The next morning, I woke with a deep, gnawing feeling in my stomach. It wasn't just the physical ache from my wound—it was something heavier, something darker. The events from the night before felt distant, like a dream I couldn't quite shake. Adler had walked me back to my room, said goodnight, and then... nothing. He closed the door behind him without another word.

It left me with a sense of unfinished business, the kind that clung to your thoughts, no matter how hard you tried to push it away. The memory of his touch, the quick kiss on my cheek, still lingered in my mind like a trace of something unspoken. What was I supposed to make of it? What did it mean?

I sat up in bed, clutching the sheets as the weight of the day ahead pressed down on me. Hudson. I couldn't forget about him, even if I wanted to. My mind flashed back to everything Mason had said. Tomorrow—no, today—I'd have to face him. Answer his questions. And knowing him, there wouldn't be much room for mistakes.

The anxiety in my stomach twisted tighter, the nerves settling in, but I had no choice. I had to push through. It was all too much to take in at once, but I couldn't afford to break down now.

I glanced at the clock—still early, but I wouldn't be able to sleep any longer. It was pointless to stay in bed. With a slow exhale, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, my body stiff but moving nonetheless. The morning was quiet, eerily so. A calm before the storm. And I was about to walk straight into it.

As I dressed and prepared myself for the inevitable confrontation with Hudson, I couldn't help but wonder what Adler would do next. What was he thinking after the night we'd shared? Why did I keep coming back to him in my mind when I knew I shouldn't? The questions, like everything else, swirled in my head, leaving me unsettled. But for now, I had no answers. Only the day ahead—and Hudson waiting.

I wasn't going to let it ruin the interrogation with Hudson. I already had enough to worry about as it was. The knot in my stomach tightened, but I forced myself to ignore it, to focus on getting through the day. I had no choice.

Just as I was buttoning up my jacket, there was a knock at the door. Frank poked his head in, his usual calm demeanor standing in stark contrast to the nerves I was feeling. "Ready to go?" he asked.

I nodded, quickly giving him a small smile as I grabbed my things and headed out. On the way out, I gave Mason a quick goodbye, my throat tight as I tried to swallow the unease building inside of me.

"I'm afraid, Frank. He's a scary bastard," I admitted, my fingers wriggling nervously in my lap. Anxiety bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, making it impossible to sit still. I hadn't slept much the night before, the thought of what was coming weighing heavily on my mind.

Frank looked at me as he drove, his gaze sharp but calm. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice steady. "He isn't as bad as everyone makes him out to be. I've worked with him long enough."

I sighed but didn't say anything, still feeling the tension in my chest. Frank raised an eyebrow at me, and his expression softened just enough to offer some reassurance. It was the kind of look that told me he was trying to ease my fear, but it didn't completely settle the storm inside me.

I turned my attention back to the window as Frank started the ignition, the car humming to life beneath us. "I can't remember much, honestly," I muttered, my voice barely audible over the engine. "Why does he think this will help? I don't have anything to give him."

"You gotta remember something, Bell," Frank said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Anything. Even the smallest detail could be the one thing that gets us closer."

I nodded, but the weight of his words hit me hard. What if I didn't remember anything? What if Hudson's methods made it worse? I could feel the pit in my stomach growing, my breath coming in shallow bursts as the anxiety threatened to consume me. But Frank was right. I had to hold it together. There was no other choice.

My mind was a whirlwind of fragments, the memories I could barely hold onto slipping away faster than I could grasp them. The documents—what the hell did they contain? The pillow, stained with blood, but why was it so vivid in my mind? I couldn't even remember how I had met Stitch, or when for that matter. It was like a whole piece of my life had been erased, and I was desperately trying to piece it back together.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to clear the haze. How had I gotten here? What had I done to get tangled up in all this?

We were about twenty minutes into the drive when Frank took a sharp left turn, and my stomach tightened when I saw what lay ahead. A run-down, metal-looking tin building loomed in front of us. It looked like something out of a crime scene—dodgy, filthy, and completely unwelcoming. My nerves spiked. This was where Hudson wanted to meet?

Frank's voice broke through the chaos in my mind. "Meet Hudson through the front there," he said, pulling me back to the present.

"Great," I muttered to myself, already dreading what was coming next.

Frank slowed to a stop, and I got out of the car, the uneven ground beneath my feet making it harder to steady myself as I stumbled across the loose stones. My heart hammered in my chest as I made my way toward the front, where Hudson was waiting.

