The guilt bubbled up, knotting my stomach. I felt like a mess of confusion and instinct-driven reactions, like everything was slipping away faster than I could control. "I just... I don't know anymore. After everything—Stitch, Adler, the things I've been through—I can't think straight. I'm always on edge."

I took a deep breath, determined to push the guilt aside. In a world full of shadows and betrayals, Mason's reminder hit me harder than I wanted. 

"Bell?" Mason pulled out a kitchen chair, the sound of it scraping against the floor somehow louder than it should have been. He sat down across from me, his gaze fixed on me with a seriousness I wasn't used to seeing from him.

"What?" I sighed, the weariness settling into my bones. I felt like I was sinking deeper with each passing second, the conversation I didn't want to have about to surface.

"I think you should get some form of help for that trauma you went through." His words were slow and deliberate, carefully chosen. "These numbers are still in my head, sure, but I'm managing now. I mean, we all have our demons, right? But you... you can't just keep pushing it down. I know you didn't mean to punch Emerson, but that jumpiness... what happens if you're holding a knife, and someone scares you?"

His words hit harder than I expected. The reality of what Mason was saying crashed into me like a tidal wave. My breath caught in my throat as the thought of it sank in—holding a weapon, adrenaline surging, and a split-second reaction turning into something I'd regret for the rest of my life.

In all retrospect, Mason had a fair point. I was too on edge, too wound up by the echoes of past experiences that refused to leave me alone. My hands trembled slightly as I wiped a stray tear that had started trickling down my cheek, a tear I couldn't push back anymore.

I nodded slowly, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. The walls I'd tried so hard to keep intact were crumbling, piece by piece. I felt like I was falling apart, a carefully constructed façade shattering under the pressure of everything I'd been through.

"I don't know how to... deal with it," I finally choked out, the vulnerability spilling from me despite my efforts to control it. "I don't even know where to start, Mason."

Mason leaned back in his chair, his eyes softening as he saw the cracks in my armour. "You don't have to do this alone. We've got each other, okay? We've made it this far together. But you have to let someone in. Talk to someone who knows how to handle this shit. A real professional, not just us fumbling through it like amateurs."

I looked up at him, his sincerity a lifeline I desperately clung to. Mason wasn't just some teammate or ally; he was the one who'd been through this madness alongside me, who'd felt the same cold realities of our messed-up world. And now, his words felt like a wake-up call I couldn't ignore.

"I'll... think about it," I finally whispered, a shaky breath escaping my lungs. "I just... I don't want to let everything fall apart. Not now."

"Good." Mason's voice was a reassuring anchor. "We'll figure it out together. One step at a time. But we need you to be whole, Bell. For us, for the team, for everything we're fighting for."

He stood up, his eyes meeting mine one last time before he moved back toward the kitchen door. The weight of his words settled into the depths of my chest, a mix of fear and a flicker of hope.

As I sat there, the tears subsided, replaced by a fragile determination. I wasn't sure how I would find the strength to heal, but Mason's insistence planted a seed of resolve inside me. Maybe it was time to stop running from the shadows of the past—and start finding a way to stand tall, not just for myself, but for all of us.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I loaded the gun with practiced, swift motions and raised it, aiming at the target set up at the far end of the warehouse. My finger tightened on the trigger, and five sharp cracks rang out in quick succession. Each shot tore through the target with deadly precision, the sound echoing through the cold, metal walls of the warehouse. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, a pungent, stifling scent that burned the inside of my nose and settled heavy in my throat.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, the adrenaline still surging through me, but my stomach twisted when I saw Emerson pushing the warehouse door open. The silhouette of his frame appeared in the dim, flickering warehouse lights. My heart did an unexpected lurch in my chest, and suddenly, I felt more flustered than I had in a long time.

"Good evening." My voice wavered slightly, a hint of unease slipping in despite my attempts to steady myself. Emerson wore denim jeans, worn but clean, and a thin V-neck jumper that hugged his frame. The simplicity of his clothes made him look effortlessly cool—and way too relaxed for this situation.

I hastily took off my protective muffs and set them down on the nearest table, the clinking sound cutting through the tense silence. I walked over and joined him, standing awkwardly by his side.

"You're a good shot." Emerson's eyes flicked over the target behind me, a flicker of admiration in his gaze. But I was too distracted to even glance at my own work. Three shots hit the center bullseye, two in the head, nearly touching—no more than an inch apart. A perfect display of focus and control, but it felt meaningless now.

"Thanks. What are you doing here?" I finally managed, trying to push the unsettling thoughts out of my head. My eyes wandered to a nearby table, where an old TV sat with a blank screen. There were four or five whiskey glasses scattered across it, each still bearing the residue of dried liquid. A whiskey bottle sat among them, half-empty.

I poured two glasses, the amber liquid sloshing gently. I carried them over and handed one to Emerson before sitting down beside him. The warmth of the whiskey felt oddly comforting in my trembling hands.

