The room was warm, a stark contrast to the icy fear creeping up my spine. Yet, something about the atmosphere felt... wrong. Like a predator's den disguised as a sanctuary. I tugged weakly at the handcuff around my wrist, the cold metal biting into my skin.

"Hello? Can anyone bloody hear me?" My voice rasped out, hoarse and dry. It sounded alien to my own ears, as if someone else were speaking for me. My throat burned from lack of water, and my words cracked like brittle twigs.

The silence stretched, amplifying the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, until a door flew open with a jarring clang. The sudden noise made me flinch, and I turned my head, squinting at the figure stepping into the room.

My vision was blurred, but I could make out a man, shorter than most, with a neatly trimmed beard and a bandana tied snugly around his head. A grin spread across his thin lips, his demeanour both amused and relieved. "Holy fuck, she lives," he said, the words dripping with casual humour.

I blinked at him, disoriented and uneasy. "Excuse me? Where the hell am I?" My voice carried more strength this time, though my unease was plain.

The man's grin widened. "You're in Berlin, baby," he said, his tone light, almost playful, like this was some grand joke.

Berlin. The word hit me like a slap. My mind reeled, struggling to piece together the fragments of memory swirling in a fog of confusion. "How long have I been out?" I asked, my voice trembling as dread slithered into my chest.

"A week," he replied, nonchalantly. "Name's Woods. Frank Woods." He stuck out a hand, and after a brief hesitation, I met his with mine. His grip was firm, grounding, though it did little to ease my nerves.

"Nice to meet you," I muttered. My back ached fiercely, and I shifted uncomfortably, trying to find some relief. "Now, can I get out of this bloody bed? My back's killing me."

I attempted to push myself up, grimacing at the sharp twinges of pain shooting through my body. Woods called out suddenly, his voice echoing off the walls, "Ad!"

A response came from somewhere beyond the door, deep and gravelly, with an edge that sent a chill down my spine. "Give me a minute, Frank."

The voice was calm but commanding, a stark contrast to Woods' casual demeanour. It carried a weight that made me feel more trapped than the handcuff on my wrist.

Woods turned back to me, muttering, "Ad will be here in a sec." He produced a key and unlocked the cuff, the metal clattering against the bed frame as he pulled it away. I flexed my wrist, wincing at the marks left behind.

Finally, I managed to sit up, my back cracking in three different places with a sound that was both alarming and satisfying. I let out a small sigh of relief, but the reprieve was short-lived as my head throbbed, and my ears buzzed faintly. "Who is Ad?" I asked, cautious, my voice shaky.

"You'll see," Woods replied cryptically, leaning casually against the wall. His lack of concern only heightened my anxiety.

I shifted slightly, and a sharp, searing pain flared in my abdomen. I sucked in a breath, wincing as I pulled up my shirt to inspect the source. A thick white bandage was wrapped tightly around my midsection, and though it appeared fresh, a small spot of crimson had seeped through, staining the fabric.

My stomach churned at the sight, and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. My memories were still too murky to piece together what had happened, but one thing was clear: I'd been gravely injured, and whoever these people were, they'd seen fit to patch me up—and restrain me.

Woods watched me silently, his expression unreadable, as I lowered my shirt back into place. Every instinct screamed to get up and leave, but my body wasn't ready to comply, and my mind was too clouded to formulate a plan. For now, I could only wait for answers—and for whoever "Ad" was to make their appearance. 

Woods gently pressed me back into the bed, his hands steady but firm, and I groaned at the ache radiating through my body. "Take it easy, you were stabbed, remember? You're only up and about because of the morphine." His voice carried a mix of concern and dry humor, as though trying to lighten the mood. He handed me a plastic cup of water, the cool liquid soothing the unbearable dryness in my throat.

The door creaked open, and another man walked in, his slicked-back hair gleaming under the dim light. His smile was wide, almost unnervingly charismatic. "Well, aren't you lucky to be alive," he quipped. "Alex Mason." He extended his hand toward me. I hesitated, unsure if I should respond, but after a beat, I reluctantly lifted my hand to meet his. Pain shot through my back, sharp and searing, forcing a gasp from my lips.

"Lay down, would ya?" Woods barked, though his tone was more playful than annoyed. "You're making it worse." He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Before I could respond, another figure stepped into the room—a stark contrast to Mason's vibrant energy. This man was bald, his demeanour cold and professional. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, not a single wrinkle or flaw in sight. He carried himself with an air of authority that felt as heavy as the atmosphere in the room.

"Jason Hudson," he introduced himself, his voice sharp and clipped, like the edge of a knife. He gave a curt nod toward Woods, then turned his piercing gaze to me. "Where did you come from?"