"Ah, Bell," Hudson's voice sliced through the air like a cold knife. "Good to see you. Come with me."

I didn't hesitate, following him without question, even though every part of me wanted to turn and run. His tall, slim but built frame moved effortlessly ahead, making me feel small in comparison. I kept my pace steady, my eyes fixed on his back, trying to block out the dread building up in my chest.

"How have you been getting on?" Hudson asked, his voice a low rumble, casual like we were meeting for coffee rather than an interrogation.

I didn't answer right away, the weight of his words making my tongue feel thick. But he didn't wait for me to respond. He simply led me into the building, past dark hallways, the air musty and stale. Finally, we arrived at a small room, and my stomach lurched at the sight of the massive one-way mirror along one wall. The room was almost clinical in its simplicity—grey table, black walls, a metal chair sitting in the centre.

Hudson gestured toward the chair. "Sit."

I followed his instruction without question, my body shaking as I lowered myself into the cold, metal seat. My leg began to bounce up and down involuntarily, a nervous tic, but it felt like the only thing I could control in that moment. Cold sweat clung to my skin, my heart racing as the reality of what was happening set in.

I was alone in this room with Hudson. And despite the coolness of the metal chair beneath me, I felt like I was burning up from the inside out. My stomach twisted violently, threatening to spill its contents all over the floor.

I tried to steady my breath, but it came out in uneven gasps. "I don't know what you want from me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but Hudson was already pacing, watching me carefully.

The silence stretched on, the weight of the room pressing down on me. This wasn't a simple interrogation. It was a test—one that I wasn't sure I was ready for.

Hudson's gaze was sharp as he leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on mine with a mixture of curiosity and impatience. "So, Bell, why do you go by that name?" The question came out with the weight of someone who expected a straight answer—no hesitation, no beating around the bush.

I froze for a moment, my mind scrambling for an answer I didn't have. I'd been Bell for as long as I could remember. But why? Where had it come from? I couldn't recall the reason for it, not really. It was the only name that had stuck after waking up, after everything had gone dark and blurry.

"I can't remember," I said, the words feeling heavy in my throat, thick with the weight of truth. "I went by Bell for a long time, and I can't remember why."

Hudson's expression darkened, and he took off his aviators, setting them down carefully on the table in front of him. He stared at me with a puzzled look that felt like it was peeling me apart. His gaze made me feel exposed, like I was some puzzle piece he was trying to fit into a bigger picture.

"How can you not remember?" he asked, disbelief curling his voice, his tone as hard as stone.

The words came out before I could stop them, raw and real, trembling with fear. "When I met Stitch, I was awake on a metal table. My head was sore, my arms were heavy, and I hadn't a clue where I was. From that moment on, Stitch took me in and looked after me. Everything before that? It felt non-existent."

My stomach twisted as I recounted the fragments of what I could remember. There was a blur of confusion in my mind, but nothing concrete—just the cold, sterile feeling of being on that table. The sharp pain in my head. And Stitch's face, hazy but somehow familiar.

Hudson didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, his expression unreadable, as if weighing my words. His fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the table, his eyes never leaving me.

"You're telling me you've got no memory before Stitch found you?" he asked, his voice low and sceptical, but not dismissive.

I nodded slowly, the truth sitting like a stone in my chest. "That's what I'm saying. I don't remember anything before waking up in that place."

There was a long pause, thick with the silence that only Hudson seemed able to create. I could feel the weight of his assessment, the way he was trying to decide whether he believed me or not. It was suffocating.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "Well, Bell, that's one hell of a hole in your story. But I'm not sure you're lying about it." His eyes softened just a fraction, though his posture remained rigid. "This Stitch... seems like he's the one who's got answers, not you."

I couldn't tell if it was a relief or a curse, but the truth was inescapable. Whatever happened to me before Stitch? It was gone. Vanished, like a dream slipping away as soon as I woke up. Hudson might've been sceptical, but I was certain of one thing: I couldn't give him what he wanted because I didn't have it.

"Where is he, then?" Hudson's voice was sharp, demanding. "Where's this Stitch now?"

The question hung in the air, cold and heavy, but I had nothing to give him. I shook my head slowly, the sinking feeling in my gut tightening as I struggled to piece together a coherent answer. "I don't know. He's been out of reach for a while now."

My mind raced, trying to find some clue, some detail, anything that could help me make sense of how I'd ended up here. How I met Stitch, how everything had fallen apart. But the memories were like pieces of shattered glass—too scattered to form a picture.