He took a sip, a small, soft smile forming on his lips. That smile, even in this bleak atmosphere, made my chest ache with something I couldn't quite place.

"I just wanted to see you." Emerson's words were simple, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper—something unspoken.

I turned my head back toward the target, the sharp edge of reality settling into my chest. "Shame that wasn't Stitch right now." My voice was colder than I intended, the bitterness slipping through despite myself.

The idea of facing Stitch in this moment felt like a missed chance—a bitter reality that gnawed at me. The connection to Emerson, the unease I felt whenever we crossed paths, the fear that lingered from every past encounter—it all felt like a tangled mess I couldn't unravel.

Emerson glanced at me, his eyes searching, but I looked away. My focus, once clear, now felt fractured. In this world where every decision felt like a fight for survival, every encounter was a reminder that trust was fleeting, loyalty was rare, and nothing came easy.

"I'm here, Bell. Whenever you need me," Emerson finally said, his tone soft but resolute. The sincerity in his voice settled into a different kind of tension—a promise, maybe, but also a risk I wasn't sure I wanted to take.

I nodded slowly, the whiskey glass in my hand feeling heavier than it should. The warehouse walls felt like they were closing in, but somewhere beneath the noise, the shots, and the gunpowder haze, I knew that survival would mean more than just good aim—it would mean navigating every relationship, every choice, and every piece of my past that refused to let me go.

"Was it really that bad?" Emerson's voice was filled with genuine curiosity, a cautious curiosity that made me hesitate for a brief moment before speaking.

I swallowed hard, the words I'd been holding back starting to surface. "I was sitting in my own blood and vomit for a few months," I finally admitted, the truth tasting bitter in my mouth.

His face fell, the casual smile slipping away like it never existed. The expression on his face was a reminder that some truths are too heavy to wear lightly.

"My whole body is scarred," I continued, my voice barely a whisper. "The doctors said it would've been a miracle if I made it through the night that they found me. Half my wounds and cuts were stitched poorly, infected. I needed six, maybe seven units of blood. My body was in severe shock."

I paused, the memories clawing their way back, unbidden and ruthless. My hands shook slightly as I clenched the whiskey glass tighter.

"He would strap me down to a cold, metal table and slice into my skin with switchblades, stan knives, even pocket knives. He'd do it until I passed out, and then do it again to wake me up. A twisted, relentless cycle, every single day. And in the end, it never even got him anywhere."

Each word felt like a weight on my chest, a truth I hadn't spoken aloud before. The pain of remembering felt almost too vast to bear, but saying it out loud was somehow cathartic. A reminder that I had survived when so many hadn't.

"I don't know how I made it through," I finally said, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. "But I did. And now... I don't know how to get past it, or if I even can."

Emerson didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, staring at me, his eyes searching my face like he was trying to piece together the shattered fragments of what I'd just shared. The vulnerability of it all settled into the air between us, a heavy silence that felt unbreakable.

"I'm sorry, Bell," he finally whispered. "I'm so sorry you went through all of that. No one should have to survive what you did. But... you did. And that says something about you. About who you are now."

I glanced at him, a flicker of something I couldn't quite name stirring in my chest. In this dark, unforgiving world we inhabited, it was rare to hear words like that—real words, honest words, not just survival tactics or lies.

"I don't know how I keep going, honestly," I admitted. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm still back there, like the fight never really stops."

Emerson nodded, his gaze unflinching. "Well, you've made it this far. And I'm here. Whenever you need someone to... not fall apart, I guess."

I looked down at my hands, the scars on my arms a constant reminder of the battle I'd fought to get here. Maybe healing wasn't about erasing the past—it was about carrying it differently, letting it shape who I was but not letting it define me completely.

"Thanks, Emerson." I finally said, my voice steadier than before. "It means more than you think."

We sat there in silence, the clinking of the whiskey glasses barely breaking the stillness. The warehouse felt less like a cold, hostile space and more like a place where, somehow, survival felt possible.

I could see Emerson's body just tense up, like he was frozen and didn't know what else to say. 

"You know, he did everything he could to get information out of me about NATO and the CIA," I said, my voice steady despite the flood of painful memories. "But I never opened my mouth. As much as I knew it would stop the slicing, these people—NATO, the CIA—they're more than just missions and intel. They're my home, my family. There was no way in hell I was gonna let him get the information he wanted from me."

Emerson didn't say anything right away. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes darkening with a sadness that settled into his gaze. The expression on his face made my throat tighten. I felt exposed talking about it, but maybe letting it out was something I needed more than I cared to admit.

"I didn't know it was that bad," he finally whispered, a flicker of disbelief in his voice.

"They were old cells, just blocks of concrete. No windows, no light. Most days, I was just surrounded by that cold, suffocating silence. I've spent months now just trying to rebuild my weight, get some muscle back. But the truth is, Emerson, the trauma... it doesn't just vanish. It creeps into every corner of my head, every quick reaction." My voice cracked a little. "Like punching you."

I looked at Emerson, expecting anger or resentment, but instead, I saw understanding.

