The pounding music and shrill screams from inside the bar were grating on my last nerve. Every laugh, every shout, every bass-heavy beat felt like a dagger to my patience. I shoved my way through the chaotic crowd, my grip firm on Russell's arm as I pulled him toward the back entrance. The door swung open with a groan, and we stumbled into the dim alley, the relative quiet hitting like a reprieve—though the muffled echoes of the bar still lingered in the background.

Russell yanked free from my grasp, his expression a thunderstorm of frustration. His furrowed brows and clenched jaw spoke volumes before he even opened his mouth. The wind carried a slight chill, but the sticky humidity clung stubbornly, wrapping the night in an oppressive weight.

"So, you and Emerson?" His laugh was hollow, shaky, almost mocking. "Seems pretty suitable."

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might stay that way. "What are you talking about, and who told you that?" I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the growing headache behind my eyes to ease.

"It wasn't hard to figure out," he said, his tone sharp. "I'm a goddamn agent, Bell. I saw the tension between you two the moment we stepped in there. It was written all over you." He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and lit one with practiced ease. The flare of the lighter cast his face in fleeting, shadowed relief.

I crossed my arms, glaring. "So what if it's true? It doesn't matter, Russell. It was back when I was in Warsaw." My voice was clipped, but the words felt heavy as they left my mouth.

He froze mid-drag, his cigarette hovering near his lips. His eyes widened like I'd just confessed to a murder. "You? Him? Warsaw?"

I groaned, throwing my arms up. "Okay, I could've worded that better," I admitted. "It wasn't like that. I met him in a bar. He didn't work with Warsaw—he was just the bartender there. We hooked up that night, and I left the next morning with some half-assed goodbye note. End of story."

Russell exhaled sharply, smoke curling into the humid air. He leaned back against the wall, letting his head rest lightly against the bricks. "I still can't wrap my head around it," he muttered.

"Well, you're going to have to," I shot back. My voice softened as I added, "There's nothing between him and me. Just you and me, Russell."

For the first time since we stepped outside, his shoulders eased, and his expression shifted. The hard edge of annoyance dulled into something quieter, more subdued. I shifted awkwardly on my feet, my fingers fidgeting as I tried to gauge what he was thinking.

The streets of Berlin hummed with the blurred energy of nightlife—muffled music, snippets of laughter, and the occasional buzz of a passing scooter. The air was colder now, and I hugged my arms to my chest as Russell finished his cigarette, flicking the glowing stub to the ground.

"Go home, Bell," he said finally, his voice softer now but still distant.

"Come with me," I said, barely above a whisper, reaching out to lightly grab his arm.

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not tonight."

I sighed, dropping my hand. The rejection stung more than I wanted to admit. Bowing my head, I muttered, "I'll be at the house. Goodnight."

I turned and started walking, my footsteps echoing in the alley. The chilly air bit at my cheeks, and before I realized it, a single tear slipped free and traced a cold path down my face. I wiped it away quickly, steeling myself as I disappeared into the night.

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The night dragged on endlessly, each second stretching like taffy. I couldn't sleep—not with my mind racing and my ears straining for the sound of the porch door opening. But it never did. The house was silent, an eerie kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboards feel amplified.

I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. The stillness pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating, until a soft knock broke the silence. It wasn't Russell; I knew that instantly. The knock was too tentative, too careful, and besides, why would he knock on our bedroom door?

My body jerked unexpectedly as if startled out of a half-dream. I dragged myself out of bed, shivering as my feet met the icy floorboards. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I shuffled to the door, gripping the cool brassy knob. When I pulled it open, Emerson stood there, awkward and hesitant.

I blinked at him, still groggy, and turned to glance at the clock on the nightstand. The glowing red digits read 4:07 AM.

"What are you doing awake, Bell?" he asked, his voice hushed, as though trying not to disturb the stillness of the hour.

I rubbed my eyes, my voice low and dry. "Long story. Why aren't you?"

"I just came by to tell you something," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "Wraith was spotted a couple of days ago in Amsterdam. She was alone. I had someone tail her for a few days, but there was no communication—nothing with anyone else."

The words hung in the air for a moment as I processed them. I stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. "Come in," I said, my voice softer now.