I took a slow, deep breath, my head aching from the constant tension and fear gnawing at me. I couldn't let it break me now.

Hudson didn't seem satisfied with my answer, but he didn't push further. Instead, he glanced at the small notebook in front of me, his pen moving quickly across the pages. "Sounds like you were drugged," he said, his eyes flicking up to study me.

I frowned, trying to recall anything that would fit that theory, but nothing came to mind. "I don't think I was. I can't remember what happened before waking on the table. I can remember everything after that."

Hudson didn't comment right away, just nodded and jotted a few more notes down, his eyes scanning the page with a thoughtful look.

Then he asked the question I was dreading. "What was your relationship with Stitch?"

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the memory of those moments flickering in my mind—moments that were both violent and tender, full of contradictions. "Heavily strained," I said, the words feeling heavier than they should. "Sometimes he was okay, and other times he had bad anger. He would get violent due to some injuries, things he wouldn't talk about. I got an offer from MI6, he found out, and I ran. That's how I ended up here."

Hudson didn't say anything at first. He just listened, his face unreadable. When I finished, he took the pen and paper and slid them into his coat pocket, his fingers moving with methodical precision.

"Is there anything you can remember that you think could help us?" he asked, tapping his finger on the table as if weighing the importance of my words.

The question seemed so innocent, but I knew exactly what he was asking. He wanted me to open up, to give him something more. But I wasn't ready. Not yet. Not until I had more answers for myself. I had to hold on to whatever I knew.

I looked him in the eye, my voice steady but laced with a lie. "Nothing. Long story short, I went by Bell for many years before I got amnesia—well, I'm going to guess I have it. I worked in London on and off, then came here. Woke up on a metal table, and months later, I'm sitting at a metal desk. So, no, I don't remember anything that would help you. Sorry, Hudson,"

I remembered my days in London well, but I knew that any of that was irrelevant now. Those days felt distant, like another lifetime entirely. Still, the memories were sharp in my mind—the dark corners of the city, the hushed whispers in alleyways, the hurried footsteps, and the constant tension that hung over everything. But none of that mattered anymore, not in this moment.

My voice wavered slightly as I spoke, the lies slipping out with ease, though I could still feel their weight. "Stitch kept plans to himself most of the time," I said, trying to keep my tone steady, even though the truth behind those words was anything but simple. "He didn't want me knowing what was next." It was much more complex than that.

The truth stung more than I wanted it to. Stitch had never been forthcoming. He never shared much—his plans, his reasons, his thoughts. I was always kept in the dark, a puppet who only saw the strings when they pulled too tight. I was never meant to understand, just to follow. I was his back hand, the one he called when things got too messy, too complicated. When his anger flared, when his hatred boiled over, it was me he turned to.

And I played my part without question, just like I had for so long. But now, I was the one who was lost, fumbling through pieces of a life I couldn't remember. Every moment I spent with Stitch, every time I followed his lead, it all seemed like a blur now—a part of my past that felt distant and hollow.

I couldn't say any of that out loud, though. Not to Hudson, not to anyone. So I kept up the mask, kept the lies flowing. Because if I let the truth slip, if I allowed it to show, I wasn't sure I'd be able to handle it. I needed to try and scrape up the fragments of those memories, the blood on the pillow and those documents, before I told anyone what I started to remember. 

I said the words without hesitation, even though the weight of the lie felt like it was suffocating me. I wasn't sorry at all. Not for the lie, and certainly not for keeping the truth hidden. The documents, the answers, the pieces of my past—they were mine. No one else's. Not until I understood what the hell was really going on.

Hudson's gaze held mine for a moment, searching, probing. I could see the scepticism in his eyes, the doubt. But there was something else too, something I couldn't quite place. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He couldn't break me. Not yet.

He nodded slowly, as if my answer was exactly what he'd expected. "Alright, Bell," he said, his voice low but firm. "We're done for now. But don't think this is over. We'll be seeing each other again soon."

I stood up, my legs shaky, but I held myself together. The room felt like it was closing in on me, but I walked out without looking back. Hudson might've been done with me for now, but I knew one thing for certain: the questions were just beginning. And I wasn't sure if I was ready for any of the answers.

Hudson's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than I was comfortable with. His eyes were sharp, like he could see right through the lies, right through the mask I was wearing. The scar running from his head to near his mouth seemed to give him an air of someone who had seen it all—someone who could read people like books.

