Like Real People Do

MDNI - 25 - she/her

[wizzdot]

Masterlist <3

Call of Duty

Baker!reader short fic (Price x Reader) - the silliest little fic, just got the idea from a TikTok, Bon Appetite x

Part 1 Part 2

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips - this is a poly!141 Slowest of slow burn. It'll eventually feature most characters and situations. Eventual fluff/romance/smut/death etc etc. Oh - and it's an a/b/o AU too but will follow roughly along with the COD timeline.

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[rhaenyras-crown]

you found me at a very targaryen time of my life

[lyonelwhoretent]

Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway and Baelor Targaryen after just meeting Ser Duncan The Tall:

[versains]

Well, my dreams are not like yours. Mine come true.

[wizzdot]

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief

Chapter 2

The mall opens at ten, but it’s alive long before that.

I arrive early, keys jangling, lights half-dim and echoing. Starcourt before customers feels like a secret—storefronts yawning awake, music too quiet, the smell of cleaning solution instead of perfume and sugar.

I like it this way.

By noon, the cinema is packed with restless kids on summer break and parents already tired of them. I take tickets, hand out popcorn, kneel down to talk to a little boy who dropped his soda and looks like the world just ended.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, grabbing napkins. “Happens to everyone.”

He nods solemnly, like I’ve just imparted sacred wisdom.

When I stand, I catch a familiar flash of blue-and-white out of the corner of my eye.

Scoops Ahoy.

Steve Harrington is behind the counter, leaning dramatically like he’s posing for a poster. Robin is beside him, arms crossed, expression unimpressed as ever.

I don’t know why I look.

I just do.

Something feels off today.

Not wrong. Just… loud in a way I can’t hear. The mall is buzzing, but underneath it there’s tension, like the air before a storm.

On my break, I sit on the edge of the fountain with a pretzel and watch people. Teenagers flirting badly. Little kids tugging their parents toward the arcade. Everything normal.

It’s just normal summer.

Steve spots me first.

He nudges Robin and points, not subtle at all.

They whisper. Robin smirks.

I brace myself as they approach.

“Y/n,” he says, like we’re already on a first-name basis. “How’s the glamorous cinema life?”

I shrug. “I wield great power. I get to decide who gets extra butter.”

Robin steps in beside him. “She’s not kidding. She once denied me M&M’s.”

“You stole them,” I argue.

Steve looks between us. “Wow. Betrayal already.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, then immediately feel my face warm. He notices. I’m sure he notices.

“Slow day?” he asks.

“Not really. Just… busy in a boring way.”

He nods like he understands. “Yeah. Same. Except we have to wear sailor hats.”

Robin groans. “Please don’t remind her.”

A group of kids runs past us, shouting. Steve turns automatically, scanning like he’s counting heads.

“Kids, huh?” he says, nodding toward the chaos.

“I like kids,” I say. “Most of the time.” I add.

He looks at me again, thoughtful. “You’d be a good babysitter.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that your pickup line?”

He chokes. Robin laughs so hard she has to grab his arm.

“No—no, I just meant—” Steve recovers poorly. “I mean—sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, softer. “I didn’t mind.”

And I don’t.

Later, at the tail end of my shift, I overhear things.

Not secrets. Just fragments.

Two moms whispering about pets acting strange. A security guard complaining about someone messing with the power again. Then I see Robin rushing past the cinema doors with Steve, voices low, urgent in a way they weren’t before.

I don’t ask.

But I notice.

When my shift ends, fireworks crack in the distance. I step outside, breathing in warm air and sugar and ozone. Steve and Robin emerge from Scoops Ahoy a few minutes later, arguing about something I can’t hear.

Steve catches sight of me.

He hesitates.

Then, “Hey—uh. See you tomorrow?”

I nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“See ya, bestie”, Robin shouts.

As they walk away, I feel it again—that strange sense that something is moving just out of sight, that the mall is more than it pretends to be.

I climb onto my bike and cycle home.

Once home, I lean my bike up and step inside. This time my Uncle is tinkering away with some radio looking contraption.

“Oh, y/n! You’re just in time. C’mere and help me adjust this antenna would ya?”

I tilt my head, trying to make heads or tails of the device before holding where I was told to hold and angling it towards the light.

After a couple of minutes, he decides it is fixed.

“Perfect-o, thanks kid. This is a prototype, first of its kind!”

“Cool, what is it?”

“Ah! All will be revealed - I just need to test it tomorrow and then I’ll tell you all about it. Oh. Leftover dinner in the oven if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks Unc”

[wizzdot]

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief

Chapter 1

Sadly season 5 has reawakened my Steve obsession. So l'm just going to drop this reader insert here. This starts from season 3, so buckle in. I intend to make this 1 chapter per episode, but things may go off the rails and it could be even longer than planned as I have so many ideas.

Chapter 1 - The Summer Everything Opened

Starcourt Mall smells like popcorn, pretzels, and artificial sweets —like someone tried to bottle summer and sell it for minimum wage.

I stand behind the cinema counter, counting bills for the third time even though I already know they’re right. It’s busy today. First weekend of July. Families, teenagers, couples pretending not to fight. I like it like this. Loud enough that I don’t have to think.

Robin Buckley leans against the counter, stealing a handful of candy from the display.

“You know that’s inventory,” I say without looking up.

She grins. “You know I don’t respect authority.”

Robin works at Scoops Ahoy across the mall, but she spends her breaks here. Says the air-conditioning is better. I think she just likes the company.

“You look tired,” I tell her.

She groans. “I have been forced into a hideous sailor uniform against my will. And Steve Harrington will not stop flirting with middle-aged women.”

I glance up despite myself. “Steve Harrington?”

Robin squints at me. “Oh my god. You really don’t know him?”

Before I can ask, the bell over the theater doors rings.

And there he is.

Steve Harrington looks exactly like someone who knows he’s being looked at. Sunglasses over his eyes, Scoops Ahoy uniform somehow worn wrong in a way that still works, hair poking out from all angles underneath the cute little hat, leaning in like the mall personally invited him.

“Robin,” he says. “There you are.”

His eyes flick to me—just a second too long to be polite—and I feel it, that uncomfortable awareness of being seen. I straighten instinctively.

“And you must be…?” he asks.

I hesitate. I don’t usually make small talk with strangers. Not like this.

“Y/n,” I say finally.

“Y/n,” he repeats, smiling like it’s something he plans to remember.

Robin watches us like she’s at a tennis match.

Steve gestures vaguely toward the posters behind me. “So. Movies. You guys show those here?”

I blink, surprised by his stupid question. Robin snorts, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Uhm, yeah,” I say. “Can I help you with something?”

He grins wider. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I don’t trust him. Not really. But there’s something easy about him, something not sharp. Loud, maybe. Annoying. But not cruel.

Before he can say anything else, a group of kids barrels past the counter, arguing loudly about which movie is better. I smile despite myself, crouching to their level.

“Hey,” I say. “We have a special, yummy new candy. It’s free if you get more than three tickets to any movie today!”

They rejoice instantly, booking seven tickets and gathering buckets filled with candy before stomping off to watch their chosen movie, leaving a trail of candy and popcorn in their wake.

When I finish ringing through the kids tickets, Steve is watching me with a fond smile.

Robin clears her throat. “Anyway. I should go before Keith starts accusing me of stealing spoons again.”

She leaves with a salute, abandoning me.

Steve stays.

“So,” he says. “You like kids.”

I shrug. “They’re honest and sweet. Mostly.”

“Huh,” he says, like that means something important.

There’s an awkward beat.

Then he checks his watch. “I should get back. Scoops Ahoy doesn’t run itself.”

“Tragic,” I joke glumly.

He laughs—real laughter, surprised—and points at me. “I’ll see you around, y/n.”

And, I believe him.

Later, during my break, I sit on the floor behind the counter, eating popcorn and listening to the mall hum. I hear laughter faintly outside and the machines from the arcade further through the mall. Summer feels like it’s pressing in on Hawkins from all sides.

My shift ends late and I head home to find my Uncle reading some science book about wormholes. “Hey kid, how was work?” he asks.

“Ugh, it was fine, real busy but at least we didn’t have to clean up puke again..” I joke to him. “Here, I smuggled more of that candy you’re obsessed with.” I tell him, passing a large bucket of sweets to him.

He laughs and shouts goodnight after me as I walk up the stairs to my room.

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch7

I wake on the sofa with a blanket tucked around my shoulders and the faint ache of having cried myself empty sometime before dawn. For one disorienting second, I forget where I am.

I lift my head slightly.

Simon is here.

He’s seated at the other end of the sofa now, not touching, giving me space, but close enough that his knee brushes the cushion near my feet. His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, balaclava still in place. One arm is folded across his chest; the other hangs loose, fingers relaxed.

He didn’t leave.

The realisation settles warm and heavy in my chest.

I shift, careful not to wake him, but he stirs anyway—eyes opening instantly, alertness snapping into place like a switch.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“You needed it.”

I sit up slowly, blanket sliding down.

The moment feels… delicate. Like neither of us quite knows what to do now after I spilled my inner thoughts to him last night.

Johnny’s voice saves us.

“Well, this is cosy.”

I jump. Simon turns his head just enough to glare.

Johnny stands in the doorway, mug in hand, hair sticking up in every direction. Kyle is behind him, leaning against the frame with a smirk he’s not even trying to hide.

“Morning,” Kyle says mildly. “Did we miss a briefing, or is this the new seating arrangement?”

I feel my face heat instantly. “Nothing happened.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say it did. But Ghost babysitting the sofa all night is… new.”

Simon stands smoothly. “Go make coffee.”

Johnny grins. “Touched a nerve.”

Kyle chuckles. “Relax. We’re just glad she didn’t run off.”

That sobers me.

I look between them. “You… thought I might?”

Johnny shrugs, suddenly more serious. “We’ve seen it before. Civilians crack. Can’t blame them. Saw lots of big thoughts flashing through that pretty head of yours last night..”

Simon’s jaw tightens.

“She wasn’t going anywhere,” he says.

There’s no doubt in his voice. None at all.

Johnny holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just saying—we’re glad you’re still here.”

Kyle nods. “Yeah. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

The words settle into me, steadying something fragile inside my chest.

Price gathers us an hour later.

He’s calm as always, hands wrapped around his mug, posture relaxed—but his eyes are sharp. Focused.

“Laswell confirmed something overnight,” he says. “Graves is moving assets closer. Small teams. Recon-level. He’s looking.”

“For what?” I ask, even though I already know.

“For you,” Johnny says flatly.

“And the USB,” Kyle adds.

Price nods. “Which means we’re on a clock.”

Simon leans against the wall near me, arms folded, body angled just slightly in my direction. It’s subtle. Protective without being obvious.

“We can’t keep moving indefinitely,” Price continues. “At some point, Graves is going to push hard enough that we’ll have to respond.”

“And when he does,” Johnny says with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “we push back.”

I swallow. “What does that mean for me?”

Price meets my gaze. “It means you stay close. And you trust us.”

The push comes sooner than expected.

It’s late afternoon. The light outside has that dull, overcast quality that makes everything feel flat and heavy. Kyle is at the laptop. Johnny is half-listening to music through one earbud. Simon is by the window, scanning the street with quiet intensity.

I’m mid-sentence—talking about a detail I remembered from Stephen’s office, something about delivery manifests—when Simon’s posture changes.

He stiffens.

“Contact” he says quietly.

Johnny is on his feet instantly. “Where?”

“Two,” Simon replies. “Maybe three. Down the street. Not subtle.”

Price doesn’t raise his voice. “Positions.”

Kyle rattles them off. Johnny moves to flank. Simon steps closer to me.

“Stay here,” he says.

“I can help,” I start.

His hand closes gently around my wrist.

“No,” he says, firm but not unkind. “You stay.”

The look in his eyes—focused, fierce—steals my breath.

Then he’s gone.

The house erupts into controlled chaos.

Shouted commands. The thud of boots. The sharp, unmistakable crack of gunfire outside.

I crouch behind the sofa like I’ve been told, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shake me apart. I hear Johnny whoop something indistinct, Kyle swearing under his breath, Price issuing calm, precise orders.

A crash sounds near the back of the house.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel exposed hiding behind the sofa, so I run as fast as I can up the stairs and hide under the bed in Simon’s room. I don’t know why, but it felt safest.

It feels like forever, but it can’t be more than minutes.

Then—silence.

Careful. Watchful.

Footsteps return.

I gulp, crying silently, absolutely terrified.

Time seems to go slowly. I hear furniture being moved, curtains thrown aside, and frantic boot steps.

I squeeze my eyes shut and hide. I hear doors being thrown open, first - my bedroom. Next - John’s. Then the bathroom.

Then the door just feet away from where I’m hiding.

This is it. They’ve found me. They’re going to kill me.

A rough hand grabs my shoulder and drags me from my hiding spot. I scream. Kick. Punch.

Then I realise I’m just being held. Not dragged. Not jostled. Just held.

I open my eyes and see Simon.

He looks the same as always—controlled, steady—but there’s something different in the way he is looking at me now. Sharper. Angry?

He releases his hold of me and drops to a knee in front of me.

“You weren’t where I left you — thought they’d found you. Stupid girl.. Jesus Christ,” he huffs, out of breath.

“I—I” I stutter, still in partial shock.

“Are you hurt?” he asks urgently.

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m okay.”

He searches my face anyway, like he’s checking for something I can’t see.

“Why in here?”

“What — oh — I just — I don’t actually know..”

Johnny appears behind Simon at the door, breathing a little hard but grinning. “Well, that was rude. No invitation, no warning.”

Kyle follows, shaking his head. “Graves is testing us.”

Price steps in last, scanning the room once more before relaxing slightly. “And he learned something.”

“What?” I ask.

“That you’re not unguarded,” Price replies. “And that we won’t hesitate.”

Simon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath.

“Everyone — out of my room. Now,” he seethes.

He doesn’t stand right away. The others leave first. I climb to my feet to follow them. Just as I reach the door he stops me

Instead, he says quietly, “I thought they’d taken you.”

I blink. “I—I’m sorry. The fight sounded close.. I just wanted to hide..”

“I don’t like it. Any of it,” he says. “You being scared. Them getting closer.”

My chest tightens.

I reach out without thinking and rest my hand lightly against his shoulder from where he’s still kneeling.

“Simon,” I say softly. “I’m still here.”

His breath catches.

Just for a second.

“Stand up, Simon..”

He covers my hand with his own, grounding, steady—and slowly stands up.

He gently withdraws his hand, but not before his thumb brushes my knuckles once. Almost unconsciously.

“We need to debrief. Then we will most likely have to move again..”

“That’s ok” I say, confidently.

He stays silent for a few seconds before stepping towards me. “Let’s go, then.”

I enter the kitchen to the others already discussing what had just happened.

He knows we’re here.

Price says as much a few minutes later. He stands at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood, posture easy in the way that only comes from decades of practice.

“That wasn’t an attack,” he says calmly. “It was a question.”

“And we answered,” Johnny adds, spinning a chair backward and dropping into it.

“Yes,” Price replies.

Kyle scrolls through his tablet, brow furrowed. “They were Shadow-trained. Not top-tier, but not amateurs either. Graves is probing the edges.”

I sit quietly, arms wrapped around a mug I haven’t touched. My hands are still shaking—not enough for anyone else to notice, I hope, but I feel it.

Simon stands behind me, just off my right shoulder.

He hasn’t moved far since we came downstairs.

I can feel him there without looking. Like a constant, steady pressure at my back. Every time I shift, his weight shifts too.

Price notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t comment.

Instead, he looks at me. “You holding up?”

I nod. “Yeah. I just… didn’t realise how close they were.”

“They won’t get any closer,” Simon says quietly.

There’s an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before. Not anger. Not panic.

Resolve.

Price straightens. “Laswell’s working on options. But I don’t want to sit and wait for Graves to dictate the pace.”

Johnny grins. “Finally. Was getting bored.”

Kyle shoots him a look. “You almost got shot.”

“Almost,” Johnny agrees cheerfully.

Price ignores them both. “We need leverage. Something Graves wants more than you.”

My stomach twists at the word you.

“And what does a man like Graves want?” I ask softly.

Price meets my eyes. “Control.”

Silence settles again.

Simon’s hand comes to rest lightly on my shoulder. Not gripping. Not anchoring.

Just there.

That night, after the house quiets down again, I find Simon in the small back room that’s been converted into a makeshift ops space. Screens glow softly, casting blue light over his shoulders as he reviews footage from earlier.

“You should be resting,” he says without turning.

“I could say the same to you.”

A pause. Then he turns slightly, just enough that I can see the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava.

“Can’t,” he replies.

I step closer, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Because of what happened earlier?”

His eyes lift to mine.

“Yes.”

The honesty of it steals my breath.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts gently. “There’s a difference.”

I swallow. “I keep thinking about what Price said. That Graves is escalating because of me.”

Simon sets the tablet aside and faces me fully now.

“Graves is escalating because he’s losing control,” he says. “You’re just the part he can see.”

I study him in the low light. The mask. The quiet intensity. The man who stood in front of bullets earlier without hesitation.

“Does it ever get easier?” I ask.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Simon hesitates.

“No,” he says at last. “It gets harder.”

The admission sits heavy between us.

“I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt,” I whisper.

He steps closer—slow, deliberate—until there’s barely a foot of space between us.

“You don’t,” he says. “You make me careful.”

Careful.

The word feels important.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Simon reaches out, fingers brushing my sleeve, then stopping—like he’s asking permission without words.

I don’t pull away.

He adjusts the strings of my jumper instead, straightening it with precise, almost reverent movements.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ll need you sharp tomorrow.”

“What about you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Once I’ve figured something out.”

The video arrives just before dawn.

Price wakes us all this time.

We gather in the living room, bleary-eyed and tense, as the file loads on the screen. Simon stands beside me again, close enough that our arms brush.

Graves appears on screen, smiling like this is all a game.

Stephen is on his knees in front of him, hands bound, face worse than before.

“I gave you time to comply,” Graves says calmly. “You gave me bullets.”

Stephen sobs, a broken sound that makes my chest ache despite everything.

“This ends now,” Graves continues. “You bring me the assistant. Or I end him and come after her myself.”

The video cuts.

Johnny swears softly. Kyle’s jaw tightens.

Price exhales slowly, looking at me with a considering look in his eyes. “Alright.”

I turn to him. “You’re not actually considering—”

“No,” he says firmly. “But we are done letting Graves lead.”

Simon’s hand closes around mine without him seeming to realise he’s done it.

I don’t pull away.

Price notices.

His gaze softens, just a fraction.

“We’ll draw him out,” Price continues. “On our terms.”

“And Stephen?” I ask.

Price meets my eyes. “We’ll try. But that stupid bastard put himself in this position. He made his bed. Not our fault if he needs to lay in it.”

Simon’s grip tightens, just slightly.

Price gathers us before the sun fully rises. The sky outside is still grey, undecided, like it hasn’t chosen a side yet.

“We move now,” he says calmly. “Graves wants you,”—his eyes flick to me—“which means we decide where and when he tries to take you.”

Simon releases a growling protest.

“We’re not handing her over,” he snaps, immediately.

“No,” Price agrees. “We’re baiting him.”

My stomach flips. “W—with me?”

“With the idea of you,” Price corrects. “Controlled environment. False intel. We make him think he’s winning.”

Kyle nods. “We’ve got a location he’ll bite on. Old logistics depot. Enough open space for him to feel confident. Enough cover for us to control the field.”

“And Stephen?” I ask.

Price exhales slowly. “If Stephen’s still alive when Graves shows, he’ll bring him.”

Silence settles like a weight.

Simon turns to face Price fully now, jabbing a finger into his superiors chest. “Using an untrained Civvy as bait is risky. Even by your standards, Price. She stays with me.”

“That was always the plan,” Price says evenly.

I look between them, pulse racing. “What do I do?”

“You listen to the Lieutenant,” Price says. “You stay close. And you trust us.”

My gaze flicks to Simon. His eyes are a storm of anger. They soften ever so slightly when he sees me trying to pull myself together and seem prepared for what is to come.

We move fast.

Vehicles swapped. Routes doubled back. Phones left behind. Everything stripped down to bare necessity. By the time we reach the temporary staging depot—a squat concrete building hidden behind abandoned warehouses—my nerves are strung so tight I feel like I might snap.

Simon stays at my side the entire time.

When the car jerks to a stop too suddenly, his arm comes across me without thought. When we move through doorways, he goes first. When we pause, he positions himself so he can see every angle at once.

It’s instinct.

It’s terrifying.

It’s comforting in a way I never expected.

Inside, Price pulls Kyle and Johnny aside to go over final positions. Their voices are low but urgent. I hover near the edge of the room, trying not to feel like excess weight.

Simon notices.

He always notices.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

He leads me into a small side room—bare walls, single flickering light, the hum of electricity in the air. It’s quieter here. Private.

He stops in front of me.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

I laugh weakly. “I can’t stop,” I laugh nervously.

He lifts a hand, hesitates, then holds my shoulder through his glove. The touch is careful, grounding.

“You don’t have to be brave,” he says quietly. “Just stay with me.”

Something shifts in his gaze—something unguarded.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

My heart stutters. “Simon—”

“If this goes wrong—”

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

He leans closer. “Listen to me.”

