As time went on, I couldn't help but let my mind wander to an alternate version of my life—a life without Stitch. What would it have been like if our paths had never crossed? Would I still be running solo, taking on odd jobs with no real direction? Would I have ever met Russell or the rest of the team? Questions like these were pointless, of course. The past was the past, and nothing could change that. Still, in quiet moments like this, it was all too easy to lose myself in the "what-ifs."

The freezing cold of the warehouse pulled me back to the present. I was huddled at one end with Mason, our breaths visible in the icy air as we waited. Russell stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with Hudson, who was in full debrief mode. Emerson chimed in every so often, rattling off locations and potential targets. Their voices echoed faintly in the cavernous, desolate space, but I wasn't paying much attention. My focus was on staying warm.

I tugged my hoodie tighter under my winter coat, my fingers numb despite being shoved into the deep pockets. This place was, without question, the worst warehouse we'd ever been in. The walls were bare concrete, offering no insulation, and the wind outside howled through the small gaps in the structure, turning the interior into a freezer. Mason glanced over at me, his expression mirroring my own misery.

"This place is the worst," he muttered, breaking the silence. His teeth chattered slightly, and he stomped his feet to keep the blood circulating. I nodded in agreement, too cold to muster much of a reply.

Even though we were miserable, there was a strange comfort in the camaraderie. As I watched Russell and Hudson strategize in the distance, I couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude. Maybe the "what-ifs" didn't matter after all. This was my reality, and it wasn't perfect, but it was mine.

"Couldn't hack that tension if you tried," Mason remarked with a laugh that didn't quite mask his discomfort. He wasn't wrong, though. The atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife. Emerson stood off to the side, looking as rigid as a statue, while Russell's face carried that perpetually annoyed expression he wore so well. Watching Emerson talking to Russell was somewhat hilarious. 

"Yeah, but at least they're being civil," I replied, swirling a small spoon of sugar into my coffee. The contrast between the icy warehouse and the scorching heat outside felt surreal. The coffee wasn't even warm anymore, but at least it gave me something to hold onto, something to distract me.

"True," Mason agreed, pausing for a moment as he folded his arms across his chest. His tone shifted slightly when he spoke again, more curious now. "So, you two figured it out, then?"

I nodded, letting out a small sigh. "I think so. Maybe not entirely, as you can probably tell. But he seems to understand, at least on some level. Emerson, of all people, remembered something I couldn't."

Mason chuckled at that, the tension around him easing just a little. "Figures," he said, shooting me a smirky look that practically dared me to elaborate.

I shrugged, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Hey, credit where it's due. Even if Emerson's memory is freakishly good, it saved us some headaches this time."

Mason leaned against a nearby stack of crates, still grinning. "You've got to admit, though—it's kind of hilarious. The one time Emerson actually helps out with something useful, it's by pulling facts out of nowhere like some kind of human encyclopaedia."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help laughing softly. "Yeah, I'm sure he'll hold it over our heads for the next year." I smiled. Emerson had managed to pull many strings to get us more accurate locations on Wraith, and it seemed that Adler wasn't too happy about that. 

The moment of levity felt good, a reprieve from the usual tension that seemed to follow our group everywhere. For now, the brewing storm between Russell and Emerson could wait. Mason and I were content to stand on the side-lines, trading quiet laughs over lukewarm coffee and shared frustrations.

As the day dragged on, our plans began to solidify. The team had its instructions, and by this time tomorrow, we'd be going after Wraith. There wasn't much else to do but prepare ourselves for what was coming. I found myself in the dimly glowing red room with Park, her presence as steadying as ever.

She was leaned casually against the corner, her smile radiating warmth even under the stark lighting. That was the thing about Park—no matter the situation, she had a knack for making you feel like everything might just work out.

Before long, Emerson appeared in the doorway, scanning the room before his gaze landed on me. He stepped inside and gave a quick nod. "Bell, let's go. We need to talk."

Park placed a hand gently on my back, her touch both reassuring and encouraging. "Go on ahead, Bell. I've got this," she said with an easy smile, her voice carrying that calm confidence she was known for.

I hesitated, then muttered a quick, "Thanks, Park," before following Emerson out into the open air.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Midnight had settled over the landscape, the sky clear and the air still. It was cooler than earlier, but after being bundled up in the red-lit room, I quickly realized I'd overdressed.

As we walked along in silence, I started sweating under my layers. Finally, I gave in, shrugging off my coat and hoodie in quick succession. The night air brushed against my skin, a welcome relief as I stuffed the discarded clothing under my arm. Beneath it all, I wore a dark green shirt, its simple design blending into the shadows.

Emerson glanced over, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. He seemed focused, his mind already ahead to whatever it was he needed to discuss. I, on the other hand, let my thoughts drift for a moment, appreciating the brief stillness of the night.

"Better?" Emerson finally asked, his tone dry but not unkind, motioning to my discarded layers.

"Much," I replied with a small smile, already bracing myself for whatever conversation lay ahead. This might've been a fleeting moment of quiet, but we both knew it wouldn't last long.

