I couldn't help but watch Mason as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot. The steam curled lazily upward as the dark liquid filled his light blue ceramic mug—a mug I'd seen him use countless times. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost methodical. It was just a Mason thing. Maybe he'd always been like that.

He had a way of making even the simplest tasks seem purposeful, like every small act was part of some larger, unspoken plan.

Lately, though, it wasn't just his habits I'd been noticing. His nightmares—those relentless spectres that once plagued him—seemed to have subsided. That was the best part about him now. He woke up looking refreshed, like he'd actually managed to get some real sleep for a change. No more middle-of-the-night callouts, no startled shouts breaking the silence, no gasping for air as if he'd been drowning in his dreams.

It was doing him good. More good than I'd dared to hope for.

Still, deep down, a quiet worry lingered. What if they came back? What if those numbers, the ones etched so deeply into his mind, resurfaced? What if the peace he'd found was only temporary? I hated to think that way, but I couldn't help it.

"What are you looking at?" Mason's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. His tone was light, and the question was followed by a small, easy laugh.

I looked up to see him smiling—a real, clear smile that stretched across his face and lit up his features. It wasn't forced or fleeting, but genuine, beaming.

For a moment, I thought maybe his problems really were fading. Maybe the weight of everything was lifting. Maybe those damned numbers were leaving him for good.

"Nothing at all," I replied, my smirk matching his.

But inside, I couldn't stop hoping it was true—that this newfound peace wasn't just a reprieve but a chance for Mason to finally be free.

Adler emerged lazily from our bedroom, his thick, brown hair sticking up in a way that defied gravity. He shuffled into the room, clearly worse for wear, his red nose and watery eyes doing him no favours.

"Nice hairdo," Woods blurted out before dissolving into laughter, doubling over like it was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.

I bit my lip, trying not to join in, but damn, Woods wasn't wrong. I loved Adler, but holy hell, the man looked like shit this morning—like a busted-up, allergy-ridden mess.

Adler shrugged off the laughter, his expression resigned but unbothered. He walked over to me, looking for all the world like someone who just wanted a cup of coffee and some peace.

"Ad, are you okay?" I asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

"Yeah, allergies," he muttered, bending down to kiss me.

I leaned up to meet him halfway, my hand pressing gently against his chest. But as much as I cared, as much as I wanted to comfort him, I couldn't hold it in any longer. A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.

"I'm sorry!" I managed to choke out, trying to stifle the giggles that wouldn't quit. "I couldn't help it."

Adler sighed, clearly unimpressed but too tired to fight it. His left eye was a little swollen, his nose was running, and his wild hair only added to the tragicomic picture.

It was contagious. Park started chuckling quietly at first, but then Sims joined in, followed by Mason, Hudson, and, of course, Woods, who was practically crying by now. The room was a symphony of laughter, and Adler just stood there, stoic, waiting for it all to pass.

Ten minutes later, as Adler nursed a cup of coffee and waited for his antihistamines to kick in, Weaver walked in. He took one look at Adler, then at the rest of us still trying to pull ourselves together, and raised an eyebrow.

"Rough morning?" Weaver asked, smirking.

Adler didn't even look up from his coffee. "You have no idea."

And that, of course, sent everyone back into fits of laughter. Even Adler couldn't suppress the faintest hint of a grin behind his mug.

"Good to see you again, Bell. You're looking well."

Weaver nodded at me, his tone laced with an unsettling civility that grated on my nerves. I managed a quick nod in return, but I couldn't stop the flicker of anger that simmered just beneath the surface. Honestly, I still felt like punching the bastard's face in. Setting Mason, Woods, and me against each other had been about as smart as trying to put out a fire with gasoline. A chainsaw couldn't have cut through the tension that still lingered among us.

Weaver's presence was a necessary evil, but it didn't mean I had to like him. Not after everything that had gone down.

"So," Weaver continued, his gaze sweeping the room with a calculated steadiness, "there's someone I need you all to meet later in downtown Berlin. A guy who's a huge asset to our operation. He might have a lead on where Stitch is. This could work in our favor, especially with everything that happened with Bell and Stitch. They've gone into brilliant hiding, but this guy... he may know something."