He entered, closing the door behind him, and sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed. I climbed back under the quilt, pulling it tight around me as the cold seemed to seep deeper into my bones. Despite my exhaustion, the mention of Wraith had jolted me awake.

"What about the others?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Emerson leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed his hands together. He looked tired, more so than I'd ever seen him. "Stitch hasn't been seen for a while now," he admitted, his tone heavy. "That's raising concerns, especially since Stone and the rest of them are off the grid too. Wraith is the only one who's surfaced, but it doesn't look like she's in contact with any of them."

"Which means what?" I pressed, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation reflected in his expression. "It could mean two things. Either she has no way of contacting them, or..." He hesitated, his voice dropping. "...she's cut all communication with them altogether."

A cold ripple of fear coursed through me at his words. Stitch, Stone, and the others—gone, untraceable. Wraith showing up alone, disconnected from the rest. None of it added up, and yet all of it felt like the prelude to something bigger, something worse.

I shivered, not just from the chill in the room but from the unspoken implications. My exhaustion was now a distant memory, replaced by the gnawing anxiety twisting in my stomach. "When is this ever going to end?" I murmured, more to myself than to Emerson.

He didn't answer right away, just looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Sympathy? Frustration? Fear? Maybe it was all three.

Finally, he stood up, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I thought you should know," he said quietly.

"Thanks," I replied, though my voice wavered. I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or more on edge with this new piece of information.

The night crept toward dawn, and before I knew it, the clock blinked 6:30 AM. Still, there was no sign of Russell. Concern gnawed at me, growing heavier with each passing minute. Talking with Emerson for the past few hours had been a welcome distraction, but the thought of Russell being gone—of not knowing where he was or what he was thinking—left me feeling hollow and achingly alone.

"So, he just told you to go home?" Emerson asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," I said softly, my gaze distant. "I don't blame him. It can't be easy knowing that one of the guys your girlfriend... slept with is living in the same house." My voice wavered on the last word, and my heart skipped painfully in my chest.

I tried to find something hopeful in the mess of emotions swirling inside me. For a brief moment, I thought Mason might've been right—that Russell wouldn't care, that he'd shrug it off. But that wasn't fair to Mason, or to anyone. I cared about Mason—loved him, even—but it was the kind of love you'd have for a brother, or for Frank. They weren't the issue here.

"Still a dick move," Emerson muttered. "I'm sorry for being here, though. That's why I've been staying up late—to make myself scarce."

I frowned, confused. "Why? Isn't sleep important too?"

Emerson looked wrecked, his exhaustion evident in the way his hair flopped to one side, messy and unkempt. The dark circles under his eyes added to the weariness etched across his face.

"I guess," he admitted, shrugging. "But I didn't want to hang around longer than necessary. The last thing I wanted was to cause problems between you two. But clearly, that didn't go as planned." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.

"It's nothing to worry about," I assured him. "Take your time, Emerson. Really. Don't make this harder on yourself than it already is."

He hesitated, watching me carefully as if searching for any cracks in my words.

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I almost died, Emerson. You know that. And I don't want to put myself—or anyone else—through that kind of pain again." My voice dropped, trembling under the weight of the memory. "I still remember my first shower after they rescued me."

Emerson's expression softened, his eyes wide with concern, but I pressed on before I lost my nerve.

"Russell stood with me," I said, my throat tightening. "Blood was everywhere—coating the entire tub. My stitches stung like hell, and I could barely keep myself upright. His arms were around me, holding me steady. I didn't even want to look down because it felt like my whole body was falling apart, like the bleeding would never stop."

The memory hit me hard, as fresh and raw as if it had happened yesterday. I felt my chest tighten, my nose stinging as tears threatened to spill. I sucked in a shaky breath, willing myself to stay composed.

"It was horrible," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Emerson leaned forward, his tone soft and sincere. "I'm so sorry you went through that."

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It carried an understanding that needed no further explanation. I wiped my eyes quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed the tears that had escaped.

"Thanks," I murmured, though the gratitude felt heavier than the word could convey.

The faint light of dawn began creeping into the room, and though the night had passed, the weight of everything it carried lingered, settling deep in my chest.