"Listen, after hearing that, I get why you're jumpy. Why you don't trust easily. And that's okay." He met my gaze, his expression open and sincere. "You don't owe me anything, Bell. You owe yourself to heal."

I nodded, a shaky breath escaping my lungs. Even though I still felt like an asshole for punching him, his words brought a small measure of relief.

But something gnawed at me—the absence of Adler. I hadn't seen him since that morning, and it unsettled me. Adler always made a point to tell me where he was going, every detail accounted for. But this time... nothing. No message, no warning.

I shook the thought away, pushing the worry back down. "I haven't seen Adler," I murmured. "He always tells me where he's heading, but not this time. Maybe he's just... busy."

Emerson didn't respond immediately. We sat in silence, the weight of our conversation lingering in the air. The flickering warehouse lights cast long shadows across his face, a reminder that in our world, safety was a fragile illusion. We were all carrying our scars, internal and external, but survival meant finding ways to carry those wounds without letting them break us.

Finally, I met his gaze again. "Thanks, Emerson. For listening. For... not running."

"Anytime," he replied, his voice a quiet anchor in the midst of everything.

We sat there, the uneasy conversation fading into a tense but important understanding, a reminder that even in the chaos and pain, loyalty and survival were still things worth fighting for.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I arrived home with Emerson, the evening air still tingling on my skin. We stepped into the kitchen, where Park and Sims were sitting casually at the table, sharing a laugh over some inside joke. The sound of their conversation brought a brief sense of normalcy amidst everything else. Park's smile was genuinely contagious, and I found myself grinning back, even if just for a moment.

"Good evening, you two," I said, the greeting slipping out without much thought.

But I cut to the point quickly. My voice held a sense of urgency I couldn't shake. "Has anyone seen Russell?"

Park glanced up from her mug, her brow furrowing slightly. Emerson quietly moved to the fridge, pouring himself a glass of water, the tension in his shoulders still evident.

"He went downtown to get a drink, I think," Sims finally answered, leaning back in his chair. He reached up to remove his cap and set it down in front of him, his expression a mix of indifference and curiosity. "Said he wasn't feeling good. Probably just a rough day."

"Where to?" I pressed, a knot forming in my chest.

"The usual spot," Park added with a shrug, like it was no big deal. "That dive bar on the corner of Fifth and Main. You know the one."

I nodded, the adrenaline stirring again. I thanked them with a quick wave before grabbing my coat and keys from the hook by the door. The city lights outside flickered softly under the dim streetlamps, a quiet reminder of the restless energy that lay within Berlin.

I didn't hesitate. I rushed out the door, the cold night air cutting through my shirt, a sharp contrast to the boiling thoughts in my head. My boots hit the pavement with quick, deliberate steps. 

I pulled up outside the bustling bar, the neon lights casting a flickering glow onto the pavement. The noise inside was a chaotic mix of laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses. The scent of sweaty crowds, smoke, and stale booze filled the air as I stepped inside.

My eyes scanned the room, weaving through the clusters of people, the dim lighting casting fleeting shadows across the worn-out floor. The energy in the place was gritty and raw, a perfect reflection of our world. Finally, I spotted him—Russell. He was slouched in his usual corner at the end of the bar, a cigarette lazily dangling from his fingers, the orange ember glowing dimly in the smoky haze. A glass of scotch sat in front of him, almost empty. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw was clenched in a way that suggested he was a man carrying more weight than usual.

I made my way through the crowd, my heart pounding a little harder with every step. I finally reached his corner, the noise around us fading just a bit as I lightly placed my hand on his shoulder.

I hopped up onto the bar stool beside him, the worn leather seat creaking under my weight. The awkward silence settled between us like a thick fog as Russell took another slow drag of his cigarette. The smoky haze lingered, a reminder of the night's grime and the weight of unspoken words.

"Where have you been?" I finally asked, trying to push past the uneasy stillness.

He didn't look at me. His eyes stayed fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass, the tension in his jaw evident even in the dim lighting of the bar.

But then, without warning, he spoke, his voice a gravelly drawl that sounded rougher than it should. "What's that story between you and him?"

I froze. The question hit me like a punch to the chest. My throat tightened, and for a moment, I didn't respond. I knew exactly what he meant, but I wasn't ready to acknowledge it. Not now, not here.

"What?" I finally managed to stammer, a knot of confusion and fear settling in my stomach.

"You and Emerson." Russell's gaze flicked to me, a flicker of something I couldn't quite place in his dark eyes. He looked... bothered. Really bothered. Like it dug deeper than it should.

The air around us seemed to grow colder. I swallowed hard, the weight of our shared history and unspoken connections pressing down on me. Emerson wasn't just some past fling; he was a part of my world now tangled up in secrets and loyalty—and that made everything more dangerous than it should be.

"I don't know what you mean," I finally said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Russell stared at me, his eyes searching mine for something. Maybe answers. Maybe honesty. But right now, I didn't have either.