His thumb brushes my shoulder, slow, reverent.

“I’ve spent most of my life keeping people at a distance,” he says. “It keeps them alive. Keeps me focused.”

My breath catches.

“And then you showed up,” he continues. “And you don’t belong in this world. You shouldn’t be here. But you are.”

His voice drops.

“And I can’t stop thinking about what happens to you when this is over.”

The words hit harder than any bullet ever could.

“Simon,” I whisper, my hands curling into his shirt. “What are you saying?”

He exhales shakily.

“I’m saying I don’t trust myself to be objective anymore.”

I lift my gaze to meet his eyes searching them to see if he meant what he just said.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. He lifts his hand and gently strokes my cheek. Hands far too gentle for the absolute beast of a military machine standing in front of me. His hand falls away softly.

Then he steps away.

My hands are trembling.

Before I can say anything else, Johnny’s voice crackles through the comm.

“LT. Company inbound. Multiple vehicles.”

The moment shatters.

Simon steps closer instantly, walls snapping into place—but not all the way. Something has changed. I can feel it.

“Stay close.”

“Ok.”

Everything happens at once.

Gunfire erupts outside, sharp and thunderous. The building shakes as something slams into the exterior wall. Kyle shouts coordinates. Johnny laughs like he always does when things get bad—bright and absolutely feral.

Simon moves like a shadow, pulling me with him as we duck behind cover.

“Down,” he orders.

I obey.

Bullets tear through the space where I was standing seconds earlier.

My heart is in my throat.

I hear Graves’ men shouting—confident, aggressive. They think they’ve cornered us.

They’re wrong.

Price’s voice cuts through the chaos, calm and commanding. “Now.”

Smoke fills the air. Flashbangs go off with concussive force. Simon hauls me to my feet, dragging me through a side corridor as Kyle and Johnny provide cover.

We burst out into the open air—

And collide with two armed men rounding the corner.

Simon reacts instantly.

He shoves me behind him and fires.

I fall heavily into the wall, hissing as I feel the stones cut into my knees and elbows.

The men go down.

My ears ring. My hands shake.

He grabs me by my arm again. We keep moving.

A vehicle screeches toward us, gun mounted on the roof. Simon swears under his breath.

“Run,” he snaps.

We sprint.

A shot cracks past my ear. I stumble—

Simon catches me, spins, and fires one-handed while dragging me backward.

“You need to RUN,” he growls.

“I am!” I gasp.

We dive behind a concrete barrier just as the vehicle explodes in a ball of fire.

Heat washes over us.

For a second, all I can hear is my own breathing.

Simon’s hands are on my face, patting my cheeks worriedly. Eyes flitting up and down my body. “Are you hit?”

“N-No,” I whisper. “Are you?”

He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine.

“I can’t keep up. You’re faster than me.”

The fight starts to fizzle out around us—shouts, gunfire, controlled chaos—and in that moment, the world narrows to just us.

“You need to keep up. You don’t have a choice.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to mine.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs.

My throat tightens. “We’ll talk about it.”

“We will,” he agrees. “When this is done.”

Another explosion rocks the ground.

Simon pulls back, weapon up, eyes lethal once more.

Everything goes quiet after the last of Johnny’s flashbangs.

By the time the smoke clears and the ringing in my ears fades enough that I can hear my own breathing again, the depot is quiet in that awful, stunned way that only comes after violence.

I’m crouched behind the low concrete wall with Simon half in front of me, half over me, his body angled to shield mine without fully pinning me down. His hand is braced against the barrier above my head, close enough that I can feel the tension running through his arm.

“Clear,” Kyle’s voice comes through the comm, breathless but steady.

Johnny follows a second later. “Bastards left a mess.”

Price moves past us, weapon still up, eyes scanning. “Casualties?”

There’s a pause.

Johnny replies lightly. “Aye Cap. Nothing dramatic. Just a graze.”

My heart lurches anyway.

Simon is gone in a blur of motion, crossing the open space toward Johnny and Kyle. I stay where I am, hands clenched tight around my bleeding knees, forcing myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Just like Price taught me, like Simon reminded me without ever saying it.

Johnny is sitting on the ground when Simon reaches him, back against a crate, leg stretched out awkwardly.

“Relax,” Johnny says, holding up a hand when Simon drops to a knee in front of him. “It’s just my thigh. Bullet gave me a wee smooch, that’s all.”

Kyle snorts. “You’re getting blood on my boots, you prick.”

“Adds value.”

Simon doesn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction as he checks the wound. It’s ugly, but shallow.

“You’ll live,” Price says calmly.

“Shame,” Simon replies dryly.

Despite myself, a shaky laugh escapes me.

Simon glances back at me then, just to make sure I’m still where he left me. When our eyes meet, something warm and fierce flickers between us—relief, maybe.

We don’t stay long.

Price doesn’t like lingering after a fight, and this one feels unfinished in a way that makes my skin prickle. Graves didn’t commit fully. He tested again. Confirmed we’re still standing.

And now he knows something else too: we’re not running blind anymore.

Laswell calls while Johnny’s wound is being properly cleaned and dressed in the back of the transport vehicle. Her voice comes through clear and sharp, all business.

“I’ve been busy,” she says.

“That’s never comforting,” Price replies mildly.

She ignores him. “Graves made a mistake. He moved weapons through channels that overlap with international monitoring—old ones, but they’re still active. I’ve got documentation. Transfer logs. Testimony.”

My breath catches. “Testimony?”

“Stephen,” Kate says.

The room stills.

“He talked?” Kyle asks.

“He sang,” Kate corrects.

Simon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Kate continues. “Here’s the play. Graves wants his weapons back. He wants leverage. We want Stephen alive and this girl”—I know she means me—“out of the crosshairs.”

“That’s the idea,” Price says.

“I can offer him a deal,” Kate says. “On paper, at least. We ‘return’ the drive—what he thinks is the drive—and in exchange, he releases Stephen and pulls his teams back.”

“And the catch?” Price asks.

“The drive isn’t the drive,” Kate replies. “It’s a package of evidence. Enough to light him up internationally once he touches it. Illegal arms trading. War crimes. Sanctions violations. The kind of mess even Shadow Company can’t shoot their way out of.”

Silence stretches.

“You’re going to burn him,” Johnny laughs softly.

“I’m going to let him light the match himself,” Kate replies.

I swallow.

“Stephen goes into protective custody,” Kate says. “He’ll answer for what he’s done, but he’ll be alive. That’s the best I can offer.”

Price closes his eyes briefly, then nods. “Do it.”

Kate’s voice softens just a touch. “You did good work. All of you. I’ll handle the fallout.”

The line goes dead.

“What about me..?” I ask once the call ends.

All four sets of eyes meet mine. Careful and considering.

“I say we’re all long overdue a well earned drink!” Johnny breaks the awkward silence.

The next forty-eight hours are a blur of movement, tension, and waiting.

Stephen is released at a remote drop site, shaken and hollow-eyed but breathing. Graves’ teams pull back, suddenly very interested in disappearing. International warrants start circulating like blood in the water.

And just like that, the pressure eases.

Not gone. Never gone.

But eased enough that I can breathe again without feeling like I’m stealing air from someone else.

Johnny spends most of the return trip to England complaining about the English as if he isn’t ok a team with three English-men.

Kyle rolls his eyes. “You enjoy complaining.”

Price sits across from me on the transport, posture relaxed for the first time in days, puffing on a cigar. “You alright?”

I nod. “I think… yeah.”

He studies me for a moment, then gives a small, approving nod. “You handled yourself well, love.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say honestly.

He smiles faintly. “That goes both ways.”

Simon is quiet the whole flight, seated beside me, shoulder just barely touching mine. Not close enough to be obvious but enough to be intentional. His presence is grounding, familiar now in a way that feels dangerous to acknowledge.

When we land in Hereford and arrive at the SAS base, everything feels safe.

Solid ground. Stone buildings. Order.

Home—for them.

I’m shown to temporary quarters while they debrief, and for the first time in days, I shower without rushing. The hot water feels like a small miracle. When I emerge wrapped in a towel, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?” I call.

“It’s me,” Simon says.

I open the door a crack, then wider when I see him standing there—not in full kit now, just fatigues and that familiar balaclava. His gloves are off.

Bare hands.

My heart stumbles.

“I wanted to check on you,” he says quietly.

“I’m okay,” I reply. “Tired. But okay.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. His hand lifts, uncertain, hovering near my arm.

His fingers brush my skin.

It’s the simplest thing. Warm. Calloused. Real.

No barrier. No glove.

Just him.

I suck in a breath as his hand settles gently around my wrist, thumb resting over my pulse like he can feel it racing under his touch.

“You stayed alive,” he says softly.

I look up at him, at the mask that still hides his face, at the man who stood between me and the world without ever asking for anything in return.

I huff a small, nervous laugh. “I’m glad. Thanks to you..”

“Rest up. We’ll be down the hall when you’re ready,” he says as he steps away and clicks the door closed behind him.

I dry my hair and get dressed before heading to the common room.

I fall onto the surprisingly comfortable sofa, sighing, relaxed.

For the first time since all of this began, there’s no immediate next move clawing at the back of my mind.

Johnny takes advantage of that immediately.

He bursts into the common area like a man with a mission, leg bandaged but ego fully intact.

“Right,” he announces, clapping his hands together. “We’re alive, we’re mostly un-shot, and Graves is having what I imagine is a very bad week. Which means—”

Kyle looks up from his phone. “You want to go to the pub.”

Johnny points at him. “See? This is why you’re my favourite.”

“I’m literally the only other option,” Kyle replies dryly.

Johnny ignores that and turns to Price. “Sir. Permission to acquire alcohol.”

Price arches an eyebrow. “You’re injured.”

“Spiritually,” Johnny says solemnly. “Alcohol will help.”

Price considers him for a long moment, then sighs. “Only a few drinks. We’re still on base rules.”

Johnny grins like he’s just won the lottery. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

As he spins away to start corralling Kyle, Price’s phone buzzes in his hand.

He glances at the screen, then—surprisingly—smiles.

Across the room, Simon is leaning against the wall, arms folded, gaze distant. He hasn’t said much since we landed, but he hasn’t strayed far either. He’s been… present. Quietly so.

Price types something quickly, then pockets his phone.

Simon’s buzzes a second later.

He checks it, brow furrowing slightly, then looks up—straight at me.

It was very obvious that the two men just had a short conversation— regarding me — over text. They weren’t subtle.

My heart skips.

He pushes off the wall and crosses the room, stopping a respectful distance away.

“Price wants to know,” he says, voice low, “if you’d like to join us.”

I blink. “Join…?”

“The pub,” he clarifies.

Johnny overhears and pivots instantly. “Absolutely she’s coming. Not even a question.”

Kyle nods. “You’re honorary 141 now. Comes with compulsory socialisation.”

I hesitate, old instincts flaring—don’t impose, don’t assume.

Simon notices.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No pressure.”

I look at him. At the man who stood between me and everything that wanted to break me. At the others behind him—Johnny grinning, Kyle watching me with easy warmth, Price pretending not to listen while listening very carefully.

And I realise something.

I want this.

“I’d like to come,” I say.

Johnny whoops. “Outstanding. Pub it is.”

The pub is small, warm, and unmistakably English.

Low ceilings. Dark wood. The comforting smell of fried food and spilled beer. It’s busy but not rowdy, the kind of place where regulars nod at each other and no one asks too many questions.

Johnny orders first, loudly, despite Price’s pointed look.

Kyle shakes his head. “You’d think after all this time—”

“I refuse to be quiet in a pub,” Johnny says. “It’s against my beliefs.”

We find a table near the back. I sit between Kyle and Simon, aware of the way Simon’s knee is just barely touching mine beneath the table. Not accidental. Not intrusive.

Just… there.

Johnny raises his glass once everyone’s served. “To not being dead.”

Kyle clinks his glass against his. “Low bar, but I’ll take it.”

Price lifts his pint. “To teamwork.”

I hesitate, then raise mine too. “To…eh.. friendship?”

Jesus Christ! my internal voice screams at me

Simon’s gaze flicks to me, something soft and unreadable there. Then he chuckles. Then everyone else joins in.

“Stop laughing at me. I couldn’t think on the spot..” I giggle awkwardly.

“Aye, tae friendship” Johnny cackles, clinking all of our glasses together in cheers.

We drink.

The conversation loosens after a couple of drinks.

Johnny regales us with an exaggerated retelling of the depot fight, embellishing his own heroics shamelessly.

“And then,” he says, gesturing wildly, “I limp dramatically—because I am injured, thank you very much—and distract the bloke long enough for Kyle here to do his sneaky ninja thing.”

Kyle deadpans. “I walked behind him.”

“Stealth,” Johnny insists.

I laugh—properly laugh—for what feels like the first time in weeks.

Simon watches me over the rim of his glass, eyes warm.

“You alright?” Kyle asks at one point, nudging my arm lightly.

“Yeah,” I say. “I really am.”

Price leans back in his chair, content, watching us with something that feels a lot like pride. “You’ve all earned this,” he says. “Don’t forget that.”

Johnny tilts his head. “You getting sentimental on us, sir?”

“Don’t push it.”

The night stretches on gently. Stories are shared—carefully, selectively. Johnny tells one about a disastrous training exercise involving a goat. Kyle counters with one about Johnny getting lost on base his first week.

Simon doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s quiet and dry and perfectly timed.

At one point, Johnny leans across the table toward me. “So,” he says, eyes gleaming.

Simon groans. “Johnny—”

“I’m just curious,” Johnny continues innocently. “Because you’ve been downright pleasant lately.”

Kyle smirks. “It’s true.”

I cover my mouth to hide my grin.

Simon shoots me a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little,” I admit.

Johnny leans back, satisfied.

Eventually, Price stands. “Alright. That’s enough. We’ve got an early start.”

Johnny sighs dramatically. “You always know how to kill a vibe.”

“Someone has to,” Price replies.

We step outside into the cool night air, the pub’s warmth lingering on my skin. The base lights glow softly in the distance.

Kyle and Johnny walk ahead, arguing about who’s paying next time.

Price walks beside me. “You did well,” he says quietly.

“Thank you,” I reply. “For everything.”

He nods, then moves on, giving us space.

We walk in silence for a few moments, boots crunching softly on gravel. The night feels different now—less threatening. More open.

“I’m glad you came,” he says finally.

“So am I.”

We stop near the edge of the car park, the others already a few steps ahead.

He looks at me—really looks at me.

My heart pounds.

I step closer, close enough that I can feel his warmth, smell the faint trace of beer and soap. His hand lifts, bare fingers brushing my arm—skin to skin again, deliberate this time.

He hesitates.

I don’t.

I lean in, gently lifting his balaclava to his nose.

Our lips meet—slow, careful, like we’re both making sure the other is real. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb warm against my cheek. The world narrows to that simple, perfect contact.

When we part, it’s with shared breath and quiet smiles.

“About time,” Johnny calls from ahead.

Kyle chuckles. “Told you.”

Simon exhales a laugh—soft, surprised.

He rests his forehead against mine for a moment. “We’ll take this slow.”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

His thumb brushes my cheek once more. “Good.”

“Wait.. Simon..?” I ask, liquid courage coursing through my veins.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something..?”

“Yes.”

“What colour is your hair?”

He laughs, really laughs.

“Idiot.”

“Are you ginger?” I giggle.

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the base.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he grumbles, lightheartedly.

We walk back together, shoulders brushing, the base lights guiding us home.

For the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like something to survive.

It feels like something to look forward to.

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch6

The house settles into a rhythm over the next few days.

Not a peaceful one—nothing about it is peaceful—but a livable one. Mornings start with coffee and quiet conversations. Afternoons blur into research, timelines, maps spread across the table. Nights are long, punctuated by murmured comms checks and the soft thud of boots as someone does another perimeter sweep.

Somewhere in between, I start to… belong.

It surprises me how it happens.

Gaz—Kyle—makes it easiest.

He talks to me like I’m normal. Not fragile. Not classified. Just… a person who happens to be stuck in the middle of something far bigger than herself. He explains things without condescension, answers my questions without impatience, listens when I ramble my way through half-formed thoughts about Stephen’s habits or the office politics that suddenly feel far more sinister than they ever should have.

“People underestimate boring,” he says one afternoon as we sit cross-legged on the floor, papers spread everywhere. “That’s how men like Stephen hide. No one looks twice at a spreadsheet.”

I laugh weakly. “He loved spreadsheets.”

Gaz grins. “Course he did.”

Soap—Johnny—slides into my life just as easily, but in a completely different way.

He jokes. Constantly. Teases me when I start apologising too much. Makes stupid faces when the tension gets heavy. Once, when I get overwhelmed staring at a wall of financial transfers that don’t make sense, he plonks a mug of tea down beside me and announces, “Right. Break time. Before your brain melts and leaks out your ears.”

“I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” I say.

“Never claimed to be a doctor,” he replies cheerfully.

They become… safe.

Kyle like an older brother who watches out for me without making it obvious. Johnny like the friend who keeps the darkness at bay by refusing to let things stay serious for too long.

And Simon—

Simon stays distant.

Not cold. Not unkind. Just… quieter. More withdrawn.

He keeps to the edges of rooms. Watches instead of joining. If Kyle and Johnny are talking to me, he’s usually across the room, arms folded, gaze flicking up whenever my laugh rings out a little too loud.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

But then there are the other moments.

The way he leaves a fresh mug of coffee beside me without comment when I forget to refill mine. The way he adjusts the thermostat a degree higher when I shiver. The way he always positions himself between me and doors, windows, strangers—like it’s instinct.

Once, late at night, I find a blanket folded at the end of my bed that I swear wasn’t there when I lay down.

He never says anything.

He just… does.

And somehow, that feels more intimate than words ever could.

Price notices. Of course he does.

He watches us the way a father watches a storm cloud drift too close to shore—aware, cautious, protective of everyone involved. Sometimes his gaze lingers on Simon when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes on me.

Once, when Simon’s outside on watch and the rest of us are bent over the table, Price speaks without looking up.

“You settling in?”

I nod. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says. Then, after a pause, “This isn’t forever.”

The reminder lands harder than I expect.

The USB is worse than we thought.

Laswell calls in fragments—never too long, never from the same place twice. Her voice is steady, but there’s a tension beneath it now.

“Someone’s sweeping financial trails connected to Stephen,” she tells Price over a secure line. “Erasing evidence as fast as we uncover it.”

“Meaning we’re late,” Price replies.

“Meaning someone knew where to look before we did.”

The implication hangs heavy.

Stephen wasn’t just a courier. He was trusted.

Embedded.

And whatever he was holding onto wasn’t meant to stay hidden for long.

That night, I sit alone in my room, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spiralling.

What happens when this is over?

When Stephen is found or forgotten. When the USB is secured and locked away. When the men who now fill my days with noise and purpose move on to the next mission.

What happens to me?

Do they drop me back at my flat like none of this ever happened?

Back to my job—if I even still have one. Back to my desk. Back to being small and invisible.

The thought makes my chest ache.

I don’t realise I’m crying until there’s a soft knock at my door.

I freeze.

Then I remember the rules.

“Who is it?” I call, through sniffles.

“Simon,” comes the quiet reply.

My heart stutters.

I open the door just enough to see him—balaclava still on, hands relaxed at his sides. He doesn’t step closer.

“Price said you might be awake,” he says. “You missed dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

He studies me for a moment. “You should eat anyway.”

I almost laugh. “Is that an order?”

“No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “It’s concern.”

The word sits between us, heavy and fragile.

“I don’t know where I fit after this,” I admit suddenly. “When it’s all… done.”

His posture shifts. Subtle. Tense.

“That’s not decided yet,” he says carefully.

“But it will be.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches.

Then, quietly: “You’re not disposable.”

Something in my chest loosens.

Before I can reply, he steps back. “Get some rest.”

And he’s gone again.

Laswell calls the next morning.

Her message is brief. Urgent.

“They’ve run a location sweep,” she says. “Someone searched coordinates within a ten-mile radius of your current position.”

Price doesn’t hesitate. “We move.”

Within the hour, the house is stripped of anything that ties us to it. Bags packed. Vehicles ready. No goodbyes to a place that was never meant to be permanent.

Two cars leave the safe house.

Simon, Johnny and I in one, Kyle and John in the other.

The road is quiet. Too quiet.

I’m halfway through asking Johnny something stupid—something about how he always looks so relaxed under pressure—when the world explodes.

The vehicle jerks violently. Glass shatters. Gunfire cracks through the air.

“Ambush!” Gaz shouts over comms.

Simon’s arm slams across my chest as the car veers off the road, his body shielding mine instinctively.

And then we are moving. Running. Shouting.

Simon is dragging me along, his large hand clasped tight around the top of my arm.

I trip.

Pain lances up my leg as I hit the ground hard, gravel biting into my palms and knees.

I don’t even have time to scream before Simon is over me.

He goes feral.

There’s no other word for it.

He moves like a force of nature—violent, precise, utterly ruthless. Shots ring out. Orders barked. Enemies drop.

Someone tries to reach me and Simon takes them down without hesitation, positioning himself over me like a shield.