Park, sitting across from Weaver, raised an eyebrow and lifted her glass of water. She took a long, measured swig before speaking. Her accent was sharp, precise, and every word carried a direct intensity.

"And how exactly is this guy supposed to help us? Will he be involved much?"

Weaver sighed, a flicker of weariness crossing his face before he quickly masked it. He pulled out a chair with a loud scrape across the floor and sank into it with a thud.

"In all due concern, Park, he will be. We need him. His knowledge, his connections—it's something we can't pass up right now."

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier with every word. Weaver's confidence did little to alleviate the unease that lingered.

Sims, sitting a little farther away but still within earshot, leaned forward. His brows furrowed as he looked at Weaver, concern etched on his face.

"We can't have more people on this mission, Weaver. Not now. Adding someone else just puts us all at risk. It's dangerous enough as it is, and with more people, we're making ourselves an even bigger target. Especially with everything that's already happened, Bell shouldn't be put in more danger, none of us should."

The room fell into a brief, uneasy silence. The tension was palpable, a collective apprehension settling in our eyes.

Weaver met Sims' gaze, his own expression hardening slightly. "I get the risks. Believe me, I do. But if this guy has a chance of giving us an edge against Stitch, we take it. No matter what it costs."

His words hung in the air, a grim reality settling over the room. The decisions we made now weren't just about survival—they were about taking every necessary chance to end things before they escalated any further.

Russell sat up, wincing slightly as he rubbed his temples. The weariness on his face was fading, replaced by a more focused expression. He glanced around at us before speaking, his voice low but resolute.

"They're right, Weaver. This guy could be anyone. Is he even trustworthy? Stitch is still after Bell, and we can't afford to have more people around. Every new face just increases the odds of something going wrong."

Weaver's eyes narrowed, his patience slipping just a bit. He threw his hands up in frustration.

"This guy has been a huge asset to the CIA and NATO. He's helped them in ways you can't even imagine, okay? We need to trust him. You think we have time to play guessing games when we're dealing with Stitch and everything else? We have guards on this perimeter, twenty-four-seven. No blind spots, no weak links. There's nothing to worry about. Hudson knows this guy personally, and if Hudson trusts him, then I trust him too."

The tension in the room didn't exactly disappear, but Weaver's words seemed to settle some of the doubt, at least for the moment. His confidence was a reluctant reassurance, a necessary faith that we had to place in someone even if none of us fully trusted him.

We all nodded slowly, each of us digesting the reality of what needed to be done. Plans were forming in our heads, strategies laid out with an unspoken determination.

After a brief pause, Weaver continued, outlining the next steps.

"So, here's the deal. Bell, Adler, and Mason will meet this guy downtown. We'll get the intel, see what we're working with. The rest of you—Sims, Park, and Woods—you'll stay in communication via walkie-talkies. Keep your eyes open. Stay sharp. Any sign of trouble, you radio us immediately."

There was a collective nod of agreement. We were all aware of the risks, but there was no room for doubt now. Every choice we made was about survival, strategy, and staying one step ahead of Stitch.

The plan was set. We were committed to seeing it through. The lines were drawn, trust was still a work in progress, but we had a job to do—and it was time to get to work.

-----------

We walked down the bustling streets of Berlin, the city's energy wrapping around us like a restless current. People rushed past, clutching expensive coffees and espressos, their sleek smartphones tucked under arms or pressed to ears. The city was a mix of old-world charm and modern hustle, with towering, historic buildings standing tall alongside trendy storefronts. Cars zipped past in a blur, their polished surfaces reflecting the afternoon sunlight.

We turned onto a cobbled street lined with charming windowsills full of bright, popping flowers that added a touch of colour against the grey stone. A small coffee shop sat on the corner, a quaint, unassuming place that seemed like just another café among many. But that's where I saw him.

Fuck's sake.

A cold knot of disbelief settled in my chest. The guy sitting casually on the corner bench outside the coffee shop matched every detail of Emerson. A small bump on his nose, a dimple on his left cheek, and that familiar messy brown hair. My heart skipped a beat.

Emerson. Here.

"Alright, Mason, you first," Adler muttered, his voice laced with a mix of caution and authority as he shoved Mason forward. Mason stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing, his eyes narrowing as he approached the man.