"Everything alright?" I asked with a smile, glancing at Emerson as we walked toward an old, weathered picnic bench. The wood was splintered and faded, a testament to years of sun, rain, and neglect, but it still stood firm against the elements.

He hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone softer than usual. "I just wanted to apologize for what happened. I didn't get the proper chance to before."

I tutted and waved him off dismissively. "The only thing you were was a threat to Russell, and that's on him, not you. Okay? I should've told him sooner, in all fairness. Listen, though—he's pretty much over it now, so don't worry yourself over it."

Emerson nodded, though the flicker of unease in his expression didn't entirely fade. We reached the edge of the cliff, where the view of the city stretched out before us like a painting. The glow of Amsterdam at night was breathtaking, a peaceful contrast to the chaos we carried with us. The canals reflected the warm lights like veins of gold running through the city, while distant rooftops seemed to whisper stories of centuries past.

"It's different from Berlin," I said, my voice almost lost to the gentle breeze. "Feels... softer, I guess."

Emerson followed my gaze, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Yeah. It's got a charm, doesn't it?"

I nodded, letting the serenity settle over us for a moment before speaking again. "Tomorrow, we should finally have Wraith giving us those locations. Honestly? I'm more than excited for this whole thing to be over."

Emerson glanced at me and smirked, a glimmer of humor returning to his eyes. "Me too. Though I think I'm more excited for you," he said with a quiet laugh.

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Appreciate that, but don't let me take all the glory."

As the silence settled once more, I decided it was time to leave him to his thoughts. "Well, I'm going to check in with Russell for a bit," I said, patting Emerson on the shoulder as I walked past him. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

He nodded, watching as I made my way toward the makeshift shelter we'd dubbed the "tin can." The door creaked slightly as I opened it, the metal cold under my fingers. Behind me, the city lights continued to sparkle, a quiet reminder that, no matter the outcome, the world would keep turning.

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

"Come here," Russell murmured, pulling me into his arms as we settled together on one of the foldout beds. His warmth wrapped around me, grounding me in a way nothing else could. The quiet hum of the night filled the air, but my mind wasn't as peaceful. The creeping tendrils of anxiousness were starting to take hold, making his steady presence all the more necessary.

His strong arms tightened around me, holding me close as I rested beneath his scarred chin. I could feel the roughness of his stubble against my forehead—a subtle reminder of the man who somehow made everything feel a little less heavy.

"You need to shave, Ad," I muttered, the words barely louder than a whisper.

"Shh," he replied with a smile, his voice low and amused. "You don't like it?" His smile turned into a mischievous grin, one that made my stomach twist in anticipation.

"Nope," I answered firmly, knowing full well what was coming.

In an instant, he released me from his embrace, grinning like a man on a mission. Before I could react, he was on top of me, rubbing his stubble all over my face like an overgrown cat trying to mark its territory.

"STOP ME NOW!" he bellowed dramatically, his deep laughter mixing with my frantic protests.

"Ad!" I shrieked between fits of uncontrollable laughter. I kicked my legs in a futile attempt to escape, pushing at his shoulders as tears welled in my eyes from laughing so hard. "Stop!"

My stomach ached, every muscle tightening as I doubled over with laughter, while Russell's own wheezing only made the whole thing worse.

"Please! I don't like it!" I roared, gasping for breath between giggles.

"That's the whole point, dumbass," he shot back, his voice cracking as he laughed harder than I'd seen in weeks.

Eventually, he relented, flopping back down beside me with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. His chest rose and fell with the remnants of his laughter, his arm casually draped over his forehead.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, still grinning despite myself. "You're insufferable," I muttered, nudging him lightly.

"And yet, here you are," he teased, his voice warm and affectionate.

I couldn't argue with that. As much as he drove me crazy, there was no one else I'd rather be stuck with in moments like these.

"I'm glad we've sorted this out," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I missed you. A lot."

And I had. I missed everything about him—his presence, the warmth of his body against mine, the way his smile could light up even the darkest moments, his laugh that made my chest feel lighter, and those scars, each one telling a story I knew too well.

All of it.

"Me too," he replied, his voice heavy with emotion. "But I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry you got shot again. Damn it, I should've been there."

He ran a hand down his face, his fingers pressing hard against his skin as though he could rub the guilt away. When he lowered his hand, his expression was troubled, his brows drawn tight. I could see the weight of it all bearing down on him, the frustration and regret etched into every line of his face.

I reached out, gently pulling his hand away and placing mine on his cheek. The roughness of his stubble met my palm, grounding me as much as I hoped I was grounding him. "Hey, look at me," I said firmly but kindly.

His eyes finally met mine, vulnerable and searching.

"What happened, happened, Russell. And yes, it was a dick move, but it's okay. I forgive you. You know me—getting shot is practically routine at this point."

That earned a small, reluctant laugh from him, and I felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me protectively, as though holding me tight enough might make up for everything.

"We should get some shut-eye," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost soothing. "We've got a big day tomorrow, and who knows how it's going to go."

I nodded, tugging the thin blanket over the two of us as we settled in. The fabric wasn't much against the chill, but his warmth made up for it. "Goodnight, Russell," I whispered, nestling against him.