“Stay with me,” he snaps, hands already checking my leg, my arm, my side. “Where are you hit?”

“No.. I’m not.. I—I think I twisted my ankle,” I gasp.

“I’m sorry. I’m so stupid..” I wail, shouting over the gunfire and wind.

“Don’t apologise,” he growls.

Price secures the undamaged car once all of the enemies are down. Gaz and Soap check the bodies for any evidence of their command chain, efficient and deadly.

But Simon doesn’t leave me.

He scoops me up without warning, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing.

I cling to his vest, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I slowed you down.”

He stops.

Looks down at me.

“You got hurt,” he says, voice tight. “And that’s on me, so shut up.”

The guilt in his tone is raw. Unfiltered.

“I won’t let it happen again.”

Something shifts between us then—unspoken, undeniable.

They get us out. Another safe house. Another layer deeper into secrecy.

I cry quietly in the back seat the entire way to the next check point. Johnny next to me, gently rubbing my back to try and comfort me. Simon watches from the rear view mirror.

When we arrive to the new safe house, Simon carries me inside, even though I insist I can walk by myself. He places me on the counter of the unfamiliar kitchen, and checks my ankle.

Swollen, a little hot, but fine.

I move to drop down from the counter but he gestures at me to stay where I am. He grabs a first aid kit and begins to clean my palms and knees of gravel and blood.

It takes me aback how gentle he is. How softly he cradles my hands in his massive, scarred paws.

Once he decides I’m clean and not going to die from my own stupidity and clumsiness, he helps me to the couch, situating my ankle up onto a raised chair.

“Sit there. Don’t move. I’ll get you something to eat. And stop crying—”

I gulp and meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry..”

“I didn’t mean to—” I start.

“You didn’t,” Simon cuts in immediately. “You did nothing wrong.”

His certainty steadies me.

“You scared me,” I admit quietly.

He stills. I swear I hear him gulp.

“Not you,” I clarify.

“Like, losing you.. if — if something had happened to you.. because I tripped.. I couldn’t live with it. I don’t like the way you are so ready to take bullets for me. A stranger..”

Something unguarded flickers in his eyes.

“It’s my job,” he says. Then, softer, “and you’re not a stranger..”

“I was three days ago..” I argue back.

“Well, that was three days ago. A lot can change in three days.” He states, gruffly.

“I am sorry, just for the record..”

He stands, clearly uncomfortable with how close the moment is getting.

“Stop that too — all the apologising.” He snaps in a strangely gentle way.

Simon doesn’t leave my side until he’s forced to.

That night, as I lie awake, leg propped up, listening to the house breathe around me, one thought circles endlessly in my mind.

John’s words from earlier.

“This isn’t forever.”

The next morning, while Kyle helps me hobble to the kitchen on a makeshift crutch arrangement, Johnny keeps up a steady stream of commentary.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I’ve known LT a long time.”

Kyle nods. “Long enough to know better.”

Johnny ignores him. “Never seen him carry anyone like that.”

“Johnny,” I warn weakly.

“What?” He grins. “I’m just saying—if he starts bringing you tea unprompted, we’ll have confirmation.”

Kyle chuckles. “He already adjusts the heating for her.”

Johnny’s eyes widen theatrically. “Bloody hell. It’s worse than we thought.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You’re both impossible.”

“Welcome to the family,” Kyle says easily.

The word settles in my chest.

Family.

That morning, while everyone else was making breakfast, Price finds Simon outside on watch.

Rain slicks the pavement. The air smells clean and sharp.

Simon doesn’t turn when Price approaches.

“Perimeter’s clear,” Simon says.

“I know,” Price replies. “This isn’t about that.”

Simon stiffens slightly.

Price leans against the railing beside him, gaze scanning the quiet street.

“You’re close to her,” Price states evenly.

A long pause.

“She’s under our protection,” Simon answers.

“Yes,” Price agrees. “She is.”

Another pause. Longer.

“And?” Simon asks finally.

“And you’re allowed to be human,” Price says quietly. “Even if you don’t like it.”

Simon exhales through his nose. “I’m not risking her.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Price replies. “I said I see you.”

Simon’s hands tighten briefly on the railing.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Price continues. “And I won’t push. But don’t punish yourself for feeling something. She’s a good egg. She has fitted in to our little family. She could be good for —”

Simon interrupts

“I won’t let it compromise the mission,” Simon says at last.

“I know,” Price replies.

“That’s all, Simon. Breakfast will be ready in five.”

But as Price walks away, he allows himself a small, knowing smile.

Back inside, price returns to mayhem. Johnny dramatically carrying Kyle in the same way Ghost carried you the night before.

You, laughing and crying at the scene in front of you, screaming at them to stop pissing about.

John huffs a knowing laugh before stopping the theatrics and reminding everyone why we are here.

Price’s presence immediately calms the two sergeants down.

“Kyle, open the laptop. Show everyone what you found last night” he speaks.

Simon walks in just at that moment, eyes meeting mine quickly before walking over to the oven to put some bacon in a roll.

“So, last night I found this…Stephen’s name surfaces in places it shouldn’t—encrypted forums, shell companies tied to defence contractors, communications routed through cut-outs that only exist on paper.”

“This wasn’t just laundering,” Price says. “He was moving leverage. Information meant to control people.”

“Blackmail,” Gaz mutters.

“Yes, And if he’s gone dark, it’s because someone higher decided he was a liability.”

“Or he decided to run,” Soap adds.

“Either way,” Price says, “he’s not finished.”

I listen from the sofa, ankle tucked beneath a blanket—Simon’s blanket, I realise absently.

I find myself contributing more. Remembering more. Patterns I dismissed as office nonsense now slot into place.

I stand to point at a relevant bank transaction we had pinned on the board and as I struggle to stand, Simon appears at my side instantly.

“I’ve got you,” he says, steadying me.

I totally ignore the smirk from Johnny from behind Simon’s back.

The days in the safe house pass faster than expected. A blur of information. Some I understood, some sounded foreign.

The pain in my ankle fades quickly.

It’s still stiff in the mornings, still aches when I move too quickly, but I can walk on it now. Properly. I prove it to myself one afternoon by crossing the length of the safe house with only the faintest limp left behind.

Simon notices immediately.

“You should slow down,” he says from the doorway.

I glance back at him. “I’m fine.” I say with a smile.

His head tilts—barely perceptible. He steps closer anyway, hand hovering near my elbow like he’s prepared to catch me if I wobble.

“Just don’t push it.”

There’s something oddly intimate about the way he watches me move. Like he’s memorised the way I carry my weight now. Like he’s cataloguing every weakness, every improvement.

It makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t quite know how to name.

Kyle is the one who helps me feel normal.

He sits with me on the floor one evening, laptop balanced between us, quietly explaining financial transfers without making me feel stupid.

“See this?” he says, pointing. “Stephen wasn’t just laundering money. He was paying for logistics. Shipping routes. Secure transport.”

“For what?” I ask.

Kyle exhales. “Weapons.”

“And not just any buyers,” Johnny adds from the sofa. “Black-market mercenaries. The kind who don’t care who they hurt.”

I frown. “B-but Stephen was… an accountant.”

“He was a middleman,” Kyle corrects gently. “Those are always the most dangerous ones.”

Price joins us then, face grave.

“We’ve identified one of Stephen’s contacts,” he says. “The man you described at the office.”

My stomach knots. “The American.”

Price nods. “Phillip Graves.”

Johnny’s expression hardens instantly.

“Shadow Company,” he mutters, “fuckin’ bastard”.

The air in the room changes.

Simon straightens from where he’s been leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“That makes this more difficult,” he says quietly.

Price meets his gaze. “Much.”

The video arrives at dawn.

Laswell sends it through a private channel—which tells Price everything he needs to know about how compromised things have become.

We gather in the living room.

I sit between Kyle and Johnny, blanket pulled over my legs, heart pounding for reasons I don’t yet understand. Simon stands across from me, close enough that I can feel his presence like a physical thing.

Price presses play.

The screen flickers.

A dim room. Concrete walls. A single hanging light swinging slightly. A man kneeling in the centre of the frame with a sack over his head, hands bound behind his back.

My breath catches.

The voice that speaks next is calm. Almost conversational.

“Well now,” Phillip Graves says, stepping into frame. “If it isn’t Task Force 141… again.”

Johnny swears under his breath.

Graves smiles like this is a meeting between colleagues.

“We’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding,” he continues. “Our friend Stephen here—”

The man with the sack flinches at his name.

“—forgot to deliver something that belongs to us.”

My pulse roars in my ears.

“And unfortunately,” Graves goes on, “he seems to think his assistant might’ve misplaced it.”

The word assistant hits like a slap.

I see Simon and John tense across the room.

Graves crouches in front of Stephen, gripping the sack roughly.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he says pleasantly. “You’re going to give us the drive. Or your little office girl here is going to wish she never learned how to make coffee.”

My stomach drops.

Graves looks directly into the camera.

“Tick tock, 141.”

The video cuts out.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Then Simon moves.

He leaves the room in two strides, slamming the door behind him.

John watches, and sighs. He crosses over towards where I sit. He crouches down and places a gloved hand on my knee.

“They won’t touch you,” he says, voice low and absolute. “We won’t let them.”

I swallow hard. “They know who I am.”

“They know your name,” Price says grimly. “That’s not the same thing as knowing where you are.”

Johnny leans forward, jaw tight. “Yet.”

Kyle runs a hand over his face.

I stare at the frozen image on the screen, fear curling tight in my chest.

That night, I can’t sleep.

I end up in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea, staring out at the darkness beyond the window.

Simon finds me there.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands across from me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends what it is..” he replies, dryly.

I hesitate. “Why the mask?”

He stills.

I rush on before I lose my nerve. “You don’t have to answer. I just… wondered.”

he doesn’t answer straight away.

“Habit,” he says eventually. “Protection.”

I nod slowly. “Have Johnny and Kyle ever seen your face?”

“Yes.”

“And Price?”

“Yes.”

That feels significant.

Simon glances down at me. “Why?”

I shrug. “Curiosity.”

A beat passes before he speaks again.

“Careful,” he says softly.

My heart skips as I try to stutter an apology “I — I —”

“S’bedtime. You need to rest. We are moving in the next few hours..”

I gulp and head up the stairs, making sure not to limp in front of Simon, to try and prove that my ankle is indeed feeling better.

They move us again before sunrise.

Another safe house. Another reset.

The new safe house is quieter than the last.

Tucked away at the end of a narrow lane that looks too ordinary to bother remembering, the kind of place people pass every day without really seeing. Two floors. Brick exterior. Curtains already drawn when we arrive. No welcome mat. No lights on inside.

Price surveys it with the careful eye of someone who’s learned the hard way not to trust first impressions.

“Laswell vetted it personally,” he says as we unload. “Still—probably won’t be here long - Graves is triangulating our location every time we move.”

Everything is temporary now.

The house smells faintly of dust and cleaning solution. Empty, but not neglected. Someone’s put effort into making it look lived-in without making it personal. Neutral furniture. Blank walls. A few cupboards stocked with basics.

Johnny claims the sofa immediately, flopping onto it like he’s just finished a marathon.

“Right,” he announces. “New house rules. Whoever snores the loudest gets first watch.”

Kyle snorts. “That’s you, mate.”

“Lies,” Johnny says. “I just breathe aggressively.”

Price shakes his head, but there’s a hidden smile there as he sets his bag down. “Behave. Both of you.”

He looks at me then, expression softening. “You alright, darling?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

“That’s allowed,” he says. “You don’t need to have it all together.”

Coming from him, it feels like permission.

We settle into the space over the next few hours.

Kyle shows me where the spare chargers are, how the signal dampeners work, what not to touch. He does it casually, like he’s showing a sibling around a new flat rather than briefing a protected witness.

“If something starts beeping,” he says, tapping a small black box near the stairs, “don’t panic. It’s probably just Johnny microwaving something he shouldn’t.”

Johnny grins from the kitchen. “I will not apologise for experimenting.”

Simon watches from the doorway, arms folded, eyes flicking between me and the exits. He says nothing—but when I pass him on the stairs later, I notice a blanket folded neatly on the banister, exactly where I’ll see it if I get cold.

I take it with me to my room without comment.

Dinner is simple. Too much pasta. Not enough sauce. Johnny complains. Kyle tells him to shut up. Price eats quietly, listening more than he talks.

Simon sits across from me at the table.

At one point, Johnny points his fork at Simon. “You know, you’re being weird.”

Simon doesn’t look up. “Define weird.”

“You,” Johnny gestures vaguely, “making sure she’s eating food, heat, a chair that doesn’t wobble.”

Kyle smirks. “He fixed the loose leg earlier.”

Simon finally looks at them. “It was distracting me.”

I hide my smile behind my glass.

Price clears his throat. “Enough.”

But there’s amusement in his eyes too.

Later, when the others drift off to do their own things, Price calls me into the small living room.

“Sit,” he says gently, gesturing to the armchair.

I do.

He settles opposite me, elbows resting on his knees. The room feels quieter without the background noise of Johnny and Kyle bickering.

“We’re making progress,” he says. “Slowly.”

“With Stephen?” I ask.

“Yes. And Graves.”

My stomach tightens. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Price studies me for a moment. “Graves isn’t acting alone.”

“I figured.”

“He’s just using Stephen as leverage,” Price continues, “but Stephen isn’t the endgame. He’s a loose end.”

The implication chills me.

“You think he’s going to kill him,” I say softly.

“Yes.”

“And me?” I ask. “What am I to him?”

Price doesn’t hesitate. “A means to an end. And a liability if you don’t cooperate.”

I nod. I already knew that.

“We’re trying to stay ahead of him,” Price says. “Laswell’s feeding us what she can. Graves is impatient—that works in our favour. But it also means he’ll escalate.”

I swallow. “So what do I do?”

“You stay close,” Price replies.

“You listen when we tell you to listen. You run if we tell you to run. You hide if we tell you to hide. And if you get found, you keep yourself alive until we find you.”

“Is that a possibility..?”

Price’s voice hardens. “We need to be prepared.”

I nod.

He leans back slightly, gaze softening again. “You’re doing well. I know this isn’t the life you signed up for.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It isn’t.”

“But,” he adds, “you’ve got people looking out for you now.”

I think of the two sergeants. Of Simon. Steady. Silent.

“I know,” I say.

That night, I can’t sleep.

I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the place settling. Pipes ticking. Wind brushing the windows. Somewhere upstairs, Johnny snores softly, unashamed and consistent. Kyle’s footsteps pass once, then stop.

Eventually, I give up on sleep.

I move carefully, easing myself out of bed so the floorboards won’t complain. My ankle holds without protest now, which somehow makes everything feel worse. There’s no sharp pain to distract me anymore. Just thoughts.

Too many of them.

I pad downstairs barefoot, wrapping my arms around myself as if I can physically keep everything from spilling out. The living room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp leaking through the curtains. Shadows pool in corners. The sofa sits there like it’s been waiting.

I sink onto it and curl inward.

For a few minutes, I just breathe.

Then the tears come anyway.

They’re quiet at first—hot, humiliating, slipping down my cheeks while I clamp my mouth shut and press my knuckles against my lips. I hate this part. Hate how small it makes me feel. How fragile.

I’ve survived gunfire. I’ve been hunted. I’ve watched men with weapons argue over my life like it’s a logistical problem.

And yet this—this is what breaks me.

I press my face into the cushion and let it happen.

I don’t sob loudly. I can’t. Everyone else is asleep. They don’t need this on top of everything else. I keep it contained—shoulders shaking, breaths hitching, tears soaking into borrowed fabric.

I feel like a weight.

That’s the thought that won’t leave me alone.

A burden.

They move because of me. They hide because of me. They’re being hunted because of me. Task Force 141—men trained for war, for precision, for violence on a scale I can barely comprehend—are stuck babysitting an office assistant who got too close to the wrong secrets.

Stephen should never have hired me.

I should never have noticed anything.

I should never have spoken up.

My mind spirals, cruel and efficient.

If I wasn’t here, they could move faster. Think clearer. Hit harder. Graves wouldn’t have leverage. Stephen wouldn’t have a bargaining chip.

And if Graves wants me—

Maybe I should stop making everyone else pay the price.

The idea slips in softly, almost kindly.

I could contact him.

I know he’s watching. He wants the USB. Or thinks I know where it is. I could tell him I’ll trade myself for Stephen. Or for their safety.

I imagine it for a moment.

Walking away quietly. Leaving a note. Slipping out before dawn and making the call from somewhere public. Handing myself over so this all ends.

The thought terrifies me.

And yet—there’s a strange relief in it too.

One choice. One sacrifice. Simple.

I wipe at my face angrily. This is stupid. Reckless. Dangerous.

But the idea won’t leave.

“Don’t,” a quiet voice says from behind me.

I flinch hard, heart slamming into my ribs, spinning halfway around on the sofa.

Simon stands at the edge of the room.

He’s not in full kit. Just a dark T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, balaclava still in place. He must’ve been on watch—or coming off it.

He doesn’t move closer.

But his presence fills the space anyway.

“I didn’t hear you,” I whisper, mortified.

“I know,” he says gently. “You weren’t meant to.”

My throat tightens. I scrub at my cheeks with the heel of my hand. “I didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t,” he replies. “I was already up.”

Of course he was.

I look away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For… this.” I gesture vaguely at myself. The tears. The mess. “I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” he says quietly.

I do.

He steps closer then, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching something skittish. He sits on the armchair opposite the sofa instead of beside me, giving me space but not distance.

“You’re not a burden,” he says.

I let out a hollow laugh. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he replies instantly. No hesitation. No softening. Just truth.

I shake my head. “You’re all changing plans because of me. Moving safe houses. Taking risks.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“That’s—”

“That’s what we do,” he interrupts. “For people under our protection.”

“I’m not military,” I whisper. “I’m not trained. I don’t belong here.”

Simon leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees.

A pause.

I swallow. “I keep thinking… if I wasn’t here, this would be easier. You could focus on Graves. On Stephen. I could just—” My voice cracks. “I could make it stop.”

His posture changes instantly.

“Don’t,” he says again. Firmer this time.

I hug my knees tighter. “You don’t understand. I thought about calling him. Graves. Handing myself over.”

The air in the room goes sharp.

Simon’s hands curl into fists, then relax again with visible effort.

“Look at me,” he says.

I hesitate, then do.

Even with the mask, I can feel the intensity of his focus like a physical force.

“You don’t get to decide your worth based on what men like Graves want from you,” he says. “And you don’t get to sacrifice yourself because you feel inconvenient.”

“I’m scared,” I admit.

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how long this lasts. Or what happens after. I might not even have a job to go back to.”

His voice softens. “You don’t have to solve your entire life tonight.”

I sniff, ashamed. “I feel stupid for crying.”

“You’re allowed,” he says simply.

That nearly undoes me all over again.

He stands then, closing the distance at last, and sits beside me on the sofa—but not too close. Just enough that our shoulders brush.

His presence is solid. Warm.

“I won’t let Graves take you,” he says quietly. “Not because it’s my job. Because I won’t.”

The distinction matters more than I can explain.

I lean into him before I can overthink it, resting my head lightly against his shoulder. He stills for half a second—surprised—but then his arm comes up, careful and unsure, settling around me like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

He doesn’t pull me closer.

He just lets me stay.

I breathe him in—clean soap, something darker beneath it. Safety.

“I don’t want to run,” I whisper. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone.”

His hand tightens slightly on my arm.

“You’re not hurting us,” he says. “You’re giving us a reason.”

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch5

The shower helps.

Hot water beats against my shoulders, washing away the stale smell of smoke and fear that still clings to me. I stand there longer than necessary, letting the steam fog my thoughts until they slow enough to feel manageable again. When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel that’s far too big, the house is quiet in that purposeful way—no wasted movement, no unnecessary noise.

I dress quickly. Fresh clothes, borrowed and plain. Then I step into the hallway and find the jumper Ghost mentioned folded neatly on a chair.

It’s heavier than I expect when I lift it.

Dark. Worn. Soft from years of washing.

I pull it over my head and freeze.

On the left side of the chest, just beneath a small British flag and the Task Force 141 insignia, is a name.

RILEY.

My fingers curl into the fabric without thinking.

It smells faintly like soap and something sharper underneath—clean, familiar now. Him.

I swallow and tug the sleeves down over my hands before padding back toward the kitchen.

They’re already gathered around the table when I enter.

Price has papers spread out in front of him now—real ones, not digital. Gaz sits beside him with his tablet, scrolling and tapping. Soap is perched on the counter, nursing a mug and watching me with open amusement.

Ghost stands at the far end of the table, arms folded, balaclava still in place.

His gaze drops immediately to the jumper.

It’s subtle. Barely there.

But I see it.

Soap sees it too.

“Well,” he says brightly, “that’s one way to make yourself indispensable.”

Heat rushes to my face. “I—he said I could—”

“It’s fine, ignore him” Price cuts in calmly, though there’s a glint of humour in his eyes. “If Ghost didn’t want you wearing it, you wouldn’t be.”

Ghost doesn’t comment.

But he doesn’t ask for it back either.

I take a seat, tucking my feet up under the chair. The jumper swallows me, sleeves bunching at my wrists. I feel ridiculous—and oddly safe.