We all walked up to the guy, a mix of curiosity and tension hanging in the air. We exchanged brief, firm handshakes before sitting down at a nearby table. The clinking of coffee cups and the murmur of city noise filled the space around us.

"Do I know you?" Emerson finally spoke, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. His gaze landed on me, a hint of unease in his eyes. It was clear he knew where I came from—and that wasn't a good sign.

"No, you don't." My voice was sharp, no-nonsense. "Now, let's get to the point. Where is he?"

I leaned in, my eyes locked onto his, the words carrying the weight of urgency. Time felt like it was slipping away.

Adler glanced at me, a raised eyebrow questioning my approach. Without warning, he nudged me lightly under the table with his boot. The sharp contact made me grunt in pain, but I didn't break eye contact with Emerson.

"Careful," Adler muttered under his breath, a flicker of warning in his gaze. The message was clear: we needed to stay sharp, play this cool. But how much longer could we keep the façade?

Emerson's expression wavered slightly, but he didn't say anything. The city noise around us seemed to fade away as the tension between us thickened.

Emerson spilled out files from his leather bag onto the table. The papers were worn, faded to a shade of brown that hinted at age and use. The bag itself gave off an unmistakable smell of pure leather—expensive, rich, and sharp. It felt like a luxury item, the kind of thing you don't find on just any street corner.

I glanced up at Emerson, my eyes meeting his. A flicker of confusion crossed his face as he looked back at me.

"I swear I know you," he said, a troubled expression settling on his features.

"You don't." My response was cold and unyielding. I didn't want this guy to remember anything. Not about me. Not about that night. Not now, not ever.

For a brief moment, despite my anger, something about Emerson tugged at something inside me. His shortish brown hair, his eyes that seemed to captivate in a way that made me uncomfortable—it was a fleeting weakness I didn't want to acknowledge. I shook the thought away. This wasn't the time. Weaver and his stupid decisions had already made enough of a mess.

Emerson shook his head slowly and leaned back in his chair, refocusing on the conversation.

"We somehow traced Stitch and his 'gang' to South America," Emerson finally said, his tone cautious but resolute. "Whether or not this intel is good—and whether it's a trick or not—"

Adler cut him off with a sharp, impatient gesture. "Shouldn't you know if it's a trick or not?"

Emerson glanced at Adler but didn't respond. The frustration in Adler's voice was palpable, but Emerson shook his head. "I'm not exactly in that loop. But I could pull a few strings, make some calls—get someone to check things out for you."

Mason let out a long, exhausted sigh. He pressed his fingers into his forehead, the tension in his face evident. "The way Weaver spoke about you, how he hinted at you knowing your stuff—how can you not know if this intel is good or not?"

Adler, his usual sarcastic self, rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mason. You know Weaver overreacts about this kind of shit. Half the time, it's just paranoia."

But I shook my head, cutting through the conversation with a more decisive tone. "No, we're good. Don't pull anyone else in. You're coming back with us. We need you with the team."

Emerson opened his mouth as if about to protest, but then Mason interrupted him. "Bell, you can't make that call for all of us."

The words hit me harder than I wanted. I glanced around at the group—Adler, Mason, Emerson—and felt the gravity of responsibility settle deeper. We were walking a thin line, the kind that only grew sharper with every decision. But right now, I knew the priority: getting intel, staying one step ahead of Stitch, and keeping us all in one piece.

"Let's figure this out together. No surprises. No lone moves." My voice held a firm resolve. "We trust each other, or we don't survive."

-----

Everyone had scattered for the day, off to their training sessions, patrols, or whatever other tasks they had on the schedule. The house was filled with a restless energy that had settled into a tense calm. Now, it was just me sitting at the kitchen table with Emerson, the newest paper crumpled slightly at the corners, a half-drunk cup of coffee sitting beside it, lukewarm and forgotten.

What a day this had been. My head swam with the kind of chaos only we seemed to attract. Some guy I'd slept with at some point over the last year and a half—someone I barely remembered now—had just casually walked into my reality. Emerson. Sitting across from me, drinking coffee like it was just another morning, like he belonged there. The memory of that night lingered like a distant, half-erased blur I desperately wished I could wipe clean.

The kitchen felt colder than it should. An awkward silence wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud, every second dragging heavier than the last. My eyes flicked over the crumpled paper, the headlines fading into the background of my thoughts as they swirled into a haze of confusion.