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"Don't be a jackass." Mason smirked as he lightly punched Frank in the shoulder. Frank, however, was doubled over laughing, his whole body shaking as he pointed at the chaotic scene unfolding across the street.

A Berlin family had dropped everything they were carrying—bags, groceries, even a jar of jam that had taken on a life of its own, rolling downhill along the cobbled street. The kid, red-faced and wide-eyed, sprinted after it like his life depended on catching that runaway jar.

To be fair, it was funny. I had to bite back a laugh myself. The absurdity of the moment was like something out of a comedy skit. But when I noticed the frazzled parents struggling to gather their scattered belongings, I sighed and stepped in to help.

Mason followed suit, shaking his head with an amused grin, while Frank, still chuckling, darted after the jam. He caught it just before it tumbled into a storm drain and held it aloft like a trophy, earning a mix of laughter and relieved gratitude from the kid. The boy, though beaming with pride, was visibly out of breath—no surprise, considering the incline of some Berlin streets.

"Here you go, champ," Frank said, handing the jar over with an exaggerated flourish.

The family thanked us profusely as we helped them gather the last of their groceries. Once they were back on their way, we continued our walk through Berlin.

The city was alive with summer energy. The sun blazed in the sky, its warmth soaking into my skin, and the endless blue overhead was dotted with only a few scattered clouds. The streets were buzzing with life—families and couples crowded every ice cream parlour, their laughter and chatter blending into the hum of the city. Vibrant flowers spilled from window boxes, their colours richer and more vivid than I'd seen in a long time.

It was exactly what I needed.

For a moment, I let myself forget the weight pressing on my chest—the constant worry about Russell, the mess of emotions I hadn't sorted through yet. The brightness of the day was a small reprieve, a reminder that not everything in life had to be heavy.

By the time we reached the heart of the city, the clock was edging past 1 PM. The reality of Russell's absence hit me again like a gut punch. He still wasn't home.

We were casually strolling through the streets, but my mind wasn't on the bright day or the bustling city around us. It was on him. Every corner we turned, every side street we passed, every shop window we glanced into—I was searching for him. My eyes scanned the crowds with a desperate urgency I tried to suppress, but it was impossible to ignore.

My chest felt tight, like something heavy was pressing down on me, but at the same time, it was hollow, a cavernous ache that refused to be filled. I didn't have the words to explain the feeling, but I hated it. The uncertainty, the guilt, the fear—it all tangled together, choking me.

He was gone because of me.

And the worst part was the nagging question that kept repeating in my mind, like a cruel echo: Does this mean I've lost him forever?

Would Hudson show up one day soon, calm and composed, and announce that Russell had reassigned himself to another job? That he'd resigned from our case and walked out of my life for good?

The thought alone made me feel physically ill. A sharp pang of nausea rose in my stomach, and I clenched my fists to steady myself.

Mason must have noticed the change in my demeanor because he stopped walking and turned to me, his expression firm but gentle. "If Russell doesn't come back by tonight," he said, "we'll call Hudson. We'll track him down. There's no reason for this, Bell. And it isn't your fault."

I shook my head, my voice low and brittle. "It is my fault, Mason."

He sighed, his gaze steady. "Did you know Emerson was going to be assigned to our case?"

I hesitated, looking away. "No," I said quietly, almost a whisper.

"Exactly." Mason's reply was calm, almost too calm. He nudged me lightly with his elbow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tried to lift the weight from my shoulders.

But no matter how many rational arguments he gave me, the guilt refused to fade. It clung to me like a second skin.

If I hadn't let Emerson in that night.
If I'd been more careful about my past.
If I'd handled the conversation with Russell better.

The endless "what ifs" played over and over in my head, each one cutting deeper than the last. I didn't want to admit it aloud, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this was my fault.

Mason's attempt at reassurance hung in the air between us, but it didn't reach me. I couldn't stop thinking: What if I've already ruined everything?

We found a small bar tucked into a quiet corner of the street and decided to stop for a quick drink. It was the kind of place that felt timeless—worn wooden tables, faded signage, and the faint hum of an old radio filtering through the open windows.

I stepped up to the bar and flagged down the bartender. "Double vodka and soda, please," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside me.

As I waited, Frank sauntered over, his presence a comforting weight at my side. "You alright, kiddo?" he asked, his tone soft but laced with concern.