Price slides a photo across the table toward me.

Stephen.

Same smug smile. Same tailored suit. Same man who called me sweet cheeks like it was harmless.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Price asks.

“Yesterday morning,” I say. “Before lunch. He dropped off the paperwork and then… vanished.”

“Did he seem different?” Gaz asks. “Agitated. Distracted?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than usual. He kept checking his phone. Snapped at me for asking a question.”

“What question?” Ghost asks.

I glance at him before I answer. “I asked why the reports were suddenly so urgent. He said… he just said he needed them ‘sorted’.”

Price’s jaw tightens.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’d been micromanaging what went on the shared drives. Told me not to save anything locally. Not to back things up. He liked paper copies too. Always asked me to print one copy only and give it to him at the end of the day.”

“That lines up,” Gaz says quietly. “He was scrubbing his digital trail.”

Soap leans forward. “Any visitors? Meetings that didn’t make sense?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Once. A few weeks ago though... A man came by after hours. Didn’t sign in properly—security just waved him through. Stephen told me to leave early that day.”

Ghost’s head tilts. “Description.”

“Tall. Blonde, maybe greying, hair. American accent, I think.” I frown. “He didn’t look… nervous. More like he owned the place. He winked at me as I passed him leaving the office..”

Silence settles over the table.

Price exchanges a look with Gaz.

Ghost grits his teeth.

“That confirms plenty.” Soap says.

I wrap my hands around the mug that someone’s placed in front of me without my noticing. It’s warm..

Ghost shifts, weight redistributing. “We all thinking the same thing?” Ghost asks dryly.

“Yes.”

Price nods. “That’s what worries me.”

The conversation drifts deeper into timelines and possibilities, but my focus keeps snagging—on the weight of the jumper, on the way Ghost stands just close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to.

I don’t.

But I think about it.

At one point, I shiver without realising. The house is cold, just like he said. Drafts from the open corridor door drift into the kitchen.

Ghost notices.

He doesn’t say anything. He simply steps closer, subtly blocking the draft from the open doorway with his body.

It’s such a small thing.

No one else seems to register it.

My chest tightens anyway.

When the questions finally slow, Price gathers the papers. “That’s enough for now. We’ll keep digging. You’ve given us more than you realise.”

Soap stretches. “I’ll make breakfast before Gaz starts chewing on classified documents.”

Gaz flips him off without looking up.

Price pauses before leaving, glancing back at me. “You did good today.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

The room clears gradually until it’s just me and Ghost.

The silence isn’t awkward.

It’s… dense.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

His gaze drops to the name on the jumper again.

“You don’t have to give it back,” he says.

I look up, surprised. “I wasn’t going to—u—unless you want me to?”

A pause.

“No,” he replies. “It suits you.”

My heart skips—once, hard.

Before I can respond, he turns toward the hallway and leaves me with Soap, Price and Gaz

And immediately—

“Ohhh,” Soap says, dragging the sound out far too long. “Did you guys see that?”

I blink. “See what?”

Gaz grins, pushing his chair back with his foot. “Riley’s jumper. Bold choice.”

My face heats instantly. “He said I could borrow it.”

Soap clutches his chest dramatically. “Borrow. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

“I’m serious,” I insist, flustered. “It was cold.”

“And Ghost,” Gaz adds mildly, “has never once offered his kit to anyone. Not even me. And I’ve known him for years.”

Soap nods. “Once watched a bloke nearly cry because Ghost wouldn’t share a spare jacket in Norway.”

“That’s because it was my jacket,” Price says flatly from the counter.

Soap holds up his hands. “Sir, with respect—he doesn’t even look at her like he wants to scare her.”

I frown. “Is he… supposed to?”

Gaz snorts. “Most people are terrified of the Ghost. And he feeds into it. Takes the piss most of the time.”

That lands heavier than the teasing.

Price studies me for a moment, then exhales through his nose. “They’re not wrong.”

Soap straightens slightly. Gaz sobers.

“Simon’s… not warm,” Price continues. “He’s efficient. Quiet. Intimidating. People don’t chat with him. They don’t relax around him. Hell, even most seasoned operators keep their distance.”

My gaze drops to the stitched name on the jumper.

“He’s been,” Price says carefully, “unusually kind to you.”

I swallow. “Maybe he just feels responsible. I was—there. When he got hurt. You said it yourself — he’s babysitting me.. ”

“Maybe,” Gaz allows.

Soap tilts his head. “Or…maybe he likes you.”

Price shoots him a warning look. “Enough.”

Soap shuts up—but the idea doesn’t leave the room.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly very aware of how small I must look here. Barefoot. Borrowed clothes. Surrounded by people who belong in this world in a way I never will.

“I don’t fit here,” I say quietly.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

The room stills.

Gaz’s teasing expression fades first. Soap follows, mouth tightening. Even Price’s posture softens.

“You weren’t meant to,” Price says. “This isn’t a life anyone chooses lightly.”

“But I’m in it anyway,” I say. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I don’t know the rules. I don’t know what’s safe to say or think or—” My voice wobbles. “I don’t even know who I am here.”

Price steps closer, resting his hands on my shoulders.

“Then let’s give you something solid,” he says. “A plan.”

That helps. A little.

He pulls a marker from his pocket and turns to a whiteboard mounted near the wall. It’s already cluttered with names, arrows, half-erased notes.

“Right now, Stephen is our centre point,” he says, writing the name at the top. “He’s either in hiding, protected, or dead.”

I flinch.

Price notices. “We don’t know which. We prepare for all three.”

Gaz steps in. “Step one: map Stephen’s network. Financials, contacts, shell companies. We already have some of it from the USB, but not all.”

Soap adds, “Step two: figure out who benefits from him disappearing.”

“And step three,” Price says, underlining the board, “we keep you alive.”

I look up. “How?”

“By keeping you close,” Price replies. “But not visible. Laswell’s arranging a longer-term cover—something boring, something believable. Until then, this house.”

“And me?” I ask. “Am I just… waiting?”

Price shakes his head. “You’re our insight. You knew Stephen day to day. You saw what he missed. You remember things we won’t think to ask about. You edited and had access to his documents. His lifeline.”

Soap grins gently this time. “You’re not useless, if that’s what you’re worried about, lass.”

Gaz nods. “Far from it.”

Soap continues. “Plus you’re a fuckin’ crackshot. Fired at two men. Two kills. One hundred per cent kill rate. None of us even have that…” he jokes.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

“You’re ridiculous.” I huff quietly, wiping the unshed tears from my eyes.

Price caps the marker and turns back to me. “For now, you rest. You think. You write down anything—anything—that feels off about Stephen. Habits. Phrases. People. No detail too small.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“And,” Price adds, glancing briefly toward the hallway Simon disappeared down, “you stay with us. All of us. That includes Ghost.”

Something warm—and frightening—stirs in my chest.

Soap claps his hands once. “Right then. Breakfast, Anyone want eggs?”

I almost smile.

As they disperse, I sit there a moment longer, fingers brushing the embroidery on the jumper again.

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch4

The door to the interrogation room clicks shut behind us with a muted thud.

I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

Price doesn’t slow as he leads us down the corridor, boots striking concrete in a steady rhythm. Ghost walks on my other side, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the layers of his gear. His injuries don’t seem to affect his stride at all—if anything, he moves with the same unnerving ease as before.

No limping.

No wince.

Nothing.

Like pain simply doesn’t apply to him.

We turn a corner, and the hum of the base shifts—less open space, more locked doors. Fewer people. The kind of corridor that feels deliberately forgotten.

Price stops at last and turns to face me.

“What I’m about to say matters,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. “So listen carefully.”

I nod.

“We don’t trust the people running this investigation,” he continues. “Not fully. Not anymore.”

My stomach tightens.

Ghost reaches into a pouch on his vest and pulls out a USB. He doesn’t hand it to me—he shows it to Price.

Price nods once.

“We made a copy,” he says. “Clean. Encrypted. Off the official system.”

“Isn’t that… illegal?” I ask quietly.

Price huffs. “That depends who you ask.”

“And we’re not asking,” Ghost adds flatly.

The corridor feels colder.

Price steps closer, lowering his voice despite the emptiness. “Whatever Stephen was involved in didn’t exist in a vacuum. He wasn’t important enough to act alone. Which means someone higher up either knew… or was protected.”

“And if they knew I had it,” I whisper, “they might try to—”

“Control you,” Price finishes. “Or silence you.”

Ghost’s presence shifts subtly. Protective. Dangerous.

“So here are the rules,” Price says.

He holds up one finger.

“Rule one: you do not trust anyone outside Task Force 141.”

Another finger.

“Not officers. Not analysts. Not medics. Not people with the right clearance or the right smile.”

A third.

“If someone comes to your room, you do not open the door unless one of us is with them.”

“What if they say it’s official?” I ask.

“Especially then,” Ghost says.

Price nods. “They’ll try to sound legitimate. Helpful. Reassuring. That’s how this works.”

My chest feels tight. “And if they insist?”

“Then you call us,” Price says. “Immediately.”

Ghost finally looks down at me properly, dark eyes unreadable.

“If anyone pressures you,” he says quietly, “you tell us exactly what they said. Word for word.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Price studies me for a moment.

“You holding up?”

I hesitate. Then nod. “I think so.”

“That’ll do.”

He turns and motions us forward again.

The room I am lead to isn’t what I expect.

No bars. No stark concrete cell.

It’s small but clean—single bed, desk, private bathroom. No windows. The kind of place meant to feel safe, not comforting. A camera sits in the corner, its red light blinking softly.

I stare at it.

Price notices. “That one’s ours,” he says. “Feed’s routed through Gaz. No one else.”

That helps. A little.

Ghost stops at the door while Price steps inside long enough to check the room, opening drawers, glancing behind the bathroom door. Methodical. Protective.

When he steps back out, he hands me a small device.

“A comm,” he says. “Direct line to us. Keep it on you at all times.”

I take it with shaking fingers.

Ghost stays where he is, broad frame blocking the doorway.

“You did well in there,” he says, voice low. “But this part’s harder.”

“How?” I ask.

“You don’t get to see the danger anymore,” he replies. “That makes it worse.”

I swallow.

Price joins Ghost at the door again. “We’ll start digging into Stephen tonight. His accounts. His contacts. His movements. Anything he touched.”

“And if he’s gone?” I ask.

Ghost’s jaw tightens beneath the mask.

“Then we find out who helped him disappear.”

Price meets my eyes. “We won’t leave you blind. But we need time.”

I nod. “I can wait.”

Price gives a thin smile. “Good. Because patience keeps people alive.”

Ghost steps back, finally allowing me into the room.

Before the door closes, he repeats what had just been said.

“If someone comes knocking,” he says, “and we’re not with them—”

“I don’t open the door,” I finish.

His head tilts slightly.

“Good.”

The door seals shut.

I sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, staring at the plain walls.

Somewhere in this base, people are watching me.

Some of them want answers.

Some of them don’t want me breathing.

I sit on the bed. Alone. In silence.

It’s the kind that presses in on you—thick, watchful. I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, hands clasped together so tightly my fingers ache, listening to the faint hum of ventilation and the distant, muted thud of activity somewhere deeper in the base.

I don’t know how long passes before there’s a soft knock at the door.

My heart jumps straight into my throat.

Three knocks. Even. Polite.

“Miss?” a voice calls through the door. Male. Calm. Friendly. “Medical check. Just routine.”

Every instinct screams at me to stand, to answer, to do what I’ve always done—be cooperative, be agreeable, don’t cause trouble.

Then Price’s voice echoes in my head.

If anyone comes to your room, you don’t open the door.

I swallow hard and don’t move.

There’s a pause.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Ma’am, we just need to make sure you’re alright. Won’t take a moment.”

My pulse pounds so loudly I’m sure they can hear it through the door. I slide my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around the comm device.

“Price,” I whisper. “Someone’s at my door.”

The reply is instant.

“Don’t answer,” Price says. No hesitation. No doubt. “Ghost is en route. Gaz is checking feeds.”

The silence stretches again.

Then the handle rattles.

Not hard. Just enough to test.

“That’s odd,” the voice murmurs, faintly irritated now. “Door must be jammed.”

I press my back against the bed, heart hammering. Hiding like a child.

“Sir,” another voice says somewhere farther down the corridor. “Command wants you.”

A pause.

Then footsteps retreat.

I don’t breathe until the sound fades completely.

A minute later, the door unlocks from the outside.

I jolt upright, scrambling to face the intruder, about to throw the bedside lamp at whoever it was—then freeze as Ghost steps inside and seals it quickly behind him.

He doesn’t ask if I’m alright. He doesn’t need to.

“They weren’t medical,” he says flatly.

“No,” I whisper. “They sounded… weird.”

“That’s the point.”

He moves around the room with quick, efficient steps, checking corners, scanning the camera, tapping something into a wrist-mounted device. The camera’s red light blinks once—then goes dark.

“That feed’s dead,” he says. “Ours is still live.”

My knees finally give, and I sit back down hard on the bed.

“They were testing you,” Ghost continues. “Seeing if you’d comply.”

“What would’ve happened if I had?”

He pauses. Just for a second.

“Nothing good.”

The door opens again—this time Price and Gaz step in. Gaz’s expression is tight, jaw clenched.

“Command flagged the room check as ‘routine welfare,’” Gaz says. “No paperwork. No request logged. Total bullshit”

Price’s eyes harden. “Too fast.”

“So… they already know about me?” I ask.

Price exhales slowly. “They know you exist. They don’t know what you know. Yet.”

Ghost turns toward Price. “We need to move faster.”

Price nods. “Already on it.”

He pulls out a tablet and sets it on the desk, bringing up a web of data—accounts, names, timestamps, locations.

“Stephen wasn’t just holding money,” Price says. “He was holding leverage. Dead drops. Weapon companies. He was a middleman.”

“For who?” I ask.

“That’s the problem,” Gaz says. “Every trail loops back into classified space. Black budgets. Off-book operations.”

“Someone’s using official infrastructure to hide unofficial crimes,” Price adds. “And Stephen was the idiot who thought keeping a copy would protect him.”

Ghost folds his arms. “Or the smart one.”

They all look at him.

“He knew he was expendable,” Ghost continues. “People like that don’t steal data unless they plan to use it.”

A chill creeps up my spine. “You think he meant to disappear.”

“Yes,” Ghost says. “And he didn’t expect you to be there.”

Silence settles again—heavy, dangerous.

Price straightens. “From now on, you don’t leave this wing without one of us. Meals come here. Briefings come to us. You don’t speak to anyone alone.”

“And Stephen?” I ask. “What happens when you find him?”

Ghost’s head tilts slightly, something dark and unreadable in the gesture.

“Then we find out who panicked enough to send men with guns into an office building,” he says.

Price nods. “And why.”

Gaz glances at the door. “We’re in a web now. Only way out is pulling the right thread.”

Price meets my eyes. “You’re that thread.”

My stomach tightens—but beneath the fear, something steadier takes root.

Determination.

“Then tell me what you need,” I offer quietly. “I worked for him. I know his habits. His tells. The things he forgot to hide.”

Ghost looks at me for a long moment.

Then, approvingly “Good.”

Price taps the tablet once more. “We start tonight.”

They move me to a smaller briefing room not long after. No camera this time—just a table, dim lights, and the four of them.

Soap drops into a chair backward, arms folded over the backrest. Gaz stands near the wall, tablet in hand, scrolling through files. Price remains standing. Ghost leans against the far wall, arms crossed, presence filling the room without him saying a word.

“Alright,” Price says. “Let’s talk Stephen.”

My stomach twists.

Gaz brings up a file on the screen. Stephen’s photo fills it—smug smile, tailored suit, the man who’d dropped work on my desk like I was disposable.

“He doesn’t exist the way he should,” Gaz says. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling stupid.

“Means his records don’t line up,” Soap says. “Employment history’s too clean. Financials too messy. He’s got shell accounts spread across three countries and no clear reason for any of them.”

Gaz nods. “He also used a secondary identity. Same face, different name. That ID goes dark about five years ago.”

Price looks at me. “Did he ever talk about his past?”

“No,” I say. “He avoided it. Changed the subject. Got… snappy.”

Ghost speaks for the first time since we sat down.

“He was a courier,” he says.

All eyes turn to him.

“Not the big picture,” Ghost continues. “Not a mastermind. Someone trusted him to move information. Store it. Keep it quiet.”

“And he panicked,” I say slowly. “That’s why he was hiding the USB.”

“Exactly,” Price says. “Something changed. Someone spooked him.”

Soap leans forward. “Question is—who?”

Silence stretches.

Then Price exhales and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his own phone—old, battered, clearly not standard issue.

“There’s one person I trust with this,” he says. “Someone outside the chain.”

Ghost nods immediately.

“Laswell,” Gaz says.

Price dials.

The line connects after two rings.

“Price,” a woman’s voice answers. Cool. American. No nonsense. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Price says. “And a witness.”

“Do I need to clear a safe house?” Laswell asks without hesitation.

“Yes.”

“How compromised?”

Price glances at me and then to Ghost with a tilt of his head. “Unknown. Which means assume very.”

There’s a pause—calculating.

“Alright,” Laswell says. “I’ll arrange something off-grid. No military assets. No local law enforcement. Only people I personally vouch for.”

Ghost pushes off the wall. “We will escort her.”

“I expected nothing less,” Laswell replies. “You’ve got twelve hours before the net tightens. After that, I can’t guarantee anything.”

Price ends the call.

He looks at me.

“We’re moving you,” he says. “Quietly.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Somewhere no one knows to look,” Soap says. “And before anyone realises you’re gone.”

Ghost steps closer, voice low and certain.

“From now on,” he says, “you don’t go anywhere without one of us.”

I nod, heart pounding—but beneath the fear, something steadier is forming.

Trust.

Because if the people who are supposed to be in charge are lying—

Then Task Force 141 is already fighting a war no one else knows exists.

“Laswell’s moving fast,” he says. “That’s good. But it also means someone else might notice things changing.”

“So what’s the plan?” I ask.

Price doesn’t sugarcoat it. “We disappear you.”

Soap glances up. “Temporarily,” he adds. “You don’t just vanish forever. That spooks the wrong people.”

Gaz swivels his screen so I can see it—maps, routes, timestamps. “Safe house is civilian-owned. Clean history. Utilities paid. No digital footprint connecting it to the task force.”

“And you?” I ask.

Ghost answers. “Officially, we’re rotating off-site for training.”

I blink. “That’s… it?”

Price gives a tight smile. “It’s amazing what you can get away with if you don’t ask permission.”

Ghost shifts beside me. I catch the subtle tightening of his posture, the way his hand briefly presses against his side before dropping again. If he’s in pain, he refuses to acknowledge it.

Gaz notices anyway. “Med cleared you?”

“Med talks too much,” Ghost replies.

Soap snorts. “he walked out again.”

Price shoots Ghost a look. “You’ll get patched properly once we’re clear.”

Ghost doesn’t respond—but he doesn’t argue either.

That, apparently, is a concession.

They give me new clothes.

Nothing tactical. Nothing that screams military. Just leggings, a hoodie, trainers. Ordinary. Anonymous. Normal.

Price watches while I change behind a divider, eyes politely fixed on the far wall. Soap hums tunelessly. Gaz keeps working away on his tablet.

Ghost turns his back entirely.

When I step out, Soap gives an approving nod. “See? Normal. No one expects the person holding classified intel to look like she’s going to Tesco.”

That earns him a look from Price.

“What?” Soap shrugs. “It’s true.”

“We move after midnight.” Price announced.

No announcement. No escort parade. Just a service elevator down to an underground garage where two unmarked vehicles wait, engines already running.

Ghost opens the back door of the first one and gestures me inside.

I hesitate. “Shouldn’t you—?”

“I’m with you,” he says.

Price nods approval. “Gaz, Soap—other vehicle.”

Soap grins and winks. “Don’t get too comfortable back there.”

“You’re annoying..” I argue back.

Ghost closes the door before he can respond, but I see him throw his head back through the black tinted glass.

The car pulls away smoothly, merging into the night without fanfare. City lights blur past the tinted windows.

For a while, no one speaks.

Then Ghost breaks the silence.

“You did well earlier,” he says. Same words as before. Still calm. Still certain.

“I nearly threw up,” I admit.

A pause.

“…Still counts.”

I let out a shaky breath that almost feels like a laugh.

“Why would you guys - the task force - help me?” I ask suddenly. “I’m not… important.”

Ghost turns his head slightly. Not enough for me to see anything beneath the mask—just enough to know he’s looking at me.

“You are,” he says. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

The car slows.

We’ve left civilisation behind now—dark roads, trees, the faint smell of rain through the vents. When we finally stop, it’s in front of an unremarkable house. One storey. Faded paint. A place you’d never look at twice.

Price’s voice comes through the comm in Ghost’s ear. “Perimeter clear. We’re set.”

Ghost opens the door. “Welcome Home, for now.”

Inside, the house is simple but secure. Reinforced doors disguised as normal ones. Signal dampeners hidden behind walls. No cameras that I can see.

“This is Laswell’s work,” Price says as he joins us. “She’s thorough.”

“And she trusts you?” I ask.

Price’s expression is grim. “She trusts us.”