His tone left no room for idle chatter, his question delivered with the precision of an interrogation. I blinked, taken aback by the abruptness, my thoughts still swimming in a haze of morphine and pain.

"I... I don't remember," I stammered, shifting slightly against the pillow to ease the discomfort in my back. Hudson's expression didn't shift; it was as if he was carved from stone, unmoved by my response.

"You must remember something," he pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was no hostility, just an unyielding expectation that I would give him the answers he sought. Talking to him felt like trying to extract warmth from ice.

"I told you, I don't know!" The panic in my voice rose before I could tamp it down. My head was spinning, my body ached, and the memory of the woods, the knife, and the blood was a foggy, incoherent blur.

"Easy, kid," Woods cut in, his tone softer as he shot Hudson a warning look. "Let her breathe. She's been through hell."

Hudson didn't reply, but the way his jaw tightened showed he wasn't satisfied with my answer. He stepped back slightly, his arms crossed, but his penetrating gaze stayed locked on me.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, each person in the room seemingly caught in their own thoughts, sizing up the situation in ways I couldn't begin to understand. My head felt like it was filled with cotton, muffling everything around me. I tried to focus, tried to remember anything, but the harder I concentrated, the more elusive the truth became. The events leading up to this moment were a blur, fractured pieces scattered across the dark recesses of my mind.

Hudson didn't leave. His eyes were still locked on me, but there was no warmth there, no empathy, just calculation. It was unsettling, like being examined under a microscope, each breath I took, each movement I made, being analysed for answers I didn't have.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being trapped, cornered by questions I wasn't ready to face. I had no idea who these men were or what they wanted from me. But I knew one thing: I wasn't safe. Not here. Not now.

Mason leaned casually against the doorframe, his demeanour almost too relaxed for the situation. The smile he had given me earlier hadn't disappeared; it lingered, but it didn't make me feel any better. It made me feel like a puzzle, one that he was itching to solve.

"Alright, alright, let's give the girl some space," Mason said, finally sensing the tension in the room. He flashed a grin at Hudson, one that bordered on mockery. "We can interrogate her later. She needs rest, and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of watching her squirm."

Woods didn't let up either. He took a step closer, placing a hand on my shoulder with a comforting squeeze. "You're safe here, kid. We're not gonna hurt you. Just rest. That's all you need to do right now."

His words were a small anchor in the storm of confusion and fear that threatened to drown me. Safe? Could I really believe that? Every part of me screamed that I needed to get out, to run, but I couldn't even muster the strength to sit up without feeling like my body would betray me.

I let out a slow breath, trying to calm the rising panic in my chest. The pain in my stomach, a dull throb under the bandages, reminded me of how close I had come to not making it. A bullet, a knife—was there a difference? Both could end a life, both could take away everything I knew. I didn't want to be caught in whatever game these men were playing. But here I was, lying in this sterile room, with no memory of how I'd ended up here, no idea who I could trust.

"Woods is right," Mason said after a moment, his voice gentler than before. "We're not gonna force you to talk. Not yet anyway. But we'll get the answers eventually. You might as well make it easy on yourself."

The comment was so casual, so assured, that it made my skin crawl. There was something about him—about all of them—that felt off. Hudson's coldness, Mason's easy charm, Woods' false reassurance. It felt like I was surrounded by wolves, each with their own agenda, and I was the helpless prey.

My body ached, and my eyes felt heavy. The morphine in my system was doing its job, clouding my thoughts and dulling the edges of the pain, but it also made me vulnerable. I couldn't fight back against the haze that threatened to overtake me.

"I'll talk when I'm ready," I managed, my voice hoarse.

Mason nodded, his smile never faltering. "Fair enough. Rest up. When you're ready to cooperate, we'll be here."

As I lay back, trying to push aside the dread clawing at my chest, I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how much I rested, no matter how many hours passed, I would never feel safe here. These men—they knew more than they were letting on. And I had a sinking feeling that the answers I sought were far more dangerous than I could ever have imagined.

The pain in my body made it hard to think straight, but I couldn't stop myself from wondering—what did these men want with me? What was their connection to the life I had been running from?

As the room dimmed and the edges of my consciousness began to blur, one final thought circled in my mind: *What had happened to me, and what would happen next?*

Suddenly, another man walked into the room. "Russell Adler, pleased to meet you."

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of Russell Adler. The name alone sent a jolt of panic through me, my breath catching in my throat. *Russell Adler.* The very man I'd run into after that blur of a memory, the one who seemed both like a saviour and a threat, somehow. But seeing him now, standing in the doorway, felt surreal. He looked... too calm. Too composed. It was as if he didn't belong in this mess of confusion and pain.