It was the kind of silence where even a pin drop would echo too loudly. Each creak of the house, each distant shout outside, felt amplified. The air was thick, like someone had reached into my chest and was now twisting an invisible hand around my lungs.

I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to clear my thoughts, but the discomfort remained. The strangling sensation tightened with every flicker of memory—the confusion, the vulnerability, the regret. This wasn't the life I'd signed up for. Not the mess. Not the complications. Not the tangled relationships that left scars deeper than just flesh.

I took a shaky breath, my gaze drifting to the window where the city outside continued its relentless pace. People came and went, oblivious to the chaos that seemed to define my world.

But now, sitting here with cold coffee and a messy crumpled newspaper, I knew I had to steady myself. There were decisions to make. Plans to solidify. Enemies to outwit.

I couldn't let the awkwardness, the unspoken memories, or the lingering doubts shake me. Not now. Not ever.

I pushed the paper aside, refilled my cup with what was left of the coffee pot in front of me, and stood up. The unease settled into resolve. The fight wasn't over. It never was. And if I was going to make it through this, I needed to be sharper, stronger—and far less willing to let anything—or anyone—disrupt the path I had to carve out for myself. I sat back down, planning to read the last of the paper.

Suddenly, a word sliced through the tension, sharp and unexpected. Not just a word—it was a jolt to my system, a visceral shock that nearly made me crap my pants. "I knew a Bell once."

My heart raced. I forced myself to stay composed. "No, you didn't, Emerson. Get over it. You don't know me."

But his gaze narrowed, probing me with an unsettling intensity. "I'm sure I know you. I just can't quite place where from."

I shrugged, trying to mask the unease bubbling under my skin. "You worked in a bar. Could've seen anyone there. Not like it means anything."

I turned back to the newspaper in my trembling hands, a flimsy shield against the conversation unraveling before me. My knuckles turned white as I flicked the page with a quick, distracted motion.

But then came the question that pierced through the fog of my confusion: "Wait. How did you know I used to work in a bar?"

A cold sweat broke out across my brow. My face flushed with the realization that I'd just let slip a detail that could've connected me to something far bigger than I'd anticipated. My pulse pounded in my ears as I buried my face in the newspaper.

I stayed like that for a long moment, the words on the page a blur. Panic gnawed at the edges of my calm facade. I knew I'd made a mistake—revealed a secret that could tip everything off balance.

Finally, I pushed myself upright, the old, battered newspaper sliding off my lap with a rustling sound. My voice was low but laced with steel. "Do not mention this to anyone. Not a word. Not to a soul."

Emerson leaned back in his chair, a dangerous smile flickering across his face. But then his expression shifted. The glint of recognition sparked in his eyes again, and his voice dropped to a whisper that sent a chill down my spine. "You're the one who left that note. Bell. That's where I know your name from. Holy shit, you were incredible."

My breath caught in my throat. Anger bubbled up, replacing the fear. I lunged forward, my boot connecting with the his chair, sending him and the chair backwards. I grabbed it before Emerson could fall back, ensuring that he remained upright, steady.

I leaned in close, my voice a razor edge of warning. "You speak one word of this, and you're out. No matter what we need you for. No matter the cost."

Emerson nodded quickly, the cocky grin evaporating from his face, replaced by something darker. "Yeah. I won't speak a word. Not a single one."

The room fell into a tense silence. The air felt thick, laden with unspoken threats and secrets I wasn't sure I was prepared to navigate. But I knew one thing—I couldn't let Emerson's curiosity or loose lips put everything I'd worked for in jeopardy.

I pulled Emerson's chair back upright with a grunt before turning on my heel and heading down the narrow hallway. My hands trembled as I reached for the car keys hanging on the hook by the door. I needed a solo drive—some time alone to let my thoughts catch up with the mess in my head.

I pushed open the front door and stepped into the cold, damp air outside. The house loomed behind me, dark and oppressive, a cavern of secrets I no longer felt equipped to navigate. My head felt light and wobbly, a dizzy sensation creeping through my skull, while my legs felt like trembling jello. Every step I took felt like a struggle just to stay upright.