They show me the room I’ll be staying in. Plain, but warm. A bed. A lamp. A door that locks from the inside.

As they move off to secure the house, I sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion finally crashing over me.

Morning comes quietly.

No alarm. No shouting. Just the low hum of electricity in the walls and the distant, muted sounds of someone moving around the house. For a few seconds after I wake up, I forget where I am—and then it all rushes back in at once. The deadlines. The police. The gunfire. The USB. The rules.

Don’t trust anyone but them.

I sit up slowly, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I’d gone through my bag full of clothes and toiletries I’d been given. I’m currently swimming in an oversized military-issued T-shirt that hangs nearly to mid-thigh, the fabric soft and worn. My sleep shorts peek out beneath it, almost apologetically small. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pad toward the door, bare feet silent on the floor.

The smell hits me first.

Coffee.

Real, strong coffee—not the sad office kind. My stomach betrays me with a soft growl.

I crack the door open and follow the scent.

The kitchen is modest but bright, morning light filtering in through half-drawn blinds. Price is at the counter with a mug in hand, reading something on his phone. Gaz is leaning against the table, arms folded, listening to Soap, who’s animatedly digging through a cupboard like he’s on a treasure hunt.

Ghost is at the sink, back turned, rinsing a mug.

He’s ditched the hard skull mask, but the balaclava stays, black fabric pulled high over his nose and jaw. No skin or hair visible. Still anonymous. Still unreadable. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms, and he’s methodically rinsing out the mug like it personally offended him.

For a second, no one notices me.

Then Soap looks up.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, grinning instantly. “Morning, sunshine.”

I freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of everything about myself. Bare feet. Messy hair. Borrowed clothes.

Gaz’s gaze flicks over me, eyebrows lifting. “Blimey. Someone’s made herself at home.”

“I—sorry,” I start, instinctively tugging the hem of the shirt down. “I didn’t know what—”

Soap waves a hand dismissively. “Relax. You look… uh…” He tilts his head, considering. “Like you fell into Ghost’s wardrobe and got lost.”

Gaz snorts. “Bold of you to assume Ghost owns anything that isn’t black or threatening.”

I glance at Ghost despite myself.

He doesn’t look at me. He is still scrubbing the mug.

But I notice the smallest hitch in his movement. Just a fraction of a second where his hands pause under the tap.

Price hides a smile behind his mug.

“Coffee?” Gaz asks, pushing off the table. “Or are you the tea type?”

“Coffee,” I say quickly. “Definitely coffee.”

“Good,” Soap says. “We don’t trust tea drinkers before nine.”

Ghost finally turns around.

Not fully—just enough to pass me a mug without a word. His gloved fingers brush mine for half a heartbeat longer than necessary as I take it.

Warmth jolts up my arm.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He nods once.

I perch on one of the stools by the counter, curling my toes against the cool tile as I sip. The coffee is strong and bitter and perfect.

“So,” Soap says, leaning his elbows on the table and fixing me with a grin. “Sleep okay? No nightmares about masked blokes and explosions?”

Gaz gives him a look. “Subtle, Johnny.”

“What?” Soap shrugs. “She handled it better than half the rookies I’ve seen.”

I smile faintly. “I slept.. could do with a shower though. Do we have any spare towels?”

Price sets his mug down. “Glad you slept. Because today’s a slow one. There should be towels somewhere. One of the boys will sort ya’”

“Slow sounds ominous,” I say.

“It’s not,” Gaz replies. “Just boring. We wait. We watch. We dig.”

“And we keep you bored enough not to wander off,” Soap adds cheerfully.

Ghost shifts his weight, leaning back against the counter across from me. His presence fills the space even now—quiet, steady, like an anchor.

I’m acutely aware of how close he is.

“Your injuries?” I ask him before I can stop myself.

His head tilts slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the question.

“Fine.”

Soap laughs outright. “He says that even when he’s bleeding through the floor.”

Ghost shoots him a filthy look.

Gaz grins. “You should’ve seen him last year. Took a round, kept walking, complained about the paperwork he would need to fill out.”

I glance at the bandages again. “You should still take it easy.”

Ghost’s eyes—dark, intent through the narrow opening of the balaclava—rest on me.

“I am,” he says.

I’m not convinced.

The room settles into a strange, domestic rhythm after that. Gaz disappears with his tablet. Price steps outside to make a call. Soap starts frying something that smells questionably like bacon.

Ghost stays where he is.

Watching the door.

Watching the windows.

Watching me—only when he thinks I’m not looking.

I finish my coffee and stand, unsure what I’m meant to do next.

Ghost moves before I can ask.

“There are towels and a spare jumper in the hallway,” he says quietly. “Gets cold.”

I blink. “Oh—okay. Thanks.”

As I pass him, I catch it again—that faint, clean scent of leather. I hesitate, then glance up at him and smile softly.

Barely anything at all.

But my heart stumbles anyway when he nods inn reply once.

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch3

The corridor outside the server room looks worse than I imagined.

Smoke hangs thick in the air, stinging my eyes. Ceiling tiles lie shattered across the floor, wires dangling like exposed nerves. Somewhere nearby, an alarm wails—half-drowned out by distant gunfire and shouted commands echoing up the stairwells.

A far cry from the clean and modern office I walked into this morning.

Gaz moves first, smooth and efficient, rifle up and sweeping corners. Soap follows at the rear, covering our backs. Price slots in beside Ghost for half a second, eyes flicking down to the blood soaking into his kit.

“You’re hit,” Price says flatly.

Ghost doesn’t slow. “I noticed.”

He steps closer to me, just enough that his shoulder brushes mine. The contact is grounding—and terrifying. He’s bleeding because of me. He’s being forced to keep moving, stay alert, because of me.

“Stay on my left,” he mutters. “If I go down, you keep moving.”

My stomach flips. “You’re not—don’t say shit like that.”

He ignores me.

We make it ten metres down the hall before everything goes wrong again.

A figure lunges from a side office—too close, too fast. Ghost reacts instantly, shoving me backward as he pivots to fire—

The shot never lands.

Another gunshot cracks through the air and Ghost staggers hard, slamming into the wall beside me. His rifle clatters to the floor.

“No—!” I grab him without thinking, my hands slipping against blood-slick fabric. It feels hot and sticky on my palms.

“Contact left!” Gaz shouts.

Soap opens fire down the corridor, dragging the hostile down in a hail of bullets. The threat is gone in seconds—but Ghost isn’t moving.

“Ghost!” Price is there instantly, hauling him upright before he collapses. “Simon—talk to me.”

Ghost’s breath comes sharp, uneven. “Vest caught some… not all.”

Blood is spreading faster now. Too fast.

“We need to move,” Gaz says urgently. “More hostiles inbound—multiple.”

Price looks at Ghost, then at me.

“Can you walk?” Price demands.

Ghost tries. His knee buckles.

“No,” he snaps, furious at his own body.

Price swears under his breath and turns to me. “You—listen to me. You did well in there. But I need you calm right now.”

I nod frantically, trying to gulp down my nerves. “T-Tell me what to do.”

Ghost’s head lifts slightly. His gaze locks onto mine through the skull mask—intense, sharp, almost apologetic.

“She’s not trained,” he growls at Price.

“She’s breathing,” Price replies. “That’s enough.”

“Aye she’s got a one for one strike rate too, mate. Crack shot!” Soap jokes.

Another burst of gunfire echoes from the stairwell. We don’t have time.

Price shoves Ghost’s dropped rifle into my hands.

Cold. Heavy. Real.

I slide the smaller pistol into my belt loops, realising how utterly ridiculous I must look. Pencil skirt, ruffled, blood stained shirt and no shoes with a gun tucked into my waist and a massive rifle in my hands.

My heart slams into my ribs. “I—I don’t know how—”

“You already used one,” Price says. “Safety’s off. Point forward. Finger straight unless you mean it.”

Ghost grabs my wrist, steadying it despite the pain.

“Don’t think,” he says quietly. “Just aim - centre mass.”

I swallow hard. My hands are shaking so badly I’m afraid I’ll drop it.

Gaz curses. “They’re pushing!”

Soap appears at the corner, firing controlled bursts. “We’re boxed in, Captain!”

Price makes a decision in a heartbeat. “We hold here. Short defence. Then we move.”

Ghost slumps more of his weight against the wall, breathing ragged. I step closer without realising, pressing myself against his side to keep him upright.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, though I’m not sure that’s true, or very reassuring..

Footsteps thunder closer.

A shadow breaks through the smoke at the far end of the hall.

“Target acquired!” someone shouts.

The man raises his rifle—

“Shoot!” Ghost snarls.

My finger tightens.

The gun kicks violently, far louder than before. The recoil nearly knocks it from my grip, pain from the recoil rolls through my shoulder —but the hostile goes down hard, collapsing in a heap.

I gasp, shock rippling through me. “I—I did it again.”

Ghost exhales shakily, something like a breathless laugh escaping him. “Told you.”

Another hostile rushes forward. Soap takes him down before I can even react.

Price barks into his radio. “This is Bravo Six—we need exfil now. Ghost is down. Package secured.”

Static crackles—then confirmation.

“Exfil inbound. Two minutes. Roof pickup.”

Two minutes?!

Ghost’s knees give way again. This time, I go down with him, my shoulder under his arm as I try to keep him from hitting the floor.

“Easy,” he mutters. His voice is weaker now. “Didn’t mean for you to carry me.”

“Shut up,” I say, panic sharpening my words. “You’re heavy.”

Soap snorts despite everything. “She’s got a point, mate.”

Price crouches beside Ghost, applying pressure to the wound. “Stay with us, Simon.”

Ghost nods faintly.

Then his gaze flicks to me—still holding the gun, knuckles white, chest heaving.

“You did good,” he says, low and sincere. “Better than good.”

Something tight in my chest cracks.

The sound of helicopter blades grows louder overhead.

Gaz signals toward the stairwell. “That’s our ride.”

Price looks at me again. “You ready to move?”

I glance down at Ghost—at the blood, the pain, the man who stepped in front of bullets for me.

I tighten my grip on the rifle.

“I’m ready. Someone will need to help with him though. He’s too heavy for me on my own..”

Price nods for Gaz to come and assist.

I feel like I go into some sort of auto-pilot for a good few minutes. Everything just happens without me being mentally present.

The helicopter ride is a blur of noise and vibration.

I’m wedged between Gaz and Soap on the metal bench, knees knocking every time the aircraft banks. Wind roars through the open side door. Red lights flash overhead. Somewhere across from me, a medic works briskly on Ghost’s shoulder and side.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Not when they cut his vest open.

Not when they clean the wound.

Not even when the needle goes in.

Ghost doesn’t move.

I keep stealing glances at him, expecting… something. A flinch. A hiss of breath. Anything. But he just stares at the opposite wall, jaw set, eyes distant.

“You alright?” I whisper finally.

He tilts his head slightly. “Fine.”

“That looked like it hurt.”

A pause. Then, dry: “It’s inconvenient.”

Soap snorts. “That’s Ghost-speak for ‘agonising.’”

Ghost ignores him and silence ensues.

No sirens.

No gunfire.

Just the steady thrum of rotors carrying us somewhere I don’t recognise.

When we land, it’s night.

Floodlights blaze against concrete. The moment we disembark, someone takes my elbow—not rough, but firm.

“Ma’am, this way.”

I glance back instinctively.

Ghost is already on his feet.

The medic tries to guide him toward a stretcher. He steps past it.

“I can walk.”

“Lieutenant—”

“I said I can walk.”

Price intervenes, voice calm but final. “Let him. You won’t win.”

Ghost’s gaze flicks to me as he passes. For half a second, I think he’s going to say something.

He doesn’t.

But he slows—just enough—to make sure I’m following.

The base is massive.

We walk through a maze of corridors, each one humming with quiet efficiency. Soldiers move with purpose. Doors open and close. Screens glow with maps, satellite feeds, scrolling data I don’t understand.

I feel small again.

Not invisible — but very, very aware that I’m well out of my depth.

A woman in normal clothes meets us at a checkpoint. Dark suit. No insignia. Sharp eyes.

“I’m Miller,” she says. “Intelligence liaison. Working under Laswell.”

Her gaze sweeps over me. Appraising. Measuring.

“You’re safe here. But until we understand your involvement, you’ll remain under protection and custody.”

Custody.

The word lands heavier than I expect.

Price steps in smoothly. “She cooperated fully in the field-”

“I’m sure,” Miller interrupts. “That’s why we’re simply just talking.”

I’m guided into a small room—not a cell, but not comfortable either. Plain walls. Metal table. Two chairs. A camera in the corner.

Someone takes my bag. My smashed up phone. My watch.

The USB stays in my pocket.

For now.

“Sit,” Miller says.

I do.

The door closes with a soft click that feels louder than any gunshot I had heard today.

A moment later, it opens again.

Ghost steps in.

Still in his gear. Still bleeding faintly through fresh bandages. Still moving like none of that matters.

He leans against the wall instead of sitting.

Miller raises an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be in medical, Lieutenant.”

“I was,” he says.

“Past tense?”

“I left.”

She sighs. “Of course you did.”

Ghost’s eyes flick to me. Not unkind. Watchful.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “I think so.”

“Good.”

Miller clears her throat. “Lieutenant, you don’t need to—”

“I do.”

That’s the end of that discussion.

She sits opposite me, folding her hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” she says. “Your full name. Position. How long you’ve worked under Stephen Guy.”

I answer.

Everything.

Where I grew up.

How I got the job.

Stephen’s behaviour — the deadlines, the insults, the chaos.

The USB. The police presence. The way he vanished before the attack.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt.

He just watches.

Occasionally, when I falter, he corrects the timeline quietly. Anchors me.

Miller listens closely.

“When did you first see the USB?” she asks.

“I didn’t,” I say. “Not until… today. But Stephen was paranoid. Always checking drawers. Locking his office. I know that he stopped using the shared server months ago.”

“Why?”

“He said IT ‘couldn’t be trusted.’”

Ghost exhales softly through his nose.

Miller notes something down. “Did Stephen ever mention clients? Foreign contacts? Off-the-books meetings?”

I hesitate.

“He - he had calls he took in his car. And… once, I found a second phone in his desk. He said it was for ‘travel.’ He doesn’t travel.”

Silence stretches.

Ghost straightens slightly.

Did I say something wrong??

“That helps,” Miller says.

Phew!

She stands. “We’ll verify what’s on the drive. Until then, you’re temporarily cleared of wrongdoing.”

Relief hits me so hard I have to grip the table.

“But,” she adds, “you’re now a material witness. Which means you stay here.”

“Oh. Uhm - How long?”

She considers my question. “Depends on what the USB contains.”

The door opens again.

Price steps in, holding a small evidence bag.

He shakes it at me. I stare at him with my eyebrow raised, a clearly puzzled look on my face.

Oh.. the USB - I mentally facepalm.

“Shit- sorry - here… sorry I forgot I even had it! Sorry Captain..”

“S’alright, darling. You’ve had a long day. Happens to the best of us.”

Ghost pushes off the wall at last, stepping closer.

“You’ll be briefed. Assigned protection. New identity options if it comes to that.”

I stare at them. “You mean… I can’t go home.”

Ghost shakes his head slightly.

“Not yet.”

I swallow, fear and awe tangling together.

And somehow — impossibly — I think of the most ridiculous thing to say.

“I — I’ll need shoes — And underwear.”

Price laughs.

“Aye lass, we’ll sort you with all of that. Shoes and underwear included”

Oh my god why did I say that out loud?!

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch 33 - final chapter (I think)

Sorry I’ve been gone for forever. But I’m back and I have a few chapters of several different fics saved in my drafts, so I’m gonna slowly start uploading them one by one! Anyway, here is the long awaiting continuation of Laika’s story. And we left off just as her first proper heat was approaching, and she was being all hormonal and moody with her Alpha’s. Go back and read the old stuff again if you need a reminder, because jeez I definitely did, and I wrote the damn thing.

*Simon’s POV*

Johnny and Kyle had been gone for over an hour.

At first, John and I sat in silence — the kind of silence that tastes like you’ve done something terribly wrong. The kind that clings to your ribs, making every breath tight.

John rubs a hand over his jaw.

“You shouldn’t have snapped at her,” he mutters.

I grit my teeth. “She was about to hurt herself. You saw how she winced.”

“You still shouldn’t have said it like that.”

I know he’s right.

I know he’s right.

My Omega — our Omega — had looked at me like I’d slapped her across the face. Like she expected cruelty from me. Like it was familiar.

Like she didn’t expect softness from an Alpha.

John stands, restless. “They’ve been gone too long.”

I smell it a second before he does.

Her scent.

Thick. Sweet. Warming. Like honey blooming through the hallways. Not distressed — not quite — but charged. Richer than it’s ever been, stronger than anything that should be leaking from an Omega whose heat hasn’t hit yet.

My pulse jumps.

John’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s—”

“I know.”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

She’s changing. Peaking. Something’s triggering her cycle early.

And she’s in a nest with two Alphas who are barely holding themselves together on the best of days.

John curses under his breath. “We wait any longer, she’s going to overwhelm them. Or herself.”

I don’t bother responding — I’m already moving down the hallway.

*Laika’s POV*

I wake slowly — warm, safe, stuffed between the bodies of two Alphas.

Johnny is still curled around my back, arm draped protectively over my waist. Kyle lies in front of me, his forehead touching mine, breath warm against my nose. His thumb strokes lazily along my cheek, even in sleep.

I yawn and shift, stretching a little —

And everything changes.

Heat ripples under my skin. Not painful — but deep, molten, buzzing low in my belly. My pulse stutters. My scent blooms without my permission, thick and syrupy, rolling out in waves.

Johnny wakes with a sharp inhale rocking his hips against me from behind.

Then Kyle.

Kyle’s pupils go almost black instantly.

“Bug…” he whispers, voice tight. “You smell… different.”

“I—I don’t know why,” I breathe, but my thighs press together instinctively as another hot wave rolls through me.

Johnny noses into my neck. Not gently — hungry.

“Oh lass,” he mutters, voice almost a groan, “that’s your scent. Your real scent.” He grumbles, lapping at my throat.

Kyle’s hand grips my hip, slow but possessive.

“You’re peaking. Early. That’s— that’s your heat coming in.”

Heat.

My chest squeezes.

“I-is that bad? I don’t—”

Kyle presses his forehead to mine, breathing shakily.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. Just means we need to be careful. And stay close.”

Johnny hums in agreement, teeth brushing the skin of my shoulder in a way that makes heat bloom behind my ribs.

But then—

Heavy footsteps outside the door.

My entire body tenses.

Kyle freezes.

Johnny growls softly in warning.

The door opens.

*John’s POV*

The scent hits us like a goddamn wall.

Sweet, thick, new.

Her true scent — not hidden by patches, not muddied by fear, not diluted by injury.

My knees nearly buckle.

Simon’s jaw flexes hard enough I swear I hear something crack.

The bedroom door is closed, but her scent pours through the gap beneath it, drugging the air.

“She—” I start.

But Simon is already pushing the door open.

Johnny and Kyle snap their heads up, eyes sharp, bodies coiled protectively around her in the nest.

Laika blinks up at us, pupils wide, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow. Confusion mixes with embarrassment and something else—something instinctive and warm.

I swallow hard.

“Sweetheart,” I say softly, “your scent is… strong.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers immediately, hiding her face in Kyle’s chest.

Simon steps forward before I can speak.

“Don’t apologise for something that’s natural,” he says, voice low, deep, strangely gentle.

Johnny nuzzles her jaw as if to reassure her.

Kyle holds her a little tighter.

But the air in the room is thick. Heavy with restraint.

If any one of us pushed even an inch too far—

Simon finally tears his eyes away from her and looks at me.

“She’s entering her heat.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she mumbles, voice trembling. “I don’t know what’s happening. I just— I smell weird and everything feels—”

“Aye, we know,” Johnny soothes, kissing her temple.

Kyle clears his throat. “We can manage it. Just need a plan.”

A plan.

My Omega is trembling and sweet and radiating heat in the middle of a nest, and Garrick thinks we need a strategic outline.

Simon growls under his breath — not at her — at the situation. His fists clench once, twice, struggling to hold the Alpha instinct in place.

“Laika,” I say softly, kneeling beside the nest so I’m eye level with her, “you tell us what feels safe. What you need. We follow your lead. No one touches you without your permission. Understand?”

Her eyes flick up, wide and shining.

“You… still want me? Even like this?”

The question guts me.

“Love,” I breathe, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “we’ve always wanted you.”

Simon’s voice rumbles behind me, darker but controlled.

“You’re ours long before any heat decides to show up.”

Her breath catches.

My heart does too.

*Simon’s POV*

She smells like she belongs to us.

Not claimed — not yet — but the scent of a forming bond is unmistakable. Sweet and sharp and ripe. The kind of smell that makes an Alpha’s vision blur around the edges.

But she’s hurt. Healing. And terrified of being a burden.

So I kneel.

Her eyes widen — she wasn’t expecting that.

“Omega,” I say quietly, “look at me.”

She does.

“This doesn’t change anything. Except that we need to manage it. Make sure you’re safe. Make sure you’re not overwhelmed.”

Her lower lip trembles.

“Simon… I thought you were angry at me.”

I exhale slowly.