I gave him a small smile, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "I'll be okay, Frank. Sometimes..." I paused, searching for the right words. "Sometimes I just wish things were easier, you know?"

He nodded, his expression understanding. "Yeah, I know."

With drinks in hand, we joined Mason outside. The weather was too good to waste indoors—bright sunshine, clear skies, and a gentle breeze that did its best to temper the heat. The bar had a scattering of tables on the sidewalk, shaded by colourful umbrellas, and we claimed one near the edge where we could watch the world pass by.

I took a sip of my drink, the cool liquid a brief reprieve from the relentless warmth, and filled them in on what Emerson had told me that morning about Wraith.

"The guy really is useful," Mason said with a dry laugh, raising his beer in a mock toast before taking a swig.

"We still don't know where the others are, though," Frank added, his brow furrowing with a worried frown. "They could be anywhere."

I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my tone light. "Try not to worry," I said, pulling a cigarette from my pack. The familiar click of my lighter felt grounding, a small routine in the chaos. "Emerson's not worried, so we shouldn't be either."

The words felt hollow, even as I said them. I couldn't tell if I was trying to convince Frank or myself.

The heat was oppressive, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement feel like a chore. It had hit a sheer twenty-five degrees, and I could still feel the residual sweat from the firearm training Park and I had done earlier that morning.

I glanced at Mason, who seemed unbothered as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head like he had all the time in the world. Frank, on the other hand, fidgeted with his glass, his worry etched plainly across his face.

As I took another drag of my cigarette, my thoughts drifted to Park and Sims. I'd felt a growing distance from them lately. They were always busy, always off doing their own thing, and I couldn't remember the last time we'd had a real conversation. I missed them more than I'd realized, and the ache of that loss felt sharper in moments like this.

I let the cigarette burn down, the ash falling unnoticed as I stared out at the bustling street. The chatter of passers-by, the clink of glasses from the bar, the hum of life all around—it should have been comforting. But instead, it only made me feel more distant, more untethered.

The day had slipped by faster than I expected, the hours blurring together until the orange glow of dusk gave way to the electric hum of the city's nightlife. Mason and I were cruising through the crowded streets, the world outside a swirl of neon lights and thrumming basslines spilling from bars and clubs. It felt good to have this moment—just the two of us. We hardly ever had the chance to talk one-on-one anymore, and there was plenty to unpack.

"So," Mason started, keeping one hand on the wheel as he shot me a sidelong glance, "was Emerson just a one-night stand?"

I sighed, leaning back against the headrest. "I guess. But I'll admit, I thought about him for weeks after. I even tried to go back to the bar one night..." I trailed off, my voice quieting.

"But?" Mason pressed, his brow quirking.

"Stitch stopped me," I said, my tone tinged with bitterness. "He didn't let me go anywhere alone for a while back then. Always had to be with me."

"And why did he do that?" Mason asked, turning the wheel sharply as a car behind us got a little too close for comfort.

"Couldn't—"

"Hold that thought," Mason interrupted, his voice suddenly taut with tension. "This asshole behind us has been tailing us for the last five or ten minutes. Load your gun, right now."

My heart skipped, the casual conversation forgotten as adrenaline surged through me. I pulled my pistol from the holster strapped to my thigh, my hands moving automatically as I checked the safety and the magazine.

"Mason," I said quickly, my mind snapping into focus. "Take another left, then a right. Drive straight for two blocks, then make a final right. Don't ask questions, just do it."

He glanced at me, his expression sharp with concern. "Why?"

"It's a tactic I used in Warsaw to flush out tails. Trust me," I said firmly, my voice brooking no argument.

Without hesitation, Mason followed my directions. He turned left, then right, cruised straight for two blocks, and finally took the last right. I kept my eyes locked on the rearview mirror, my breath hitching when the same car appeared behind us, sticking closer than ever.

"They're still there," I said, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Mason cursed under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "How the hell did you figure that out?"

"Normal drivers don't take turns like that unless they're following someone," I explained quickly. "I was leading us to one specific point—no way they'd match every move unless they were tailing us."

He nodded, his jaw clenched. "Good point. Call in Frank."

I grabbed the radio, my fingers moving with practiced ease as I patched through to Frank. "Frank, we've got a tail on us," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the rising tension. "Get Park and Sims and meet us. We might need backup."