"It's fine." Hudson's voice was low, though the hint of suspicion in his eyes didn't fade. He seemed to let it go, at least for now. "How is the knife wound?"

I nodded, trying to stay calm, and pulled up the edge of my shirt to take a look at my stomach. It still hurt, but I hadn't checked it properly since it happened. When I glanced at the wound, I was surprised by what I saw—the blood was darker now, smeared across the fabric of my shirt, seeping from the stitches. The sight of it made me feel a little queasy, but I couldn't stop myself from laughing.

"Bloody," I said, trying to lighten the mood, but my voice sounded hollow, even to me.

Hudson's expression hardened immediately. "That's not funny. Get Adler to check it when you get back." His tone was sharp, and I knew that it was more than just a suggestion. "Frank!"

With a look of understanding, Frank opened the door and stepped in, his eyes scanning me before they landed on the wound. He gave me a hefty look, his brow furrowed in concern.

I didn't say anything more. The weight of the conversation hung in the air like smoke. My stomach was still sore, and I had the feeling that Hudson wasn't done with me yet. But for now, I had to deal with the immediate problem—the blood oozing from my side.

Frank and I made our way back to the car in silence, the gravel crunching beneath our feet as we walked. The ride back to the house was uncomfortable, the tension from the interrogation still lingering in the air between us. I couldn't focus on anything except the gnawing pain in my stomach, the dull throb reminding me that whatever happened next, I wasn't done.

By the time we pulled up to the house, I could see that a medic was already waiting. A tall man stood beside him, and I recognized him as Russell—the one who had been with Mason during the earlier interrogation. They looked like they were ready for anything.

The medic approached me first, his eyes scanning me with a professional focus. "Let's take a look at that wound," he said, his tone brisk but not unkind.

Russell, standing a few feet behind him, gave me a once-over, his eyes sharp. "You're lucky it's not worse," he muttered under his breath, but I caught it. He looked like someone who didn't believe in luck.

As the medic worked on cleaning and dressing the wound, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was caught between worlds. Between the lies I told Hudson and the truth I was trying to hold onto. Between Stitch, the man who had shaped so much of my life, and whatever came next. I couldn't escape it. Not yet. Not until I knew more.

----

"Does it hurt?" The medic asked, his voice steady as he snipped the stitches from my side. I groaned, a sharp sound slipping from my throat.

"Well, fucking obviously," I bit out, pinching the bridge of my nose as the pain surged through me. Adler, sitting nearby, couldn't help but laugh at my reaction.

"Sorry, but yes, it did hurt," I added, trying to keep my voice steady but failing miserably. The pain was brutal, gnawing at me with each movement the medic made.

The medic smiled, unfazed by my discomfort. "Don't worry about it, I'm used to it." He gave a small, knowing chuckle as he continued his work. "The infection is cleared up, but the stitches need to come out now."

"I cannot be assed with this," I grumbled, irritated at the whole ordeal, but I didn't have much of a choice.

"I know, but the quicker, the better," he said, clearly used to people complaining. "Adler, would you grab me the rubbing alcohol off the bench?"

Adler complied without hesitation, handing over the tall, white plastic bottle. The medic poured some onto a small white pad, and I braced myself, already knowing what was coming. As he pressed the pad against my wound, the stinging sensation hit immediately. It was like fire running through my stomach, sharp and unforgiving.

A groan escaped my lips as I tried to sit still, but the pain was overwhelming. The medic worked quickly, though, finishing up with a speed that made me hate him just a little less. Still, I couldn't help but feel like the whole process was dragging on, the burn of the rubbing alcohol making every second feel like an eternity.

Adler watched with a quiet smirk, though I could see the concern behind his eyes. He wasn't saying much, but I knew he wasn't exactly enjoying seeing me in pain. "Almost done," the medic reassured me, but that didn't make it any easier.

Finally, the process was over. The medic finished cleaning the wound, and I could finally breathe again. I didn't move right away, though—I was too sore and still a bit dizzy from the whole ordeal.

"See? Not so bad," the medic said with a grin, and I gave him a glare in response, feeling far from calm.

Adler seemed relieved that it was over, though. He stood up and stretched, his hand brushing against my shoulder for a brief moment. "All done, Bell. You can breathe now."