I blinked a few times, trying to focus. The man who entered was tall, with a lean, muscular build—definitely someone who could hold his own. His aviators were perched on his nose, and his dark hair was neatly styled. There was something striking about him, almost magnetic. But I couldn't let that distract me. *Focus,* I told myself. *Focus on the questions, not the distractions.*

But something was wrong. There was a tightness in my chest, a discomfort that came from the back of my mind—a nagging sense that things weren't what they seemed. *Adler.* The name rang in my head, but it didn't make sense. *Stitch, camp, Vikhor*—what did any of this mean? I tried to dig through the fragments of my memories, but they slipped through my fingers faster than I could catch them.

Before I could voice another question, Adler's gaze met mine. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. They studied me with such intensity, like he was trying to piece me together, just like I was trying to piece together my own past.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. I had so many questions, but none of them seemed to make it past the tightness in my chest.

"What's wrong?" Adler's voice softened as he took a step closer, the weight of his presence more noticeable now. But I couldn't bring myself to let him near, even though part of me felt a strange pull toward him.

I flinched slightly, trying to sit up straighter, but the pain in my body quickly stopped me. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, every breath a struggle. I was running on empty, every inch of me aching, and the last thing I needed right now was to trust someone who felt too good to be true.

Mason, sensing the shift in the air, stepped in, breaking the tension. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his voice calm and reassuring, though there was something in his eyes that suggested this situation was more complicated than any of us realized. "Just breathe. You've been through a lot."

I took a shaky breath, glancing between Mason, Adler, and Hudson. "Who are you people?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. I didn't know who to trust anymore.

Adler gave a slow, deliberate nod, but didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned to Mason. "How's she holding up?" His tone was softer now, but there was an edge to it. *Why does he sound like he's in charge here?* I wondered.

Mason gave a half-shrug. "She's still in shock, but she'll be alright." He looked back at me, his eyes softening. "Don't worry, Bell. We're here to help you. We're not going anywhere."

But something about those words didn't sit right with me. I had no idea who these people were, what they wanted, or how any of this connected to the life I was running from. All I knew was that my memories were fractured, and whatever these men had to do with it, I needed to figure out fast.

Adler took another step closer, his presence looming like a shadow. His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt. Was he trying to manipulate me, or was there something more going on here? My gut told me to be careful, but every fibre of my being wanted to trust him.

But I couldn't afford to let my guard down. Not now. Not when my life felt like it was unravelling. I had to get out of here, find the truth—*find me*.

I tried to shake off the dizziness that threatened to overtake me. "You're not answering my question," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Who are you people? And what the hell do you know about Vikhor and Stitch?"

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence as Adler and Mason exchanged a look. Hudson remained as stone-faced as ever, and Frank—Frank just stared at me, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Finally, Adler spoke, but his words didn't reassure me. They only made everything feel even more complicated.

"All in good time, Bell. All in good time."

Adler's name hit me like a slap to the face, but it wasn't the shock that made my heart race—it was the fear. Fear of what *he* might represent, fear of the lies and the truths that had yet to be uncovered. The warmth from his hand on mine was still there, comforting and dangerous all at once, like something I couldn't trust but didn't know how to resist. What was I doing?

"What happened amor?"

"Don't fucking call me that, he did," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves carried weight I wasn't ready to bear. I tried to pull my hand from his grip, but it felt like my body wasn't listening to me anymore. Every movement I made only brought more pain, and it was easier to just sink back into the bed, even as the unease churned in my gut.

Adler's expression shifted, but only slightly. His usual calm character remained, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that might have been confusion, or maybe concern. But whatever it was, it didn't make me feel any better.

"Amor, I'm just trying to understand," he said, his voice low and gentle, too gentle, like he was trying to coax me into some kind of false security. "Where did you come from?"

The word *amor* hit me again, and I recoiled. No. That wasn't right. Not after everything I'd been through. Not after Stitch. Not after what Vikhor had done to me. They all had their own ways of trying to manipulate me, to pull me into their world, and I wasn't about to let Adler do the same.

"I don't care who you think you are," I hissed, the words laced with frustration. "I don't trust you. I don't trust any of you."

Adler didn't move, but I could feel his gaze on me, steady and calculating, like he was trying to figure out what made me tick, what was behind all the panic and confusion.

"Why don't you trust me, Bell?" he asked quietly, the question cutting through the chaos in my mind. "What did Stitch say to you? What did Vikhor tell you?"

