The air was thick with humidity, clinging to my skin like a damp sheet. It was almost suffocating, the kind of heat that made every breath feel laboured. The tarmac shimmered under the relentless sun, waves of heat rising from the ground as if the earth itself was exhaling.

All around us, military planes loomed like steel giants, their dark hulls reflecting the midday glare. Our black Sedan sat idle among them, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the aircraft. Engines roared as planes lined up for departure, their bellies packed with crates of ammunition, rifles, grenades, and classified intel bound for operations across the globe. Watching them disappear into the sky, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of connection—somewhere out there, others were carrying out the same kind of work we had done, following the same orders, walking the same tightrope between duty and survival.

Hudson stood rigid, legs slightly parted, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but there was always an air of controlled authority about him, as if he thrived on the precision of military discipline. His gaze flicked towards the horizon, scanning for any sign of movement.

A streak of green and red studs filled my vision as another plane took off, its powerful engines sending tremors through the ground beneath us.

"Any sign of them?" Frank groaned, his patience wearing thin.

Hudson turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing in irritation. "Not yet," he muttered, his voice edged with restrained annoyance. He checked his watch, the metallic glint catching the sunlight. "They shouldn't be any longer than half an hour."

Frank exhaled loudly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. None of us liked waiting—it was the inaction that made us restless, that gnawed at the edges of our nerves. In our line of work, waiting meant uncertainty. And uncertainty could get you killed.

I turned the weight of my 1977 pistol over in my palm, absentmindedly clicking the magazine in and out of its socket. The metallic snap was sharp, cutting through the thick evening air, a rhythmic habit that betrayed my unease. My fingers tensed around the grip, my mind racing through the possibilities of what could go wrong.

Mason strolled over, his movements relaxed, but his eyes—always watchful—flicked down to my hands. Without a word, he lightly took the pistol from my grasp and slipped it into the satchel strapped around my thigh.

"Chill, would you?" He smirked, his voice carrying that usual laid-back confidence, as if nothing in the world could truly shake him.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my palms together, trying to ease the restless energy pulsing through me. "It's more people, Mason," I admitted, my voice lower now. "I'm worried."

Mason didn't hesitate. He took my hand, his grip firm but gentle, grounding me. His eyes—steady, unwavering—locked onto mine, offering the kind of reassurance I wasn't sure I deserved.

"It's going to be fine, Bell," he said, his tone softer now. "I know trust isn't your strong suit, but think about it—what's really different here? The only thing separating them from us is their accents. They're British, we're American, but we've worked alongside them before. Same force, different region. We're on the same side."

I swallowed, letting his words sink in. He was right. The mission, the goal, the fight—it was all the same. My chest loosened slightly, the weight of doubt easing just enough for me to take a deep breath.

Above us, the sky had begun its slow descent into darkness. The once pale blue had deepened into rich navy, the last remnants of daylight slipping beneath the horizon. A cool breeze whispered through the air, a stark contrast to the earlier humidity, as if the world itself was preparing for what was to come.

And so was I.

I leaned back against the bonnet of the Sedan, my arms crossed loosely over my chest, my thumbs absentmindedly twiddling. The wait felt endless, stretching on far longer than my patience could endure. The heat of the metal seeped through my clothes, grounding me in the present, but my thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Sleep had barely come the night before. Rest was a luxury I couldn't afford—not when my mind was consumed with the same relentless goal. At first light, I had forced myself out of bed, training with Mason and Frank again, hoping that physical exhaustion might quiet the storm raging in my head. It hadn't.

When I woke, Adler was already gone. No words, no note. Just absence.

But none of that mattered. Not really. What mattered was making sure my body was strong enough, my mind sharp enough, for what lay ahead. For Stitch.

This had to be it. The end.

I clenched my fist at the thought of him, my nails digging into my palm. His face, his voice, the way he had broken me piece by piece—it all played on a loop in my head, a film I couldn't turn off. The torture. The sickness. The bruises. The cuts. The way he had stripped me of everything except my will to fight back.

I could never erase it. But I could erase him.

The distant hum of engines broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the moment. I lifted my gaze just as the plane began its slow descent.

"This is them," Hudson announced, his voice even, unreadable.

We all nodded in silent acknowledgement. I pushed myself off the bonnet, standing straighter, the weight in my chest shifting. This was it. A few more hours, and we'd be planning the takedown.

The plane banked, its massive frame tilting as it lined up with the runway. It rolled forward, engines whining, closing the final distance between us. The wait stretched again, time playing tricks on my mind, but in reality, it was no more than twenty minutes.

Then, at last, the door to the plane hissed open.

Two figures emerged, stepping out onto the platform. Tall. Confident. Their presence carried an air of quiet authority, but what struck me most was their sharp features, the kind that could cut through stone—handsome in the way that was almost unsettling.

They moved with purpose, with experience.

I squared my shoulders. This was the beginning of the end. One way or another.

I glared at them as they strode towards us, their presence commanding yet unfamiliar. Hudson stood tall, his usual stoic expression in place as he greeted them with a firm nod.

The first man, Gaz, wore a British patch on his vest, his denim-blue cap tilted slightly to the side. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, his sharp gaze scanning over us as he approached. Then there was Price—tall, bearded, and radiating a cocky assurance that made it clear he had seen and done it all.

"Nice to meet you, Miss?" Gaz extended a hand towards me, his tone polite but laced with a casual ease.

He seemed decent enough, so I reached out and shook his hand. "Bell will do fine," I replied with a nod, offering a small smile.

Price wasn't far behind, stepping up with that ever-present smirk. "So, is this the main character of the story?" he quipped, his voice carrying that unmistakable British drawl.