"What the fuck," I muttered under my breath, the words barely audible. I reached the old, rusted truck parked at the end of the gravel path. My fingers fumbled as I opened the door and clumsily climbed inside. The seat felt too big, too distant, a reminder of how unsteady I'd become.

I jammed the key into the ignition with a shaky hand, twisting it with a metallic clank. The engine sputtered to life, a guttural sound that felt almost too loud in the quiet darkness. I shifted into gear, my foot hesitant on the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, wheels crunching gravel as I rolled down the hill, away from the oppressive house and everything it stood for.

Berlin's sky was a strange shade of grey tonight. It wasn't just the clouds; it was like the sky itself was mirroring the tangled mess in my chest. A sadness settled over the city, a gloomy fog that seemed to seep into every corner of my thoughts. I glanced up briefly and felt a tear slip down my cheek before I hastily wiped it away. I tried to push down the knot of dread curling in my stomach, praying that nothing would come of the secrets I'd just barely kept hidden.

If Russell found out... God, the mere thought made my gut twist. My throat tightened at the possibility. If he discovered even a sliver of what I'd done, I'd be done. I'd disappear, become someone unrecognizable, a shadow I never wanted to see.

But chances were, he would find out. Russell always found out.

I shook my head, gripping the steering wheel tighter. My knuckles turned white as I stared at the road ahead, a dark ribbon winding through the city. The headlights cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked asphalt.

I wasn't sure how long Emerson would stick around. He felt like a ticking bomb in our operations, a variable I hadn't accounted for. My hope was small but clear—I hoped his time with us would be short. I hoped he'd just... disappear. Before things spiralled any further, before more secrets came spilling out, before everything I'd worked for fell apart.

The city passed in a blur of streetlights and shadowy alleys, but all I could think about was keeping everything together, holding onto the fragile trust I'd built up—and keeping Russell in the dark. For now, survival was the only thing that mattered.

-----------

The night sky was a masterpiece tonight, a deep velvet canvas studded with stars that stretched out like a perfect, unbroken constellation. The warm night air wrapped around me like an old, familiar friend—a comforting sensation that reminded me why I loved Berlin. The city had its flaws, sure, but it had this warmth, this gritty charm. Still, I knew I couldn't stay here forever. I'd made a quiet promise to myself—I wanted to see the world, wanted to move beyond Berlin, wanted to do it alongside Russell. Together.

I hopped off the hood of my truck, the metal cool under my palms, just as I noticed headlights cresting the far hill. My chest tightened. The place was isolated, the kind of remote where a person could disappear without a trace. Panic prickled at the edge of my calm façade as I glanced around. No one was close. The streets were deserted, shadows stretching out like ominous spectres.

The car barrelled up the hill, tires skidding briefly on the gravel before it stopped abruptly. I crouched down, slipping into the shadowy corner of my truck, pulling my gun out in a smooth, practiced motion. My heart pounded in my chest as I aimed the weapon instinctively, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

Then, as the figure emerged from the shadows, I relaxed slightly. It was Mason. His brow was furrowed, eyes searching mine with a mix of worry and relief.

"Bell?!" he called out, his voice a lifeline cutting through the tension.

I stood up slowly, slipping the gun back into my leg holster with a sharp, deliberate movement. The strap clicked snugly in place, a reassuring sound.

Mason raised his radio. "I found Bell," he spoke into it, his voice steady despite the situation.

Adler's voice crackled back through the static. "Good. Let her know we're all here. Been looking everywhere."

I shook my head, a small laugh escaping before I could stop it. "You were all looking for me?" I asked, a mix of curiosity and exhaustion settling over me. "I didn't think anyone cared that much."

Mason nodded, his eyes locking onto mine. "Adler was looking for you, man. No one could find you. He thought something happened, and, honestly, everyone was spiralling. Complete meltdown mode."

I laughed softly, a flicker of absurdity bubbling up in the midst of the tension. "Not funny, Bell."

I nodded, the levity slipping from my expression. "Alright. Sorry. I just... needed to get away for a while. Clear my head."

Mason sighed, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "I get it. What's got you up here, though? Not exactly the usual spot for you."