The names hit me like another blow, but my response was instinctive. "They told me everything you're not saying. I'm not some fool you can use."

Adler's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't push further. Instead, he leaned back, his posture still relaxed, his eyes never leaving me. He was playing it cool, like he had all the time in the world. But I wasn't so sure.

The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on me. My thoughts were jumbled, fragments of memories and half-formed ideas floating in and out of focus. But in the back of my mind, something gnawed at me. *What if Adler wasn't the one I should be afraid of? What if the real danger was something else entirely?*

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to still my racing heart, but all I could see was the image of Vikhor's face, twisted in that sickening smile, and the words he had spoken to me, the lies that had been wrapped in false kindness.

I shook my head, desperate to clear it.

"Don't call me that," I muttered, still trying to push away the panic rising in my chest. "And stop trying to make me trust you. You're all the same."

The room grew quiet for a moment, the tension thickening between us. Adler remained where he was, his hand still near mine, but not quite touching anymore. The silence stretched out, but I couldn't hold my breath long enough to settle my nerves.

"You've been through a lot," Adler said after a long pause, his voice steady, though there was a hint of something else—something more human, more vulnerable—behind it. "And I get that. But right now, you need to focus on healing. Let me help you, Bell. You're not alone in this."

I couldn't let myself be taken in by those words, no matter how genuine they sounded. I knew too well how easily those words could become chains, how easily trust could turn into a weapon. And right now, I wasn't in a position to let my guard down. Not for Adler. Not for anyone.

"I'll heal on my own," I replied, my voice sharp despite the weariness that weighed on me. "I'm not your responsibility. So don't pretend you care."

I could see the slight flicker of something in his eyes—maybe disappointment, maybe understanding—but I didn't care. I didn't have the luxury of trusting anyone anymore. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the things I'd seen.

Adler didn't respond immediately, but his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, to comfort me, to say something to change my mind. But I wouldn't let him. I couldn't let myself get too close. Not when I had no idea what his game was.

Instead, he gave a slight nod and stood up, taking a step back from the bed. "Alright. I'm not going anywhere, Bell. You'll figure things out in your own time. But when you're ready to talk, I'm here."

I watched him as he turned to leave, my thoughts tangled in confusion. Was he being sincere? Or was this just another trap?

I let out a shaky breath, finally allowing myself to sink back into the bed, my body exhausted, but my mind racing with too many unanswered questions. What was the truth? And what was I missing?

He nodded and turned to face Jason, Alex and Frank. "You. You made him blind. Stitch, stories, kidnapping." The whole room at a echoey silence after I said those words out loud.

"Adler, what the fuck is she on about?" Frank pushed Adler and Adler pushed him back. I fell asleep unexpectedly from the exhaustion and pain all over my abdomen.

----
My eyes had slowly adjusted to the bright lights in the room as I could barely keep my eyes open from the tiredness and too much morphine. 

"Wake up." Adler nudged my arm.

I froze at his words, my mind struggling to keep up with the slow haze of morphine and exhaustion that clung to me. That hit me harder than it should have, the reality of how close I'd come to losing everything, to being unable to move, trapped in my own body.

But I couldn't let myself linger on that. I wasn't about to show weakness. Not with him here, not with Adler. I glared at him, my eyes blurry but defiant.

"Where did you come from, beautiful?" he repeated, that same soft smile curling at the corners of his lips. He didn't seem affected by my resistance. Maybe it was a game to him. Or maybe he was genuinely trying to comfort me. I couldn't tell, and that only made me more uneasy.

I rolled my eyes and groaned, trying to sit up without feeling the sting of every stitch in my abdomen. "You think I care about your fucking compliments right now?" I snapped, my voice raw, still shaky from everything. The effort of speaking, of breathing, felt like too much. But I wasn't about to let him get under my skin. Not now.

Adler didn't flinch at my words, but there was something almost imperceptible in the way his expression shifted—a flicker of understanding, maybe even frustration, but only for a moment. He leaned against the bed, arms crossed, watching me with those piercing eyes that I couldn't escape.

"You really think I'm trying to butter you up?" he said, his voice softer now, more serious. "I'm just stating facts. You were *this close* to being paralyzed, Bell. And you did run into me headfirst. So I'm not going anywhere until you heal."

"Yeah, well, you don't get to tell me what to do," I muttered under my breath, the words more out of habit than anything else. The morphine was dulling my sharpness, but not enough to forget how much I hated feeling helpless, like a pawn in someone else's game.

He chuckled lightly, but there was no humour in it, just a resigned sigh. "You're right. I can't tell you what to do. But I can make sure you don't screw yourself up worse than you already have."