"I love you, Bell," he murmured, his voice filled with a raw honesty that made my heart ache in the best way. His arms tightened around me, and he shifted slightly, tucking one of his legs under mine. The closeness of it all—his touch, his presence—made me feel vulnerable, but not in a way that scared me. It was the kind of vulnerability that reminded me I wasn't alone.

"I love you too, Russell," I whispered back, my words carrying the same truth as his.

In that moment, everything else fell away—the fears, the doubts, the pain. All that mattered was us, wrapped up in each other as the world outside faded to nothing.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I slept peacefully through the night. Not a single nightmare haunted me, no waking up drenched in sweat, heart pounding with fear. It was a relief so profound it left me feeling lighter, like a weight I didn't even realize I was carrying had been lifted.

Russell made me feel safe. Loved. Protected. Even cherished, in a way I hadn't felt in years. His very presence was like a shield against the darkness, his warmth the perfect antidote to the cold corners of my mind.

When my eyes fluttered open, the world was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, and Russell was still asleep beside me. For a moment, I simply watched him, marvelling at the quiet strength in his face.

The scars that crossed his features told stories of battles fought and survived. I reached out, my fingers brushing over them lightly, reverently. His skin was warm under my touch, his face so serene that it was hard to imagine the fierce determination that lived behind those closed eyes. I cupped his face gently, careful not to wake him, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

His hair was a bit tousled, swept to one side in a way that made him look almost boyish, though the slight parting of his lips and the soft rise and fall of his chest reminded me of how much he'd been through.

Unable to resist, I laid my head on his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull me into a rare moment of peace. It was a small but powerful reminder that he was here, alive, beside me. A pang of gratitude filled my chest, mingling with the residual ache of how close I'd come to losing him—not just physically, but emotionally.

When he found out about what had happened between Emerson and me, I thought I'd lost him for good. And when I was captured, he was all I could think about.

The memory of Stitch and the torment he inflicted surged in my mind, unbidden. Every time Stitch hurt me, I screamed Russell's name in my head, clinging to him like a lifeline. The pain wasn't just physical—it was the agony of wondering if I'd ever see him again, if I'd ever see any of them again.

A storm of questions had raged inside me: Had I lost the team forever? Did they even know where I was? Would they even bother looking for me?

Doubt had crept in, insidious and relentless, whispering cruel lies that they weren't coming for me, that I was forgotten, abandoned. But reality was far kinder than my fears. They were looking for me—breaking their bones, tearing themselves apart to bring me back.

And now, as I lay there listening to Russell's heartbeat, I knew I wasn't alone. They had come for me, and no amount of darkness could take that away.

I smiled. Oh, my home. My world.

When everyone woke up, I was already on my feet, armed with a stack of papers detailing our plan. One by one, I handed them out, watching as tired eyes scanned the pages. I'd spent hours refining every detail, ensuring we'd considered every angle, every risk. If anything went wrong, it wouldn't be from lack of preparation.

I was the one briefed on Wraith—studied her, memorized her every move, her methods, her motives. She was as cunning as they came, a devil in disguise. There was no doubt in my mind that this mission would be risky, but it was also necessary.

"We need to be deadly quiet about this," I began, my voice steady despite the tension in the room. "We cannot stir up trouble with the Soviets, or with Stitch. The plan is simple: we take her, lock her up, then proceed to questioning. This layout here," I said, tapping the diagram on the paper in my hand, "is designed to minimize her chances of escaping. Stick to it."

The room was silent except for the occasional shuffle of paper as everyone absorbed the information. Finally, a wave of nods passed through the group, signalling their understanding.

Hudson stepped forward, his tone sharp and commanding. "This is one of our last straws in this entire mission. If Wraith doesn't give us the locations, our next target will be Stone. We're on a tight timeline, so let's see how this plays out. Everyone, gear up. We move out in thirty."

I turned to join the others, but Hudson caught my arm, pulling me aside with a firm grip. He removed his aviators, his piercing gaze locking onto mine.

"Bell, could I have a word?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied, already bracing myself.

Hudson's expression was hard to read, but his tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Why did you let Yirina go?"

The question hung heavy in the air, and I let out a sigh before answering. "She helped me, Hudson. Yirina stopped Stitch from killing me in that cell before you all saved me. I... I didn't have the heart, Sir."

Hudson's jaw tightened, his silence pressing down on me like a weight. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but edged with warning. "I respect that, Bell, but in this line of work, you have to be cold. You cannot let emotions cloud your judgment. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, Sir," I said, swallowing the knot in my throat.

He nodded curtly before walking off, leaving me standing there with the ghost of his words echoing in my mind. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and turned back toward the group.

As I re-joined the team, I caught Mason and Frank exchanging glances before Mason gave me a small, reassuring nod. It was subtle, but it was enough.

And so, we were off, the hum of the transport vehicle filling the silence as we began the half-hour journey to Wraith. The weight of the mission pressed down on all of us, but there was no turning back now. This was it—the next step in a game where every move could mean the difference between survival and failure.