Gaz rolled his eyes and shoved Price lightly. "Knock it off."

I simply smiled, unfazed. "Don't worry about it," I said, slipping my hands into my pockets. "It'll all be over soon."

"Damn right!" Hudson's voice cut through the air, full of conviction.

As we made our way back to the Sedan, a stray thought wormed its way into my mind. Was it just me, or did Price remind anyone else of a beaver? Or maybe an otter? The thought almost made me chuckle, but I shook it off. Now wasn't the time.

I slid into the driver's seat, and Mason took the passenger side without hesitation. Hudson, Gaz, and Price crammed into the back. As I glanced into the rear-view mirror, I caught sight of Hudson glaring daggers at Mason.

"You snooze, you lose, Hudson," Mason said with a shrug, completely unbothered.

A quiet chuckle escaped from Gaz, and Price smirked, clearly amused by the exchange.

The drive back to the house was surprisingly light-hearted. Conversation flowed easily, drifting between stories of cities we had visited or places we still wanted to see. For the first time in a while, the weight of the mission lifted, if only slightly.

For the first time in a long time, none of us were thinking about him.

Once we arrived to the house, everybody piled out and greeted Gaz and Price. Thank god they got on, but as I walked in, Russell sat looking at me and said nothing.

I had woken up that morning to Russell lifting his clothes and going to the shower. I could feel the tension between us in the room. Something was going to go wrong. I closed my eyes again in hopes of getting sleep, but it never happened. Eventually, he got dressed and just left. Avoidance. Again.

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The warehouse base buzzed with conversation, the low murmur of voices blending with everyone's conversations.. Everyone seemed lost in their own discussions, exchanging war stories, plans, and half-hearted jokes to pass the time.

I stood among them, half-engaged, my mind drifting elsewhere. I had noticed Adler avoiding me all day—his presence lingering at the edges of the room, but never close enough to acknowledge me. It wasn't new. It wasn't surprising. And after countless conversations that led nowhere, I had stopped expecting anything different.

So, I let him be.

Price stood beside me, his stance relaxed but ever watchful, the kind of man who never truly let his guard down. We had been talking for a while, swapping stories from his years as a lieutenant.

"I can't remember much," I admitted, swinging my legs idly as I sat on the edge of the table, Price standing directly in front of me. "I remember working for Stitch. Things went tits up when I got an offer from the other side. Of course, he found out while I was out."

Price exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable.

"I managed to escape," I continued, "and that's when I found all these ones." I nodded towards the others across the warehouse, the people who had become my makeshift family.

Price tilted his head slightly. "And before Stitch?" he asked, hands tucked into his vest.

I hesitated, piecing together fragments of a past that never quite felt whole. "I can only remember bits and pieces," I said eventually. "I know I was working alone. I was hunting down sensitive documents—something important, though I don't know what." I swallowed. "As far as I'm aware, Stitch captured me and made me one of his own."

A shiver crawled up my spine at the thought.

Price studied me for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, "Fucking hell, Bell. How are you managing?"

I let out a small, breathy laugh. "I wish I knew."

We both chuckled softly, a rare moment of quiet understanding passing between us. It wasn't much, but for now, it was enough.

"I'm glad Hudson called us in on this," Price said, glancing around before suddenly stopping. His gaze fixed on something—or rather, someone. "What's his problem?"

I followed his line of sight and immediately caught the sharp glare Adler was directing at Price. My stomach twisted, and just like that, the anger in me ignited like a struck match.

"I'll be back in a minute," I muttered, hopping off the table before Price could question me. My feet carried me with purpose as I marched towards Adler, grabbing him by the arm without hesitation.

"Come with me."

I didn't give him a choice. I dragged him through one of the heavy metal doors, yanking him into the dimly lit room before finally letting go of his shirt.

He frowned, brows furrowing. "What?"

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to keep my composure. "What in the fuck is your problem?"

Adler crossed his arms. "What do you mean?" He shrugged, as if he hadn't been acting like a complete arse all day.

I let out a sharp breath, barely holding back the frustration boiling in my chest. "Avoiding me all day like fucking usual, and the second I talk to Price, you're shooting him daggers? Everyone is sick of your shit, Ad, and I am so fucking tired of this." My voice wavered slightly, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

The colour drained from Adler's face like spilt ink on paper. He stood there, unmoving, unreadable. For once, I couldn't decipher him. That scared me more than I wanted to admit.

I swallowed hard and took a step back. "We're going to walk out of here, and we're going to act normal. We'll figure this out when it's over." I turned towards the door, gripping the cold metal handle before glancing over my shoulder one last time. "I'm doing us both a favour, Russell."

A single tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away hastily, praying no more would follow. I couldn't let them. Not now.

By the time I made it back to Price, I plastered on a neutral expression and hoisted myself back onto the edge of the table.

Price raised a brow, his keen eyes scanning my face. "Don't worry about it," I muttered, though even I didn't believe it.

He frowned but didn't push. Instead, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder, a silent reassurance that I wasn't as alone as I felt. Across the room, Mason and Frank had clearly picked up on what had happened, their expressions tightening as Adler strode past them, grabbing his coat without a word.

This was the last thing I wanted.

But did it need to happen?

Yes. Yes, it did. For both of us.

Frank stepped up beside me, his presence warm, familiar. He didn't say anything—he didn't need to. The moment his eyes met mine, the weight of it all crashed down on me. The tears came before I could stop them.

And suddenly, the room was silent.

Everyone was looking. Wondering what the hell had just happened.

I wished I had an answer.