“I wasn’t angry. I was scared.”

“S-scared?”

“That you’d break. That we’d break you.” I look away, jaw clenching. “That’s on me. Not you.”

She reaches out with her good arm, timidly brushing her fingers against mine.

My pulse spikes.

She doesn’t pull away.

“Do you want us here,” I ask, voice low, “or do you want space while this—” I gesture gently to her scent, her flushed cheeks, “—comes in?”

Her eyes soften.

“I don’t want space,” she whispers. “I want… I want my pack.”

The room goes silent.

Then Johnny lets out a shaky breath.

Kyle rakes a hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose his mind.

John mutters a curse under his breath that sounds mostly like a prayer.

And I—

I feel every wall I’ve built for years crack straight down the center.

*Laika’s POV*

They all look at me like I’m something precious.

My chest aches.

“My shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore,” I whisper. “And I’m not scared. Not with you. I just… everything feels hot. And loud. And I don’t know what to do.”

Kyle cups my cheek.

“That’s normal, love.”

Johnny kisses the back of my hand.

“We’ll get you through it.”

John strokes his thumb over the blanket near my knee, careful not to touch more than I allow.

“You decide how close we get.”

Simon’s gaze drags over me — controlled, reverent, hungry — but when he speaks, it’s soft.

“If you want us to stay, we’ll stay. If you want us touching you, we touch. If you need space, we take space. You say the word.”

My throat tightens.

“I… I want you closer.”

The effect is immediate.

Four Alphas inhale in unison.

Their scents deepen, warm, folded into mine.

Kyle slides into the nest fully.

Johnny shifts closer behind me.

John settles near my legs, giving gentle, grounding warmth.

And Simon —

Simon lowers himself to sit at my side, close enough that our arms brush.

My body shivers with the contact.

But it’s not fear.

It’s something deeper. Older. Instinct pulling at the base of my spine.

I swallow hard.

“My Alphas.”

The growl that rolls through the room makes every hair on my body stand up.

Simon leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over my ear.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But soon. When you’re ready.”

Heat flares through me —

Hotter.

Stronger.

I gasp softly, gripping the nest blankets.

Kyle’s eyes darken again.

“John,” he says lowly, “it’s starting.”

John nods. “We’ll manage it. Together.”

Simon’s hand hovers near my thigh — not touching — but close enough to feel like lightning.

“Tell us what you need, Omega.”

My breathing stutters.

I’m not sure. Not exactly.

But I know one thing.

“I… I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be,” John promises immediately.

“You’ll never be alone again,” Kyle adds.

Johnny noses into my hair, humming gently.

“Not a chance, lass.”

Simon’s voice drops to a growl so soft it vibrates through me.

“We’re right here. All of us.”

*Laika’s POV*

The nest feels smaller than it did an hour ago.

maybe it’s just the way the Alphas fill it — bodies warm, scents thick, every breath brushing my skin like sparks.

My pulse thumps loud in my ears.

The heat under my skin keeps rising in steady, rolling waves, curling low in my belly.

I pull the blankets closer, needing them even though I’m already warm.

Simon notices immediately.

“Omega,” he murmurs, “you’re shaking.”

“I-I’m fine,” I lie, though my voice betrays me with a tremor.

Johnny shifts behind me, his arm looping gently around my waist from behind.

“No ye’re not, lass,” he says softly, sounding more tender than usual. “You’re burnin’ up.”

I lean back against his chest without thinking — my body moving before my brain catches up. His scent pours over me, grounding and sharp and familiar.

Kyle notices the way my breath catches and moves closer, tucking himself against my front.

His hand rests on my uninjured shoulder, thumb stroking slowly, soothingly.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers, forehead pressing against mine. “Just breathe, love.”

I do.

But breathing only makes their scents stronger.

And that makes my whole body pulse.

John sits near my legs, giving me room but staying close enough that I can feel the gentle hum of his presence. He’s the calmest of them — but even he looks strained, jaw clenched tight as my scent wraps around him like a warm blanket.

“This is normal,” he reminds me, voice low. “Heat doesn’t always hit all at once. Sometimes it builds. Slow. Insistent.”

Insistent.

That’s exactly what it feels like.

I curl closer to Kyle without meaning to, tucking my face into the warm skin of his throat. His scent fills my lungs and something inside me aches.

A soft, involuntary sound slips out of me — a needy little whimper I can’t swallow down.

The entire nest reacts.

Johnny’s breath stutters behind me.

John goes perfectly still.

And Simon—

Simon leans in, slow, deliberate, like a predator giving prey a chance to run.

“Omega,” he says, voice deep enough to shake my bones, “don’t make sounds like that unless you know what they do to us.”

I freeze, embarrassed, swallowing hard.

“S-sorry,” I whisper, trying to hide my face.

But Kyle won’t let me.

He gently cups my cheek and guides me to look at him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but his touch is maddeningly soft.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb under my eye. “Don’t apologize. Not for something natural.”

Johnny hums his agreement, lowering his forehead to the back of my shoulder, scenting lightly.

“Not for somethin’ beautiful, either,” he adds quietly.

John clears his throat, voice careful, measured.

“Just tell us what you need, alright? Heat can feel overwhelming. You’re allowed to ask for comfort.”

Comfort.

The word settles somewhere deep in my chest.

“I… I want you closer,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Simon inhales sharply through his nose — the only sign he’s affected.

“Closer how?” he asks, gentle but firm. “Use your words.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, cheeks burning.

“I just… I want you all near me. Touching me. Not— not like—”

The heat rolls again, thick, clinging, making my breath shake.

“Just… don’t go.”

Kyle’s expression softens instantly.

“We’re not going anywhere, bug.”

He shifts, sliding fully into the nest beside me, molding his body to mine. His arm wraps around my waist, thumb rubbing soothing circles into my hip. His scent floods the space around us — sweet, warm, protective.

Johnny follows, curling his body along my back again, one leg tucking around mine.

His nose buries in my hair as he murmurs soft praise.

“Good lass… we’ve got ye… breathe…”

John moves next, settling near my feet but leaning in enough that his hands rest gently over my ankles, anchoring me.

Simon moves last.

He slides into the nest with a slow, deliberate grace that makes the air shift. He sits beside me, close enough that his thigh presses gently against mine. His presence is heavy, grounding, an anchor in a storm.

His hand hovers near my knee.

“May I?” he asks.

I nod, stomach flipping.

He rests his hand there — warm, broad, steady.

The touch is chaste… but it feels like a spark igniting along my skin.

I exhale shakily, tension melting from my shoulders.

“There she goes,” Kyle murmurs into my hair, voice warm and proud. “Good. Just relax, love.”

My fingers curl into his shirt.

“You’re doing perfect,” Johnny adds, brushing a kiss to the crown of my head.

I feel safe.

Held.

Wanted.

Surrounded by warmth and scent and soft touches.

My heat pulses again, stronger this time, and my breath hitches.

Simon feels the shift and leans closer, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“Let it come,” he murmurs. “We’re here.”

I think, for the first time in my life, I believe him.

Simon watches me like he’s memorising the way my breath stutters.

His hand stays on my knee, heavy, grounding… and pulsing with restrained tension.

Another wave hits and I can’t hold in the sound that slips out — a soft, needy whine.

The growl that answers it is unanimous.

Heat curls under my ribs.

“Omega,” Simon warns softly, “you’re tempting us.”

“I—I’m not trying to,” I whisper, though my body leans toward his hand instinctively.

Kyle tilts my chin up toward him.

“Love… heat makes you honest. That’s all.”

“Just means you trust us,” Johnny murmurs, breath warm on my ear. “Means your body knows who your pack is.”

John hums low in his chest, fingers brushing my ankle.

“If it’s too much, say the word.”

But it isn’t too much.

It’s overwhelming, yes — but wrapped in safety. Wrapped in them.

The tension thickens like honey.

Kyle pulls me tighter against him, fitting me perfectly against his chest.

Johnny presses closer from behind, his arm curling securely around my waist.

John’s hands move up my legs, slow, steady, worshipful.

Simon finally slides his hand from my knee up to my hip.

A simple touch.

But it feels like the world stops.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice so deep it vibrates through my bones. “Asking for what you want.”

My whole body shivers.

Heat pulses again — deeper, stronger — and my fingers clutch at Kyle’s shirt without meaning to.

Kyle’s breath catches.

Johnny lets out a strangled sound.

John presses a steady, grounding kiss to my ankle.

Simon’s grip on my hip tightens just slightly.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

Everything inside me feels soft and bright and wanting.

Not desperate — not yet — but close. So close.

My head falls against Kyle’s shoulder.

“I think… I think it’s really starting…”

Kyle kisses my forehead.

“We know, bug.”

Johnny presses his forehead to the back of my neck, voice shaking with restraint.

“Aye, lass. We’re right here.”

John’s hand cups my calf, soothing, steady.

“You’re safe.”

Simon leans in, lips brushing my ear.

Another wave slams through me, and I whimper—

Everything dissolves into heat and scent and instinct—

Their hands—

Their voices—

The nest—

My pack—

And then—

warmth and breath and touch. Everything passes in a blur of pleasure, words of affection and possessiveness.

*Timeskip to a few hours later*

*John’s POV*

The nest is quiet.

Soft breathing, the rustle of blankets, the warmth of four bodies curled protectively around one small Omega.

Laika sleeps tucked between Kyle and Simon, her face relaxed, her scent soft and sweet — settled, sated, safe.

Kyle has one arm draped over her waist, fingers still resting against her hip like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he lets go. Johnny is splayed over behind Kyle snoring loudly.

Simon is curled at her back, nose buried in her hair, still knotted with our Omega.

Simon hasn’t slept.

He moves slightly , broad body curved around her protectively, one hand gently combing through her hair. The tenderness in the gesture hits me harder than anything else.

“You alright?” I murmur quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“She asked for us,” he says softly. “She wanted us close.”

“She did.”

“She trusted us.” His jaw ticks. “Even with the heat hitting her that hard.”

“That wasn’t an accident,” I say. “Her instincts know we’re her pack.”

Simon finally exhales, some tension leaving his shoulders.

“She didn’t break,” he says quietly. “I didn’t break her.”

“You never would,” I tell him.

He finally meets my eyes — and there it is.

Something raw, something fierce, something entirely devoted.

I’ve only seen Simon Riley look like this once before.

This is love. Vulnerability.

“She’s ours,” he says softly. Not a claim. Not a demand. A realisation.

My chest loosens.

“She knows,” I say.

He looks down at her again, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

Laika shifts in her sleep, instinctively burrowing deeper towards Simon, tussling his Knot slightly causing him to growl softly.

Simon goes completely still — and then melts. Actually melts.

He bends down and presses a slow, reverent kiss to the crown of her head.

“Good girl,” he whispers, barely audible.

My heart twists.

We’ve all been through hell these past weeks — but this?

This is something holy.

*Laika’s POV*

I wake slowly.

Warm. Safe. Wrapped in the scents of my Alphas.

My body feels heavy, relaxed, the way it does after a long bath or a deep sleep — except warmer. Softer.

Something strong and steady is pressed against my back.

Simon. I can feel his knot, stuck deep in my guts.

His arm tight around me, breath warm on my neck.

Kyle is in front of me, his face tucked into my hair, his hand splayed over my stomach.

Simon’s chest is against me, solid and protective, his fingers absently stroking my hip.

John sits nearby, watching quietly, his eyes soft.

I swallow, voice small.

“Did I… was everything okay?”

John looks at me instantly.

Simon pulls me closer.

“You were perfect.”

Johnny hums in his sleep.

Then Simon speaks, voice low and steady.

“You were… incredible.”

My cheeks heat.

“I feel… different,” I whisper. “Better. Not scared anymore.”

Simon brushes his fingers through my hair again.

“You’re part of our pack now. Forever. We are never letting you go.”

“I feel like I belong…”

“You do,” he says. No growl, no command—just truth.

“You always did. Took you long enough to realise.”

A laugh shakes out of me—small, surprised, but real.

The pack shifts around me, forming a warm tangle of limbs and breath and hearts beating close enough to touch.

Johnny nuzzles into my shoulder.

“’Bout damn time, Bonnie.”

And as their arms encircle me, holding me safe in a nest that feels more like a heartbeat than a bed, I know one thing with absolute certainty:

This is where my story ends.

And where my life begins.

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Ch 2

LAST TIME:

“Who… who are you?” I whisper.

He checks the hallway, weapon raised, before answering.

“SAS. Here to help.” he answers, glancing at the door.

His eyes flick back to me. “I need you to stay behind me, no matter what.”

CONTINUED:

I nod, because what else can I do? My entire body feels like it’s humming—adrenaline shaking through my bones—but his voice cuts through it. Solid. Grounding. Like if I do exactly what he says, I might actually live to see tomorrow.

He steps into the hallway first, weapon lifted with terrifying precision. I follow close behind, stepping over shattered glass and splintered wood. Every nerve screams that the gunman could be anywhere—behind a cubicle wall, crouched under a desk, waiting at the end of the corridor.

The soldier’s voice drops, low and quiet.

“Hostile’s wounded.. That makes him unpredictable. Stay sharp.”

Sharp. Right. I am well aware that I’m not a trained soldier, and currently wearing stilettos and a pencil skirt, but I swallow and nod anyway.

He moves forward, each step controlled—silent despite the heavy gear. I can see the smear of blood soaking through the torn fabric on his shoulder, but he doesn’t falter. Whoever he is, pain seems like background noise.

We reach the smashed window frame where the gunman escaped. Beyond it, the smoke-thick corridor feels like another world—one where the air tastes like dust and gunpowder. Papers drift like ash. Someone’s handbag lies discarded, its contents scattered across the carpet.

The soldier scans the hallway, then tilts his head, listening.

I hear it too.

Footsteps.

Fast. Unsteady. Moving farther down the corridor, toward the emergency stairwell.

“He’s running,” I whisper.

“No,” the soldier murmurs. “He’s repositioning.”

A cold shiver scrapes down my spine.

He taps something on his radio. “Price, hostile is mobile—heading east. Injured. Civilians on floors eight and ten. Need containment now.”

A burst of static replies, then confirmation.

He turns slightly toward me. “You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve been evacuated with the others.”

“I - uhm - sort of.. volunteered.” My voice is weaker than I want it to be.

His eyes—dark behind the skull mask—linger on me just long enough to register something like surprise. Or disbelief.

“Not smart,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” I breathe, “I’m starting to realise that.”

He almost—almost—sounds like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.

A crash erupts at the far end of the hallway—metal hitting metal. We both jump. The soldier raises his gun again, stepping forward.

Then he stops.

He turns his head toward me, sharp. Assessing.

“Did the guy say was looking for something... A USB.”

“Y-yes.”

He steps closer. Not threatening. Intent. “Where would it be?”

If Stephen hid it…

If he panicked when he heard the sirens…

If he knew someone like Mr. Skull-Mask here might come knocking…

My brain suddenly clicks.

“I think I have an idea,” I whisper.

He tilts his head.

“Stephen… he used to hide things up there so the cleaners wouldn’t find them and move everything around. He’d climb on his chair and push things between the tiles but he always forgot where he put things himself. Stupid wanker. If he had something valuable—or something that he needed to keep hidden—he’d hide it where even he’d forget about it.”

The soldier considers this.

Then he lowers his weapon slightly and points to a tile above Stephen’s office doorway.

“That one’s been moved.”

I hadn’t noticed it before—the faint misalignment, the subtle dip in the corner.

My pulse spikes.

He steps under it, testing the floor with his boot, then glances back at me.

“Lift the tile.”

“Me?” I gulp

“You’re smaller. Quieter,” he says. “And my arm’s shot. It’ll be noisy if I do it.”

Right. Right. Great. Just fantastic.

My hands shake as I remove my heels so I can step onto Stephen’s abandoned office chair. It wobbles dangerously. The soldier steadies it with one hand, eyes constantly scanning the corridor.

I reach up, push the tile aside—

And something small and black clatters into my palm.

The USB stick.

Oh god.

My breath stutters. “This… this is it?”

He nods once. “Pocket it.”

I slip it into my skirt pocket, trembling. He steps away from the chair and motions for me to follow.

“We need to secure you,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re now the primary target.”

“I—I don’t think I want to be the primary target!”

“Too late.”

“—”

Before I can argue, a gunshot tears through the corridor, exploding a ceiling tile above us.

I scream—instinctive, raw.

The soldier grabs my arm and yanks me behind him, shielding me with his body as bullets slice into the walls. Plaster explodes. A computer monitor shatters nearby.

The gunman is back—limping, furious, firing wildly from the far end of the hall.

The soldier pushes me down behind an overturned filing cabinet.

“Stay low,” he growls. “Do. Not. Move.”

He rises from cover with terrifying speed, firing three controlled shots down the corridor. One hits the wall beside the gunman’s head, forcing him to duck back behind a pillar.

“Pass me your phone,” the soldier says suddenly.

“He smashed it!” I choke out.

He swears under his breath. Not loud, but loaded.

Another shot shrieks overhead.

The soldier presses a hand to his shoulder, blood still seeping between his fingers. “He’s stalling. Waiting for his cronies. They’ll come for the drive.”

“You mean more of him?!”

“Yep,” he says simply.

My stomach drops so hard it might as well fall straight out of me.

He checks the hallway again, muscles coiled.

“We’re moving,” he says.

“What?! Where?!”

“Just follow me.”

“Follow you where!?”

He looks down at me—steady, unreadable, terrifyingly composed.

“The roof.”

“The r—no! No, no, no—he’ll see us, he’ll shoot us—”

“He’s pinned. He won’t have line of sight,” the soldier says, already pulling me to my feet. “Move now.”

I stumble after him because I have no other choice, heart thrashing against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

We reach the stairwell door. He checks the window, then shoulders it open.

Fresh air rushes in from the shaft. Cool. Metallic. It smells like rust and rain.

He motions me up. “Go.”

I run—legs shaking, lungs burning, heels clacking. He follows close, scanning downward every few steps.

We reach the top landing. The metal door to the roof is bolted.

Or it should be.

Instead, it hangs open—just a crack.

The soldier freezes.

That’s never a good sign.

He raises a hand to silence me.

Listens.

I step closer to him, terrified, and he snaps his head glaring at my feet.

He tilts his head once and it’s enough to understand he wants my heels off. Too noisy.

I slip them off and abandon them behind the door. I liked those heels I think a little glumly.

Then he pushes the door open with the barrel of his gun.

But we’re not alone.

A helicopter circles overhead—black, unmarked, lowering as if preparing to land.

The soldier swears—quiet, but vicious.

“They’re early.”

I swallow. “Who’s early?”

He lifts his gun, eyes narrowing behind the mask.

“The guys who want that USB badly enough to kill an entire office.”

The helicopter dips lower.

And a man in full tactical armor appears—black gear, red visor, weapon already raised.

The soldier beside me lowers into a stance, steadying his injured arm.

“This,” he mutters, “is going to get messy.”

He glances back at me, just once.

“Stay behind me. And whatever happens—don’t lose that drive.”

I grip my pocket like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.

Because suddenly—

It is.

Ghost grips his rifle tighter, eyes flicking from the descending helicopter to the stairwell door behind us. His breathing is steady, controlled—but I can feel the tension radiating off him.

“They’re not supposed to be here yet,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

The helicopter lowers another meter, wind whipping across the rooftop like a physical force. The man in black tactical armor steps closer to the edge, weapon raised directly at us.

Ghost shifts, placing himself between me and the threat, his stance lowering into something lethal.

Then his radio crackles.

“Bravo Six to Ghost.”

A deep, calm voice—British, gravelly.

Authoritative.

Ghost exhales just a fraction. “Go ahead, Price.”

“Gaz has eyes on your tango. Soap’s flanking from the south utility corridor. We need that drive secured. Do you have it?”

His gaze flicks to my pocket. “Affirmative.”

“Then hold position. We’re pushing them off your roof.”

The helicopter suddenly jerks sideways as a burst of gunfire arcs up from another rooftop—precise, controlled shots. The pilot veers, pulling the aircraft back to avoid taking a hit.

Ghost’s mask angles slightly.

“…Gaz,” he mutters with a hint of respect.

Price’s voice returns, low and sharp.

“Ghost—keep the girl alive. Soap’s cutting off their escape inside. Gaz is suppressing the air team. You move on my mark.”

Ghost nods once. “Copy.”

I swallow. “Y-you have a whole team in here?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the helicopter.

“Had them the whole time.”

Another voice bursts in—this one younger, eager, Scottish:

“Ghost, I’m in position—south corridor’s clear. Push him toward me and I’ll take out the runner.”

“Affirmative” Ghost mutters.

Then a third voice—smooth, warm, focused:

“Roof team, this is Gaz. Helo’s backing off, but they’re not retreating. Pilot’s lining up for another drop. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they try again.”

Price cuts in sharply.

“Ghost—move her inside. Now.”

Ghost grabs my wrist—not rough, but firm—and pulls me toward the stairwell just as bullets ping off the concrete near our feet. I yelp and duck instinctively.

He pushes me through the door. “Down the stairs. Fast.”

I stumble down the first step, heart in my throat. “What about you?!”

“I’m right behind you.”

I hear him fire a controlled burst back through the doorway before slamming it shut and locking it with a metal bar.