"Copy that," Frank replied, his usual jovial tone replaced with something far more serious. "Where are you?"

I rattled off our location, keeping my eyes on the side mirrors as Mason navigated the busy streets. The car behind us wasn't making any attempts to hide its intent now, matching our every move with unnerving precision.

"Frank's on the way," I told Mason, my grip tightening around the pistol in my lap.

"Good," he said, his gaze flicking to the mirror. "Let's just hope we can shake this guy before it gets messy."

The weight of the situation settled over us like a storm cloud, but the familiar rhythm of preparation steadied me. My training kicked in, sharpening my senses, but even with that, the thought lingered in the back of my mind: What the hell are we about to face?

Suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. A bullet shattered the back taillight, sending shards of glass scattering across the street. The shots kept coming, each one a jarring burst that rattled the car. From the unmistakable sound, I recognized the weapon—a submachine gun, probably an MP5.

"Shit!" Mason yelled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wheel. "Bell, keep your head down!"

He slammed his foot on the gas, the car lurching forward as he wove through the crowded streets. Pedestrians screamed, their voices muffled by the chaos. Cars honked and swerved, tires screeching as drivers panicked to get out of the way.

"Keep going, Mason!" I shouted, adrenaline coursing through me.

I rolled my window down, the rush of air hitting my face as I craned my neck to get a better look at the car behind us. Two—no, three—figures moved inside, their shapes shifting behind the glare of the headlights.

"Do you see how many?" Mason asked, his voice tight with focus.

"Not clearly," I replied, flipping off the safety of my pistol. "Two, maybe three."

Without hesitation, I leaned out the window, my pulse pounding in my ears. I steadied my aim, drew a deep breath, and fired. The crack of my shot rang out, and I hit the car's right tire dead on. The vehicle wobbled but didn't stop. Instead, they doubled down, the relentless spray of bullets shredding our rear window into a jagged mess of holes. The backseat was trashed, and I knew we wouldn't last much longer like this.

"Hang on!" I shouted, reloading quickly.

I leaned out again, the world around me a blur of movement and noise. My hands steadied, and I reminded myself: Focus. Breathe. Like a sniper, I lined up my shot and fired. The bullet hit the driver square in the head. Blood splattered across their windshield, and the car swerved wildly before slamming into a lamppost with a deafening crash.

"See anymore?" Mason asked, sparing a quick glance at me.

I turned, catching movement in the distance. My stomach dropped. "There's more—three, maybe four cars, coming in fast."

"Fuck this," Mason growled, slamming on the brakes. The car skidded sideways, tires screeching as we came to an abrupt stop.

"Get out!" Mason barked, already throwing open his door. "Take cover on the other side. We've got a better chance outside than sitting ducks in here. Fire until the others show up!"

I didn't hesitate. My heart pounded as I swung my door open and bolted around the car to Mason's side. We crouched behind the vehicle, using it as makeshift cover, and began firing back.

The first wave of gunfire was relentless, bullets sparking off the car's frame and ricocheting off the pavement. I reloaded quickly, my hands trembling but precise as I returned fire.

The seconds stretched into an eternity. For every shot we landed, it felt like more assailants emerged, spilling out of the incoming cars like a flood.

"Mason, there's too many of them!" I shouted over the deafening chaos.

"Keep firing!" he yelled back, his voice unyielding.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: we were completely outnumbered. My pistol felt insignificant against the sheer firepower they brought. My hands ached from gripping it so tightly, but I couldn't stop.

More cars pulled up, their doors swinging open as more attackers joined the fray. The noise was overwhelming—gunfire, shouting, tires screeching—and through it all, a chilling certainty began to settle in my mind.

This was it.

This was how it would end.

I could almost see Stitch's cold, smug face as he orchestrated all of this, his revenge finally catching up to me. For a fleeting moment, I thought about giving in—just accepting that it was over.

But then Mason's voice broke through, fierce and determined. "Hold the line, Bell! They're coming—we just have to hold on!"

His words reignited something in me. I wasn't ready to go down without a fight. Not yet.

With a deep breath, I steadied myself and fired again, praying Frank, Sims, and Park would get here before it was too late.