I didn't respond immediately, still focusing on the dull ache that lingered in my stomach. I hated how vulnerable I felt, especially in front of Adler. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't just the wound that hurt—it was everything else. The lies, the constant game I was playing with Hudson, the empty spaces in my memories. All of it weighed heavily on me.

As Adler walked over to grab something from the bench, I couldn't shake the feeling that, no matter how much time passed, I wasn't ever going to be able to escape it all.

"I'm going to get Mason to look after you for the next few days," Adler said as he finished checking over my wound. "I'm away with Sims and Park for a mission. Will you be okay?"

I nodded, though a part of me didn't want him to leave. The idea of being alone again, even with Mason around, made me uneasy. "I think so. Thank you."

"No problem." Adler's voice softened, but there was still a certain firmness to it. He seemed like he was trying to reassure me, even though I could tell he had his own concerns. "I leave early in the morning and will be back the next night."

His eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze for a moment longer than usual. His smile was gentle, the scar on his face crinkling slightly at the edges, but it didn't make him look any less handsome. If anything, it added to his rugged appeal. There was something about that scar—something that spoke of battles fought, not just on the outside, but within.

"Okay, all done." The medic said, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Take it easy since the stitches are fresh, but everything looks good."

"Finally. It hurts," I muttered, wincing slightly as I shifted.

The medic smiled, a little sympathetic. "Don't let water get on the patch for a while, it'll seep through. Change and clean the bandages two or three times a day, maybe more if there's any bleeding, but there shouldn't be. If there is, call me."

I nodded, feeling a little lighter with the knowledge that everything seemed to be healing properly. Still, I wasn't looking forward to the care routine or the isolation of being left behind while Adler went off on his mission. I understood it, of course—he had his work to do, and Sims and Park would need him. But a part of me wished he didn't have to go, wished that things could just feel normal again.

Adler gave me one last look, his expression softer now, as though he could sense my unease. "I'll check in when I can, alright? Just take care of yourself."

"Yeah, I will," I replied, though my heart wasn't entirely in it.

As he made his way to the door, I sat on the bed for a moment, letting the quiet settle over me. Alone again. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last. But this time felt different. Adler had left me in the hands of others, and while Mason was good in a pinch, it wasn't the same. My mind was already racing, thoughts of Stitch and the missing pieces of my memory gnawing at me. And now, with Adler gone for the next few days, I had more time than I wanted to dwell on it all. 

The medic left, and Frank walked in with a grin, his usual upbeat energy filling the room. "Almost back out there, Kiddo. How'd it go with Hudson?"

"It went okay," I replied, rubbing my forehead as I stood up slowly. "Just a bunch of questions about where Bell came from and all that. I told him what I could, but there's not much I remember." I winced a little as I moved, still feeling the lingering ache from the wound.

I made my way to the kitchen, hoping that cooking would help clear my mind. But as I reached for the counter, Mason tapped me on the shoulder gently. "Go rest, Bell. I'll cook you something." His voice was calm, but firm, and for a moment, I wanted to argue—but I knew he was right. I had pushed myself too much already.

I nodded in acknowledgment, too tired to protest, and made my way back to the lounge. Adler was there, waiting for me. He was sitting on the couch, his gaze lifting as I entered. He patted the spot beside him, a soft smile on his face.

I hesitated for just a moment before I sat down next to him. The moment our shoulders touched, I felt a twinge of tension in my chest, the lingering unease from the day still clinging to me. But Adler didn't seem to mind, and the quiet comfort of his presence eased some of that tension.

"I'm tired," I muttered, leaning back slightly.

"So am I, Bell," Adler said quietly, glancing at me with a hint of understanding in his eyes. "You should go sleep."

"I'll be fine," I said, but the words came out more fatigued than I intended. Before I could protest again, my body started to give in, and without realizing it, I found myself resting my head against his shoulder.

The warmth from his body seeped into me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself relax. The smell of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and I could hear Mason moving around, making food with his usual quiet efficiency. The whole atmosphere, the gentle sounds, the scent of the food, and the closeness with Adler—it all felt so... normal. So peaceful.

And for a brief moment, I let myself believe it. I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was where I was meant to be. These people—Adler, Mason, Frank—maybe they were my family, even if I wasn't sure what the word meant anymore.

Adler's hand found mine briefly, squeezing it gently, grounding me in the moment. I didn't want to let go. "Rest, Bell," he whispered, his voice soft and reassuring.

I closed my eyes, the exhaustion finally winning over my racing thoughts. In that moment, for the first time in what felt like a long time, I felt like I was home.