Without waiting for a response, he hopped onto the hood of his car, the cigarette in his hand a tiny ember glowing in the darkness. I joined him after a pause, the need for a cigarette taking over. I pulled one out, flicking the lighter until the small flame appeared. The first drag felt like a slow exhale, a tiny anchor against the storm of thoughts swirling in my head.

We sat there, the city sprawled out below us like a living, breathing organism. The distant noise of tires on pavement, the occasional shout, and the dim glint of streetlights added a subtle rhythm to the night. For a moment, we were just two people with secrets, outlaws with a world to navigate—a world that felt as big and dangerous as the city skyline before us.

"Can I be honest?"

I glanced at Mason, the weight of my thoughts pressing against my chest.

"You can always be honest, you know that," Mason replied with a small, knowing smile. His gaze met mine, a flicker of loyalty there, a hint of openness that made it easier to speak the truth.

I took a shaky breath before the words tumbled out. "That guy Emerson... he was a bartender last year when I was working with Wraith and a few others. We... we ended up having a one-night stand."

The shock hit Mason like a punch. He almost slipped off the hood of his car, his eyes widening with disbelief.

"What?!" His voice was a mix of confusion and astonishment.

I rubbed a hand over my face, the vulnerability creeping up my throat. "Yeah, I don't know, man. It was just... one night. Stupid, messy. But if Adler finds out—if he finds out—I don't even know what kind of hell that'll bring down."

My voice wavered, and I looked away, staring at the distant city lights as if they could offer some kind of solace. The thought of Adler discovering that secret felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

I didn't want to let the fear consume me, but a huge part of me couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to be inevitable. That the secret I tried to bury would surface, that the walls I'd carefully put up would come crumbling down.

I met his gaze, feeling the steadiness of his words settle into something more tangible, a flicker of resolve.

We sat in silence, the city around us a blur of shadows and lights. The uncertainty still loomed, but with Mason beside me, it felt like there was a chance—however small—that we could find a way out of this mess, no matter what it took.

"There's no way, Bell." Mason shook his head slowly, the tension in his voice unmistakable.

"Yes way, Mason," I shot back, a stubborn edge creeping into my tone.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh, a mix of disbelief and something else I couldn't quite place. "Ah Jesus, what the fuck," he muttered, exhaling a shaky breath and nodding as if trying to process it all.

"I don't think Russell would care," Mason said suddenly, his words slicing through the conversation like a blade. I blinked, caught off guard by his statement.

"What do you mean?" My voice wavered. "I thought he would've gone mad if he found out. Lost his shit completely."

Mason leaned back a bit on the car hood, the dim light from the nearby streetlamp casting flickering shadows across his face. "Maybe you're right. But I... I overheard Frank and Russell talking. About you."

My heart quickened. The knot of dread in my chest tightened, every muscle in my body bracing for the worst.

"What were they saying?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Mason paused, a flicker of sincerity in his eyes. "Russell... he said how much he cared about you. How he'd do everything in his power to protect you. No matter what it took."

My cheeks flushed unexpectedly, warmth rising to them. The words settled in my chest, a strange mix of relief and vulnerability stirring something deep inside me. I hadn't expected to hear that, not from Mason, not about Russell. Russell was a force of nature—a leader with sharp edges and a temper that could tear through people like glass. The idea of him caring, truly caring, made something inside me ache in an unfamiliar way.

For a moment, I was just sitting there, absorbing the unexpected revelation, the echo of Mason's words reverberating in my chest.

"Protect me?" I finally managed, a shaky breath escaping my lips. "I know he would, I just worry."

Mason nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a seriousness I hadn't seen before. "Yeah, man. You might not always see it, but he's not just about power and control. He cares. And he doesn't let people go easy. Not on his watch."

I stared at the city lights ahead, the streets stretching out like a labyrinth of shadows and uncertainty. The warmth on my cheeks faded but the words lingered, a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time—a fragile sense of trust, a thread of protection that made me feel less alone.

"Well, let's just hope it never comes to that," I muttered, trying to push the vulnerability back down. "Let's hope Adler doesn't find out, before everything falls apart."

Mason nodded, the camaraderie settling over us like a protective shield. "We'll deal with it. Together. No matter what happens."

Together. Those two words felt stronger now, a promise that didn't just belong to the messy realities of our dangerous world but to something deeper. A loyalty. A bond. A fight worth having, even if everything was on the line.