We run.

My breath rasps, echoing off the concrete walls. Ghost stays close, sweeping corners with his weapon even as he moves with that eerie, fluid precision.

Halfway down the first flight, his radio crackles again.

“Ghost, tango’s movin’ toward me. He’s bleedin’ like mad but still fast. You’re herding him nicely.”

“Don’t get cocky, Johnny”

A chuckle. “Me? Never.”

Another burst of gunfire echoes somewhere below us.

Ghost’s posture shifts. He hears something I don’t.

I stop, chest heaving. “What—?”

He holds up a finger, eyes narrowing behind the mask. Silence hangs for half a second.

Then—

BOOM.

A small explosion shakes the stairwell.

I scream, stumbling back into the rail. Dust rains from the ceiling.

Ghost catches me by the shoulder. “It’s okay. That wasSoap breaching a wall. He does that.”

“That was—that was one of your team?!”

“Unfortunately.”

His radio crackles again.

“Ghost, I got him! Suspect’s down—”

Ghost swears and yanks me into motion again. “We need to reach them. Now.”

We descend another flight, and I hear shouting—Soap’s voice—and another man’s enraged screams.

Ghost hits the next landing at a run. “Stay behind me.”

He pushes the door open—

—and chaos explodes in front of us.

The corridor is filled with smoke, debris, and broken ceiling tiles. Soap is halfway over the suspect, trying to pin him down. The gunman, wild-eyed and desperate, claws at Soap’s arm with blood-slick hands.

Soap grins like he’s having the time of his life.

“Nice of you to join us, Lt!”

Ghost strides forward, grabs the gunman by the collar, and slams him back against the wall with a force that makes the plaster crack. The man chokes, struggling.

“Where’s the rest of your team?” Ghost growls.

The gunman spits blood at his mask.

Ghost cocks his head. “Wrong answer.”

Before he can interrogate further, Gaz’s voice cuts in sharply.

“Ghost—company incoming. Three hostiles inside the building, east stairwell. They’re headed your way.”

Soap’s grin fades. “Ah, shite.”

Ghost turns to me.

“Stay behind Soap. Don’t move unless he tells you.”

Soap winks at me. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll keep y’safe.”

My face goes hot. “Not the time! And what kind of name is Soap?!”

Ghost shoulders his rifle. “Price, Advise?”

Price’s voice comes through steady and commanding.

“Ghost—get her to the server room. Reinforced walls. Only defensible spot until exfil arrives. Gaz will cover your north corridor. Soap, you’re rear guard.”

Ghost grabs my wrist again. “Move.”

“Ouch” I gasp, snatching my wrist away. It didn’t even hurt much, but the adrenaline is wearing off now and I feel exhausted and irritated. Why me?!

Soap falls into step behind us, gun raised, all humour gone now.

We move down the hall.

Trained soldiers moving like a single unit.

And me.

The girl who started the day editing reports.

And now holds the one thing everyone seems willing to kill for.

The USB in my pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

Behind us, distant footsteps echo—three sets, moving fast.

Soap glances back. “Ghost—they’re pickin’ up speed!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ghost snaps. “We reach the server room first.”

I force my legs to keep moving, lungs burning.

By the time we reach the reinforced metal door, my legs feel like they’re made of electricity—shaking, buzzing, barely keeping me upright. Ghost shoves the door open with his shoulder and motions me inside.

The room is cold. Loud. Servers hum in towering blue-lit racks, cables weaving like metal vines. The lights flicker overhead as the power strains under the building’s chaos.

Soap slams the door shut behind us and slides the steel locking bar into place.

“Bought us a minute,” Soap mutters. “Maybe less.”

“Let’s make it count,” Ghost says.

I press myself against one of the racks, trying to keep out of their way, attempting to catch my breath and trying not to panic at the way Ghost’s chest rises and falls faster than before. He’s been moving nonstop. He’s wounded. He’s bleeding through the fabric of his shirt.

And the hostiles are close.

His radio crackles.

“Ghost—keep the package safe. Everything else is secondary.”

Ghost’s mask turns toward me.

I offer him the USB in my open palm and he just shakes his head and closes my fingers back around the stick.

Oh

The “package” is me.

Well me and the USB in my pocket.

Neither thought is comforting.

Soap moves to one corner, rifle raised toward the door. “Lieutenant, got movement outside.”

Ghost positions himself near the opposite angle. They form a perfect lethal front—trained, synchronized, terrifying.

My heartbeat is in my ears.

Bang.

Something slams into the door.

Bang. Bang.

The door buckles slightly.

“Bloody hell,” Soap mutters. “They’re determined.”

The door explodes inward in a shower of sparks and splintered metal.

Three armed men rush in.

Everything happens at once.

Ghost fires first—controlled, precise shots. One hostile drops immediately.

Soap engages the second, moving with an agility that shouldn’t be possible with so much gear. The hallway behind the door rings with gunfire.

The third hostile barrels past them both—

Right toward me.

I freeze.

He sees me. The USB. My fear.

And he charges.

I stumble backward, hitting a server rack so hard my shoulder screams. Before I can even make a noise, Ghost intercepts him—tackling him away from me.

They crash to the floor.

The gunman twists, raising his weapon—

BANG.

Ghost jerks.

The shot punches into his side.

“No no no—” The sound tears out of me without permission.

Ghost fights through it, slamming an elbow into the attacker’s jaw. They grapple violently on the floor—brutal, frantic. Ghost’s strength is unbelievable, but he’s hurt. Slower. Bleeding.

The gunman scrambles for the weapon he dropped. I see it first—

A pistol, spinning across the floor, sliding to a stop right beside my shaking hand.

I stare at it.

No.

No, no, no, I can’t—

I’ve never—

Ghost’s voice, raw and urgent, cuts through the panic.

“Pick it up!”

Time fractures.

I grab the pistol from the ground staring at it. It looks so out of place in my manicured hands with my painted nails.

Another hostile rushes in from the broken door behind Soap, weapon raised—

Ghost sees him.

He can’t react in time.

“Shoot!” Ghost roars, snapping me from my trance.

“I—I don’t—!”

“Point and pull the damn trigger!”

My finger squeezes.

The gun bucks violently in my hand.

I scream—

The bullet slams into the hostile’s body, spinning him backward into the server rack with a metallic crash.

I stand there shaking, ears ringing, breath gone.

“I—I hit him? I HIT him?! I didn’t mean—I mean I DID—but—oh my god - oh my GOD” My words fall apart.

Ghost, still fighting his attacker on the ground, gives the faintest grunt of approval.

The man he’s wrestling with reaches for a combat knife.

Ghost doesn’t see it.

“Knife!” I yell.

He turns just as the blade arcs downward—

Then a single deafening shot hits the attacker square in the back.

He collapses instantly.

Ghost inhales sharply, pushing the body aside and rising unsteadily to one knee.

Someone else fired that shot.

I point the gun at the incoming gunfire.

The server room door frame fills with two unfamiliar silhouettes.

One tall, commanding, bearded—weapon still raised.

I assume this is Captain John Price.

And beside him, breathing hard but steady, rifle up—

Gaz.

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out.

Price sweeps the room with his weapon, confirming no movement.

Then his eyes land on Ghost—bleeding, wounded, exhausted.

“Bloody hell, Simon,” Price mutters, tone caught somewhere between reprimand and concern. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”

Simon I think. That must be his name.

Ghost pushes himself fully upright, hand pressed to his side. “He had the girl.”

“Looks like the girl held her own,” Gaz says, nodding to me with a stunned, impressed expression. “Nice shot. But you can stop pointing it at us now” he laughs, pushing the gun to point towards the ground.

I drop the pistol in horror, realising that I had been pointing it at the guys who were protecting me. “I—it was an accident—I just pointed and—!”

“Still counts,” Soap calls from behind Gaz, grinning like a madman despite a cut on his forehead. “Killcount: 1 to the pretty civvy” the Scot jokes.

Price steps toward me slowly, carefully, like I might faint or bolt.

“You alright?” he asks, voice softer than expected.

I swallow hard. “I… I shot someone.”

“You saved Ghost’s life,” Price says simply. “That’s a damn good start.”

Ghost doesn’t look at me, but I see the small nod beneath his mask. Approval. Or acknowledgment. Or something I can’t name.

Price gestures to the door. “We move now. More hostiles will be inbound, maybe an entire unit. Whatever’s on that drive—they want it bad.”

Ghost finally speaks, voice lower than before, strained with pain.

“Price. She has the USB.”

All eyes turn to me.

Suddenly, the tiny object in my pocket feels like a live bomb.

Price straightens, expression tightening.

“Right then,” he says. “We’re not losing her, and we’re not losing that drive. Gaz—front. Soap—rear. Ghost, you stay on her.”

Ghost steps closer, hand briefly steadying the wall.

He’s hurting. Badly.

But when his eyes meet mine behind the mask, the message is clear:

Stick close.

Don’t freeze.

We’re getting out of here.

Price signals the team to move.

The door opens.

Ghost steps to my side, reaches down and holds the pistol out for me to take.

“Here ya’ go, little miss sharp shooter”.

I stare at the pistol in my hands before accepting my fate and following the men into the corridor.

Here goes nothing…

[wizzdot]

Glass and Gunfire

Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!

The alarm drills through the quiet room, shrill and relentless. I turn over in bed and smack the snooze button, groaning at another early morning. I have another busy day at work ahead of me. My bully of a manager has asked for several reports to be edited and finalised by the end of the day. What could possibly go wrong?

I’d dressed the way I always did—a pencil skirt and a white blouse that was soft and a little wrinkled from too many washes, paired with heels I never quite walked confidently in. Nothing special. Honestly, I probably looked as forgettable as I felt. Still, I tried to carry myself with some semblance of professionalism, even if it came off more “quiet and awkward” than “quietly elegant.” I was good at my job—just not good enough for anyone to actually notice.

As I enter the office building, I’m greeted by the slightly creepy security guard. His eyes always linger a little too long when he says good morning, and I’m never sure if it’s my imagination or if he really does let his gaze slide downward toward my chest. Either way, I never know what to do with myself—I just smile awkwardly, swipe my security card, and hurry into the crowded lift, hoping I don’t look as uncomfortable as I feel. I press the button for the ninth floor, and the lift jolts upwards.

As I head toward my desk, Stephen, my boss, barely looks at me before shuffling a thick stack of paperwork and dropping it onto my keyboard. “That should keep you busy, sweet cheeks. I need these by close of play today. I know you’ll manage. Give us a shout if you need any help!”

I force a tight smile, even though my stomach twists. Sweet cheeks. Like that’s my actual name. I tell myself, as usual, that it’s not worth making a fuss—that I should just get on with it, that maybe if I were a little more confident or… I don’t know, impressive, he’d speak to me like a real adult. Instead, I just stare at the mountain of work and mentally try to organise how I’m going to plan my day around his impossible deadlines.

My desk is by the window, giving me the perfect view of the streets below—people rushing, cars weaving, the constant hum of a city that never seems to stop. This had been my dream for so long: land my first proper big-girl job, get promoted, move into the city, finally prove I could make something of myself. And technically, I’d done all of that. I’d achieved more than I ever thought I would.

But somehow, it still felt like everything was slipping sideways. My friends were all back in my hometown, my family barely spoke to me anymore, and I never seemed to get a second to breathe.

I glance over at Stephen’s glass office and spot him with his feet kicked up on his desk, casually eating a croissant like he’s doing the world a favour by existing. Lazy pig, I mutter in my head.

The day slips past faster than I expect, and before I know it, my colleagues are already wandering off for lunch or coming back with food that smells ten times better than anything I packed. I glance at the clock in the corner of my screen and realise it’s already lunchtime. Crap. My stomach growls right on cue—loud enough that I’m sure at least three people heard.

Three out of the five mountains of paperwork Stephen dumped on me this morning were finally submitted for finalisation, so I decided I’d earned a break. My stomach certainly thought so. I slipped away from my desk and headed toward the little coffee shop on the corner. A sandwich and a coffee from Benny’s diner. At least Benny was always cheery and kind, with a genuine smile.

I ignore the sleazy security guard’s eyes as I leave the office and head toward Benny’s. As I round the corner to cross at the lights, I spot a few police cars up ahead, but it doesn’t really register. It’s the city—there’s always something going on. Probably a shoplifter or a traffic accident. Nothing to worry about.

The bell chimes above the door as I step into the diner. Benny glances up with that warm, familiar smile of his. “What can I get you today—the usual?” he asks.

“You know me too well,” I laugh, even though it comes out a little awkward. “Yeah… just the same as always, please.”

I place the money on the counter and glance back at the police officers walking the street outside. “They’ve been looking for someone or somethin’ for a coupla hours,” Benny says as he wraps my sandwich. “Looks serious—had guys with guns here and everythin’,” he continues.

“Really?! Looks like a TV show out there…” I joke, trying to sound casual. “I watch way too many American cop shows.”

I force a small laugh, but it comes out thinner than I expect. I glance back toward the windows again, watching the officers pacing past with that tense, searching look. My stomach tightens—not hunger this time.

“Hope it’s nothing serious though,” I add quickly, because the last thing I want is to seem like some weirdo who enjoys disaster as lunchtime entertainment.

Benny hums in agreement as he wraps my sandwich, but even he looks uneasy. “Sure it’ll blow over, darling. Enjoy your lunch! Don’t let them work you too hard over there,” he says, nodding toward my office building.

“To the bone, Benny, to the bone!” I joke, throwing my hands up in mock despair.

He chuckles, but there’s a flicker of worry in his eyes as he hands me the bag. I thank him and push the door open, stepping back into the street and trying my best to stay out of the police officers’ way. Something about the tightness in the air prickles at the back of my neck, but I shake it off. Just another day in the city… right?

As I step back into the building and into the lift, I notice the security guard staring intently at the CCTV screens, flipping through live feeds of every floor and entrance. It’s the first time he hasn’t watched me cross the foyer like I’m part of the entertainment. Honestly, it’s a relief. I ride up to the ninth floor, slip into my chair, and start working through the four new emails that arrived while I was out.

As I take the first bite of my sandwich, a group of colleagues gathers by the window, whispering and pointing down at the street below. I decide not to get sucked into whatever gossip whirlwind they’re brewing. I just chew, swallow, and carry on. The less distraction, the better. Still another couple of reports to complete after all!

“Oh my god, are those -like -actual army guys?” Andi, the hopelessly clueless new intern, gasps from the window. “It’s just like Celebrity SAS! Look at the size of their guns!”

I roll my eyes from my desk. Actual army guys—of course everyone else gets to enjoy the show while I’m glued to my screen like the office gremlin I apparently am. Sure, I’d love to go stare at them too, but I’ve got two monstrous reports left and only three hours to crank them out. So no distracting, handsome, heavily armed men for me… just my keyboard, my anxiety, and the creeping suspicion that this is going to end up with me having to stay late to get these finished.

Everyone eventually drifts back to their desks, and the familiar sounds of typing and paper shuffling fill the office again. I’m just putting the final touches on my second-last report when I lean back in my chair and stretch. My spine gives a few satisfying clicks, and a huge yawn forces my eyes shut for a moment.

When I open them again, something moves in the hallway—just at the edge of my vision. I freeze. That was… weird. I glance around the office to see if anyone else noticed and apparently I am just imagining things because no one else seems to have moved.

I email the report away and hype myself up to start the last one of the day. Hooray!!

My subconscious keeps nudging me to look at the hallway again, so I steal a second glance. My stomach drops when I notice the lift door has been propped open with a coffee tray. That shouldn’t happen. Ever. Panic prickles under my skin, even though I keep telling myself I’m probably overthinking it—overreacting, like always. I clear my throat, trying to steady my breathing, and stand up from my desk. Maybe I just need a minute. I head to the bathroom to get my thoughts straight.

Everything in the bathroom is normal. I grip the sink and stare at myself in the mirror, willing my pulse to slow. You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself. Completely overthinking it. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing is happening. I just need to get a grip and finish my work.

I take one last breath—deep, steadying, rehearsed—before pushing the door open. And when I step back into the office, everything is exactly as I left it. People typing. Phones ringing. No panic. No danger.

So why won’t the tight knot in my stomach loosen?

Twenty minutes or so pass, and I’ve just about forgotten the spike of panic from earlier when a window explodes inward on the far side of the room. The crack of shattering glass punches through the office, followed by screams and the frantic shuffle of feet as several colleagues bolt for the stairwell.

I freeze. For a beat too long, I just stare—and then I see him.

A gunman. Inside the office. Inside my office.

He turns, and for one sickening moment, I swear his eyes lock straight onto mine. My gaze darts around the room. There are still five of us up here… plus him.

Oh crap.

Andi bolts for the door—of course she does - headless chicken mentality. Before she can get two steps past him, the gunman snatches her by the head and slams her skull against the wall. The crack is sickening. She drops instantly, limp, out cold. He grabs her by the arms, drags her to the lift, and shoves her in before sending it down to the ground floor.

At least she’s alive, I tell myself, swallowing hard as I stay perfectly, painfully still.

He turns back toward the room, and the air seems to thin. My lungs forget how to work. I force myself to stay still, small, invisible. It’s what I’m best at, right? Being the girl no one notices. God, I wish that actually worked right now.

The gunman sweeps his weapon across the office, motioning for the remaining four of us to move. No one dares breathe too loudly. He jerks his head toward the far corner of the room where a cluster of filing cabinets forms a makeshift barrier. We obey, stumbling into a tight group. My heartbeat feels like it’s punching me from the inside.

“Phones. All of them. Now.” His voice is low, rough—too calm.

I fumble with mine, nearly dropping it as I hand it over. My fingers are trembling so badly I’m convinced he can hear them shake.

He pockets the phones and presses something on his earpiece. “Floor nine secured.”

I gulp and try to take stock of what is happening. Of any way out of this mess.

My colleagues are whimpering quietly beside me. No one speaks above a breath. I force myself to look around without moving my head. Stephen’s office—his smug-glass fortress—is empty. Of course he’s not here to deal with this. Typical. He’s probably hiding in a cabinet somewhere or halfway down the fire escape already.

The gunman turns to the windows, glancing down at the street. His shoulders tense. Whatever he sees doesn’t please him.

“You—get up. Move.”

The gunman’s voice cracks like a whip, aimed at the one male colleague still frozen in place. I think his name is Gavin, but honestly, I’m not sure—I’ve barely spoken more than three words to him since he joined. Gavin jerks upright, trembling so hard I can see it from across the room, and lets the man herd him forward with the cold, deliberate nudge of the gun’s barrel.

A burst of static explodes from the gunman’s radio, making me flinch.

“Have you found it?” a distorted voice demands.

“No,” the gunman growls. “I have hostages. Can’t look until they’re dealt with.”

Dealt with.

The phrase slams into my chest like a physical hit. My palms go slick. My heartbeat surges high in my throat, loud enough I’m terrified he’ll hear it. I try to make myself smaller in my chair—quiet, invisible, forgettable. The one thing I’ve always been good at.

The gunman turns, scanning the remaining four of us. His gaze slices across the room like a knife and lands on our desks, our bags, our computers—calculating, searching. He’s looking for something. Something important.

And he’s getting frustrated.

Gavin whimpers when the man shoves him again. The rest of us stay silent. No one breathes too loudly. No one moves.

Then his gaze snaps to me.

I freeze. My thoughts shrivel into static.

His eyes narrow, and for a second, I swear he can see the panic blooming beneath my skin.

“You,” he says, stepping toward me.

My stomach plummets…

The gunman jerks his chin at me. “You. Phone the police. Tell them you’re being held hostage. Put it on speaker… I want to hear what they say.”

My mouth goes dry. My fingers shake as I fumble for my phone, praying I won’t drop it, praying he won’t notice how violently my hands tremble. I unlock it with a shaky thumb and dial the number, every beep absurdly loud in the dead silence of the office.

He watches me like a hawk—like he’ll shoot the air out of my lungs if I press the wrong button.

The call connects.

“Emergency services, what—”

“We’re—” My voice cracks, humiliatingly small. I swallow and try again. “We’re being held hostage on the ninth floor of Greyford Tower. There’s a gunman.”

The gunman lifts his radio to his mouth, listening.

On speaker, the operator’s tone changes instantly. Calm. Controlled. “Stay on the line. Are you somewhere safe?”

“No,” I breathe. “No, I’m—he’s right here.”

“Ask them what they’re doing,” the gunman snaps.

My stomach twists. “They… they want to know if we’re safe.”

“Tell them no one will be safe unless they stop searching. Say it.”

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts. “He says no one will be safe unless you stop searching.”

There’s a pause on the line—heavy, static-filled, too long to be reassuring.

The operator speaks again, still calm. “Stay where you are. Armed response is—”

The gunman strides forward and snatches the phone from my hand, ending the call in one violent tap.

“Idiots,” he mutters. “They never listen.”

He tosses my phone onto a nearby desk. I flinch at the clatter.

Gavin—or whatever his name actually is—lets out a choked sob. The gunman ignores him and begins pacing the room, eyes scanning every workstation, every bag, every drawer left half-open by panicked coworkers.

He’s looking for something. Something specific. And he’s getting angrier every second he doesn’t find it.