I winced, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His words were sinking in, whether I wanted them to or not. I didn't need anyone telling me what my body was going through. I already knew. I already felt it.

"Get the fuck away from me now," I said again, more to myself than to him, but my voice was tired. I wanted him gone, to let me rest, to stop poking at the raw nerves he'd opened with his soft touch and harder words.

He didn't leave, though. Instead, he just stayed there, watching me with a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. After a long, drawn-out silence, he finally spoke again, his tone softer but no less insistent.

"Bell, you need to rest. You're fighting yourself, and it's not going to help you get better."

It all swirled together, a tangled mess of emotions and sensations I couldn't quite untangle. The morphine fogged my mind, blurring everything, but his words were sharp, cutting through the haze like a knife.

"Why are you even doing this?" I finally asked, my voice hoarse and weak, barely a whisper. "Why are you helping me?"

I felt his presence shift, heard the slight movement of his weight, and I could sense the frustration in his silence before he spoke again.

"Because you need it. Whether you want to admit it or not, you're not alone in this. And neither am I." His voice softened, almost too softly. I felt his hand, warm but careful, rest gently on the edge of the bed near mine.

I wanted to pull away, push him out of my space, but the warmth of his hand felt... comforting. I hated myself for even letting that thought in.

"Everyone's got their reasons," he added, his tone a little quieter, almost distant now. "Some of us... we just try to do what's right, even when we don't know what the hell we're doing."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. The weight of his words settled in my chest, but I couldn't let myself acknowledge it. I wasn't ready to trust anyone again—especially not him. Not after everything.

"You should leave," I muttered, trying to sound stronger than I felt, but the words came out more fragile than I wanted.

He didn't respond right away, but I could feel him standing there, waiting. His presence lingered in the room like an uninvited guest.

All I wanted was to get some rest. To forget the ache in my body and the unease crawling under my skin.

"Go away," I whispered, and for a moment, I thought he might actually listen.

But instead, I felt his hand on the blanket, just barely brushing it. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly, as if that was the only thing I needed to hear.

I wanted to scream at him, to fight back, but instead, my eyes closed, heavy from the pain and the drugs, and I let the exhaustion take over. Just for a little while, I let myself sink into the comfort of the bed, the only thing that didn't feel like it was slipping through my fingers.

As my mind faded, Adler's last words echoed in the silence: *"You're not alone."*

But I couldn't shake the feeling that I might be better off if I were."

"Where were you? What happened and why did you leave?"

"I.."

"You can tell me." He shifted himself onto my bed and sat down beside my legs.

I couldn't help but notice the scars on his face. They were a part of who he was clearly, and it suited him, which was probably bad to say. 

"I remembered leaving because I had had enough of being ruled around. As I tried to leave, one of them stabbed me and I kept running into the forest. I had an offer from MI6, and I considered taking it and that's why I was running. Then I guess it was you I ran into since the colour of your coat right now."

"You hit me like a brick hits a wall and knocked yourself out. Be careful next time." He rested his hand on my knee and squeezed lightly. Surely what Stitch said was bullshit right? This man had taken care of me since I ran into his chest. 

Adler took his hand and traced the bruise along my forehead.

I flinched away but he made a reassuring gesture to make me feel more comfortable.

"What camp were you at?"

I groaned at the pain when he pushed his finger into the bruise to see if it would hurt.

"Sorry, beautiful."

"Fucking Stitch," I groaned.

Russell looked at me with a shocked expression and it disappeared inside a few seconds. His fingers went to my hospital gown to look at the wound underneath.

"That's fine, go ahead." I nodded my head and groaned at the movement. His fingers traced the freshest bandage the nurses had wrapped me in and his facial expression had nothing but empathy written all over it. 

"I'm really sorry, take it easy."

"It's fine." I rolled down my gown and pulled the blanket over me. A comfortable silence filled the room as Alder pulled the blanket up over my arms.

"Rest up," He looked at the chart above the wall, "Bell. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Adler."

"Goodnight, Bell."

The conversation left me wondering many things. If anything Stitch said was true, if he was lying or if Russell was putting an act on. So many things roamed my mind until my eyes closed and my dreams flourished on. 

----

The night felt long and lonely. My stitches hurt, my head hurt and for some reason I couldn't get Russell fucking Adler out of my head.

He was something else. A standing piece of art, those scars, the stubble, his tallness, everything, shit.

I thought about all the things Stitch said about Adler, and I started doubting myself more and more each minute. Was this the right Russell Adler? Sweet, caring and somehow gorgeous?

There was no noise and suddenly there was a knock at the door, making me jump out of my skin. I had become so jumpy and uneasy.