My pulse thuds in my ears. My legs tremble. I force myself not to move, not even to breathe too loudly.

Because I know—deep in my gut—that this is only the beginning.

Gavin is deposited back with the rest of us, and he takes a big sigh of relief. He waits for the gunman to turn his back before he reaches for his phone. I try to stop him.

Gavin’s hands shake so badly he nearly drops his phone as he dials. I can hear the ringing from beside him—too loud, too sharp, slicing right through the panic buzzing in my ears.

“999, what’s your emergency?”

Gavin swallows. “W-We’re being held hostage,” he stammers. “Office building—floor nine—he has a gun—” he whispers.

The gunman whips around when he hears the voice.

Before the operator can even respond, Gavin bolts.

He actually runs.

“No—no no no—Gavin, don’t—” The words escape me before I can stop them.

The gunman lifts his weapon with terrifying calm.

One shot.

Gavin collapses mid-stride, face-first onto the carpet. The phone clatters beside him, the operator still calling out, “Hello? Sir? Sir, are you safe? Hello?”

Blood is already pooling beneath him.

I slap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. The others—two women from accounting and another from marketing crumple to the floor sobbing. I can’t tear my eyes away from Gavin’s body.

The gunman steps forward and nudges Gavin’s shoulder with his boot, confirming what we all already know. “Stupid,” he mutters, leaning down to pick up the phone. He hangs up and tosses it aside.

Then he looks at us.

“All of you stay exactly where you are,” he orders, pacing with agitation now. “I don’t want you. I don’t care about you. I just need the damn USB.”

USB?

For a second, my brain latches onto that ridiculous detail. People are dying—there’s a gunman in our office—and he’s looking for… a memory stick?

My thoughts spin. Stephen’s paperwork. His frantic deadlines today. The police outside earlier. The security guard finally paying attention to something other than me.

This is connected. Of course it’s connected.

The gunman kicks over a stack of files, scattering pages like frightened birds. “It’s here. Has to be. Someone on this floor has it.”

His gaze sweeps over us again, and I flinch as it lands on me—too long, too curious—as if he notices something in my face I didn’t mean to reveal.

I force myself to look down.

Small. Invisible. That’s always been my strength, right?

He snorts. “Fine. Everyone stays put.” He strides toward Stephen’s office and starts tearing through drawers, sending pens and documents clattering to the floor.

The moment he’s out of direct sight, the woman beside me—Debbie, maybe?—whispers through trembling lips, “We’re going to die… oh God, we’re going to die…”

I swallow hard. My throat feels like it’s closing. Gavin’s blood smell is starting to reach us—warm, metallic, wrong.

I should be crying. I should be shaking. I should be curled into a ball like the others.

But instead, all I can think is:

Stephen, the prick, has something he wants…

The gunman shouts in frustration from Stephen’s office, slamming a drawer so hard the glass wall rattles.

I take the tiniest breath I can manage.

There has to be something I can do. Something.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I stand.

My knees wobble. My heart tries to claw out of my throat. But I step forward anyway.

“W-wait,” I choke out, my voice embarrassingly high.

His head snaps toward me. The gun raises again. I instantly regret every decision that led to this moment.

“What?” he growls.

I lift my hands, palms out. “I—I can help.”

He laughs once, a sharp, humourless bark. “Help? You think I need help from you?”

“No,” I swallow, “I think you need help finding whatever you’re looking for. That… USB stick, right? I know this floor better than anyone. Stephen is—” My throat tightens. “Stephen is a slob. He hides things, loses things, forgets things. I have to clean up after him every day. If you show me what you’re looking for, I can find it faster.”

His eyes narrow, suspicious.

I push on before cowardice can drag me back into silence. “But only if you release the others. They’ll slow you down. They’re terrified. I’m terrified too, but I can… I can think. I can help. Let them go to the stairwell. Keep me instead.”

I don’t know where the words come from. Maybe from the sight of Gavin lying motionless on the carpet. Maybe from the way my colleagues are staring at me—like I’m either insane or their last lifeline.

The gunman steps toward me, slow and deliberate. My vision blurs at the edges. My hands shake harder.

He gets close enough for me to smell gunpowder on his clothes.

“You?” he mutters. “You’d stay behind alone… just to help them?”

I nod. Or maybe I just tremble in a way that looks like a nod.

He studies me, expression unreadable. “If you’re lying to me,” he says quietly, “I’ll shoot you first.”

My stomach flips. “I’m not lying.”

He gestures with the gun toward the remaining hostages. “Fine. You three—move to the stairwell. Try anything, and she dies before you hit the first step.”

They hesitate only a second before scrambling away, sobbing with relief.

And then the room is suddenly silent again.

Just me.

And him.

His shadow stretches across the carpet toward me.

“Alright,” he mutters, turning back to Stephen’s ransacked office. “You want to be helpful? Get in here. We’re finding that stick.”

I take a breath that doesn’t feel like enough air, then step inside after him.

My legs feel like water. My pulse is a drum in my ears.

But I did it.

I actually did it.

And I have no idea how much danger I’ve just put myself in.

He gestures with the gun. “Move.”

I step carefully into Stephen’s office, pretending to examine the chaos on the desk while my mind races. If Stephen hid a USB stick, it wouldn’t be obvious. Not in drawers. He’d probably tuck it somewhere stupid and self-important—inside a framed award, behind a wall panel, maybe even taped under the desk.

The gunman flips the filing cabinet and snarls. “He wouldn’t leave without it. It’s here somewhere.”

“Maybe,” I say calmly, “he hid it somewhere he didn’t think anyone would look.”

Before he can respond, the lights flicker.

A soft pop—echoes from somewhere outside the office. The gunman tenses instantly, whipping toward the doorway.

The gunman curses under his breath. “They’re breaching already—dammit—”

A shadow steps forward into view.

A man in full tactical gear.

Black vest. Massive gun. Belt full of other weapons. And a horrible skull face mask.

“SAS” printed across his chest with a British flag.

And he was tall. Ridiculously tall—at least 6’4.

He moves like smoke. Controlled. Predatory.

The gunman fires first.

The shot rings in my skull as plaster explodes from the doorframe. The masked man lunges sideways, rolling behind the desk with fluid precision. He doesn’t return fire—not yet. He’s assessing, calculating.

Then his voice cuts through the chaos—deep, steady, lethal calm.

“Get down.”

Me. He’s talking to me.

I drop just as another shot cracks overhead. The gunman swears and grabs me by the arm, jerking me upright to use me as a shield—

But the tall SAS man is faster.

He emerges from cover in a blur, grabbing the gunman’s wrist and forcing the muzzle up. The gun fires into the ceiling as the two struggle, the masked man twisting with brutal precision to disarm him.

For a second, it looks like he’ll win easily.

But the gunman, desperate, slams his elbow back—hard. The masked man grunts, staggering. The second hit drives into his ribs with a sickening crack.

He falters.

“No—!” I don’t even think. I shove the closest object (a stapler) into the gunman’s back, throwing off his aim as he swings the gun toward the soldier’s head.

The gun goes off.

The masked man jerks—hit in the shoulder. Blood stains the tactical fabric instantly.

But he recovers, even wounded, and rips the gun from the attacker’s hands. The weapon clatters across the floor.

The gunman flees out the shattered window frame into the next office space, disappearing into the smoke-filled corridor.

For a moment, all I hear is the ringing in my ears.

The tall man turns to me, breath steady despite the blood trailing down his arm.

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is gravel wrapped in velvet. Controlled. Concerned.

I stare into his dark eyes. He’s a stranger. A terrifying one.

And yet… something about him radiates steadiness. Like he’s built entirely for moments like this.

“Who… who are you?” I whisper.

He checks the hallway, weapon raised, before answering.

“SAS. Here to help.” he answers, glancing at the door.

His eyes flick back to me. “I need you to stay behind me, no matter what.”

[rylandsgrace]

Superman (2025) // The Boys (2019 - )

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Chapter 32

Description: after a little bit of miscommunication, you finally get your boys back. Whoop! Laika’s emotions are all over the place…..

*Kyle’s POV*

As soon as we board the helicopter, two nurses take over. She’s whisked away from Simon and laid on the floor. Fear flashes through her eyes. God she looks terrified. One of the nurses produce a large syringe, and before any of us have chance to stop them, they’ve sedated her. The last noise she makes is a scared whimper, before she just goes completely limp.

Simon tenses beside me, and I can tell Johnny is struggling not to intervene. I’m the level headed one, and even I can feel the Alpha inside of me trying to force itself to the surface. I turn away from the scene in front of me. It is too much to watch. Not after what she’d been through.

Johnny tries to pull Simon away but he is met with a malicious sounding snarl, so he steps back and joins me on the seats. I close my eyes and try to relax. Calm myself down. I allow the thrum of the helicopter blades to seep into my brain, blocking everything else. I could smell her scent slowly returning having removed the patches. Silly girl shouldn’t have put them on in the first place …

My thoughts are interrupted by Johnny.

“Why’d you think she ran..?”

“I don’t know. We’ll need to talk to her when she comes round from this…”

“D’ya think she still wants to be with us..?”

“I don’t know. You heard Laswell…”

“Aye, but what the fuck happened to her. Look at the state the wee lassies in. How’d she get so banged up if she was just planning to leave..?”

“Johnny.. look.. none of us have a crystal ball. We’ll need to talk to her…” I sigh, trying not to think of the possibility that she actually wanted to run away from us.

*Laika’s POV*

I feel light, and warm. I can smell Simon’s thick scent. It’s right next to my face. I’m lying on a soft bed..

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes aren’t really to open just yet. I feel drowsy and heavy. I manage to roll my head towards the scent and am met with soft fabric. My Omega purrs.

“-woken up yet..” I pick up from the tail end of a conversation. My brain still not fully computing everything happening around me.

I’m snapped back into reality when I hear that gruff voice.

“Silly silly girl.”

If my brain would have allowed it, a broken whine would have slipped from my throat. The Pack Alpha thinks I’m stupid. He probably wishes I’d just ran away for good. That’s what I get for thinking anyone could possibly care about me in the same way I care about them.

I roll my head away from the comforting scent of whatever it was next to me that smelt of Simon. I don’t deserve the comfort from an Alpha who doesn’t want me. Useless, broken, worthless mutt.

*John’s POV*

I go straight to her bedside. She looks awful. Worse than awful. Broken.

The nurses have cleaned her up somewhat. But wipes don’t do the same job that a good soak in a warm bath would do. She’s coated in a layer of smudged dust and blood.

Her shoulder is wrapped in rolls and rolls of bandages and gauze. The doctor tells me that she had been shot. Concussed. Fragile.

She’s been moving slightly in her unconscious state. The doctor tells me that the sedation will be leaving her system. He tells me that it’s basically up to her when she decides to wake up. But he warns me that she may turn feral again. She may have temporary memory gaps from her concussion, and the added trauma of going feral. I notice her roll her head towards Simon’s coat.

Good girl. She remembers her Alpha’s scent. That’s a good sign.

The doctor rambles on about how they had to sedate her on the journey home because she was feral. And how she didn’t properly give in to the sedation until Simon placed his jacket next to her. She had been seeking comfort. Comfort from her Alphas. Clever girl.

The doctor tells me how she resisted the police, meaning her shoulder, already damaged, has ended up even more mangled than the original injury.

I tut, in disbelief of what she’s gone through, and grumble “silly silly girl” aloud, into the room. If she’d have just stayed with Simon, none of this would have happened.

Or, perhaps, if Simon and I hadn’t have had that dick measuring contest a couple of days ago, that resulted in her getting caught in the crossfire of Alpha testosterone, none of this would have ever happened.

As I tut those words out into her room, she whimpers. Her face scrunches up, as if she is pained. I rush to her side, gently grasping her small hand in mine. She rolls her head away from the coat sitting up by her pillow.

I can’t wait for her to wake up. I need to apologise and atone. She needs to realise she is here to stay. That she is our Omega.

*Laika’s POV*

My hand is suddenly enclosed in another. I can hear John murmuring to himself. I use all of my energy to open my eyes. I grimace with the effort. I try to pull my hand away. I don’t want him feeling as though he needs to comfort me. I’m just a stupid omega, after all. Ruining everything as per usual.

He lets go when he realises I’m trying to pull away.

“Hey, you’re awake.. you’re ok.. the boys, they found you.. you’ve had surgery on your shoulder.. you’ll recover.. just need to take it real easy for a few weeks…” he speaks. My eyes are fixed on his fingers splaying on the bed, millimetres from my own, but never touching.

“I’m sorr-” my voice breaks due to the dryness of my throat. A few swallows of saliva and a good couple of coughs later, I’m ready to try and talk again. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to make eye contact with the Captain.

“I’m sorry. I - I’ll leave as soon as I’m able. I-I..”

“-who said anything about leav- wait..? Were you trying to run from us..?” He turns away slightly, clearly disappointed. Muttering something about Laswell being right about me.

My eyes shift with confusion. What the fuck does he mean by that?!

My scent obviously turns sour, he thinks his quick sniffle is subtle, but it’s not. He immediately back pedals.

“Is it me..? Is it.. do you want me to send Johnny? Kyle. Yeah, Kyle’s always been softer with you. I can call Kyle in until you feel a bit more awake, yeah?”

What the fuck does he mean? I’m perfectly coherent, yeah I’m a little drowsy, and nauseous, but my brain is fine..?!

I shake my head.

“No.. I don’t think - I - I’d rather be alone..” I stutter, knowing that I’m slowly sealing my fate.

It’s for their own good I tell myself. I deny myself the temporary comfort of having them near me. They don’t want me, anyway. It’s just my own stupid feelings prolonging everyone’s suffering.

Detach. Let go. Release them. Stupid mutt, letting yourself go and believe that you could belong.

John pauses, clearly not sure how to react.

His eyes widen, when I stubbornly sit up, albeit weakly, and hand the fabric that held Simon’s comforting scent. He’d left me his coat my omega feels fleeting joy, which is quickly stamped out. I’m in the drivers seat now. Not the omega. Me.

“You.. you should go. I’ll - I’ll be ok on my own” I whisper, looking away. He stares at me, shocked.

He turns away, as if he had lead on his feet. I finally let the tears fall, now his back is turned. The soft click of the door closing behind him marks the end of this. Whatever this was…

*Simon’s POV*

John had sent Johnny, Kyle and I back to our quarters. We’d sat outside her room for hours, still covered in her blood. Still stinking of the mission. Still reeking of distressed omega.

It’s his scent that hits me first. The joys of having the sensitive nose.

His head is hung low. He is emitting a foul smell. He’d never looked, or smelt, like this before.

A pit forms in my stomach and throat.

“…John?” I ask the unspoken question.

“- she, she - she rejected me. Us.”

No no no no… no she didn’t, she couldn’t!

Johnny and Kyle immediately start squabbling from behind me.

“Naw she Cannae have done. She’s no thinking straight. Still high on meds… that cannae be right. I’ll go talk to her..”

“-Johnny. She doesn’t want to see us.”

“I could go?” Kyle offers “I’ve always gotten through to her best..?”

“Kyle.. she made it clear.” John shuts him down.

He holds up my coat. The coat I had scented. Absolutely covered it in my scent, before tucking it under her head. She calmed down immediately. Why doesn’t she want it now?

The pack sit in absolute silence for the next few hours. Not a word is spoken. Nobody moves.

The silence is broken by a phone vibrating.

John huffs a dull laugh. “Laswell” he grunts, and declines the call.

A few seconds later it starts buzzing again.

“You should take that” I speak.

“Why would I want to chat to her right now? Eh? So she can tell us she was right? That the omega was running from us all along? Because of me? Because I let my Alpha feel challenged by a member of my own fuckin’ pack? No thank you, Lieutenant.”

I snatch his phone from the table, answering it sharply.

“Laswell, what do you want?” I bark down the line.

“Simon, it’s nice to talk to you, too” she says back sarcastically.

“I’m not in a joking mood, get on with it, or I’ll hang up”

“Are you ever in a joking mood? - anyway - It’s about your omega. We’ve combed through the building in Chicago. We have found something that may be of use to you.”

“S’too late. The Omega. Basically told John, and by extension: us, to fuck off, so whatever you have, it don’t matter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re going through a rough patch. But it’s her bandana fabric thing. It was found in the rubble at the site of the blast on the 51st floor. We’ve sealed it and sent it first class. Should be with you by morning. I’d try to work things out with her. She’s worth the effort.”

And with that, she hangs up.

I slam John’s phone down on the table.

“Her hanky? How -” Johnny starts but I cut him off.

“She went to help. She went to help her Alphas, and we just left her to fend for herself. How the fuck didn’t you notice her.. she damn well got herself shot and blown up, and we left her in the rubble?” I rage.

“It wis you who dinnae even notice her sneak away in the first place, Simon. Don’t forget that…”

“Wait.. Simon. Remember you radioed to me, when I was holed up on the stair well waiting for Hassan? You said there was someone coming up?”

I nod, remembering. “Do you think..?”

“But how did she get to the site of the explosion. Hassan was about to shoot me execution style before that marine tackle-”

“Shit. SHIT”

“It wasn’t the Marine who hit Hassan.” Kyle says matter of factly.

“I couldn’t see. Because of all the dust and debris. And she had those scent patches on. Fuck. FUCK. I should have known..” he goes on.

“Kyle, this isn’t your fault” John tries to comfort.

“You’re tellin’ me.. that that wee lassie ran all the way doon from LT’s perch on the top floor of the building opposite, across the street, and all the way up to us, AND managed to save Cap just before he took a bullet between the eyes?” Johnny summarises.

“We need to see her” I conclude.

We all stand at once and march toward the medical wing.

*Laika’s POV*

I smell and hear them before I see them.

Oh no. Please not again.

I rapidly wipe away my tears, knowing that the puffiness and tear tracks won’t disappear so easily.

A knock sounds on the door. I stay quiet. Then I hear the nurse from outside telling them that I’d asked for no visitors.

“I’m sorry, Sir’s. She asked to be left alone for the next few days. Only staff are allowed beyond these doors” the nurse politely explains.

A soft scent flows into the room from under the door. I immediately recognise it as Kyle’s scent, when he concentrates it to calm me down. Sneaky bastard.

“We are her Pack.. you need to let us in.” I overhear Simon grunt, annoyed.

“Oh, Uhm.. sorry Sir’s. I hadn’t been informed that she was mated, or part of a pack. If you’d wait here while I go and check her documentation..” she excuses herself, I hear hurried retreating footsteps from outside my door.

Kyle’s calming scent continues to seep its way into my brain. My omega is crying out to be allowed some comfort.

“We know you know we’re here..” Johnny whisper-yells from behind the door.

I feel my cheeks heat. I gulp.

“Could you let us in, Bonnie.. please..? Just want to talk..” he pleads with me.

My eyes flash from left to right, weighing up my options. I can’t say no to them. My stupid omega just can’t say fucking NO to them.

I find myself nodding. Then mentally slapping myself around the face, realising they can’t see through doors.

“Ok” I consent, barely loudly enough for them to hear.

Johnny is first in. He rushes over and grabs my hands, hurriedly but gently patting me down, searching for all the bruises and blemishes left on my skin.

“Oh Bonnie, there ye are.. awkt, we’ll get you cleaned up in no time, eh? Clever wee thing you are..” he slides his thumb over my chin, and kisses the crown of my head, so tenderly, that it breaks me.

I preen at the praise, trying not to purr.

“What happened back there, huh? You threw pack Alpha out..? Scared us, lass. Really scared us..”

Scared them? Why..?

“Didn’t want me.. not pack..” my chin wobbles, trying not to sob. “I - I didn’t mean it… such a stupid burden useless mutt.” I sniffle, letting my anxieties pour out.

Johnny leans in and presses another kiss to my head, before softly lifting my hands and kissing all of my knuckles.

“That’s just not true. Not true at all. Not a single word of it..” he whispers.

Kyle steps in, then, and I bathe in his calming scent, still enveloping me, holding me together at the seems.

“You’re too clever for your own good, you know that, right, little bug?” He smiles gently at me, stroking my dirty hair away from my face.

“So beautiful, too” he says, making my cheeks heat.

“Think we wouldn’t find out that you saved pack Alpha’s life, huh? And those damn scent patches… they stopped us from finding you. I should have known, baby. I’m sorry. Forgive me..”

Kyle’s thumb gently swipes where the scent patches had been, causing a little whimper to rise from my throat, the sensitive skin feeling overwhelmed at the Alpha’s attention.

“I - I don’t blame you…” I breathe, looking at Kyle.

“It’s my fault-” John steps forward, hanging his head in shame but before he can quite finish his sentence I cut him off “I don’t blame any of you.. just myself..”

“No. No no - it’s not anything to do with you, love. Nothing is your fault. Nothing. You hear me?” John argues.

Simon steps forward then, looming over the others like a tall shadow.

“You’ve caused quite a stir here, Omega.” He states. I shrink back further into my bed, ashamed for a split moment.

“Don’t do that. Hide away as if you’re scared of us. We would never hurt you. Could never be angry at you. Look at you. You’ve saved us.”

My eyes blink away the heavy, fat tears forming.

Saved them? Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had a knock to the head..

“You’re part of this now. Part of us. If you’ll take us…?” John hesitates, extending the olive branch.

“I - I don’t want to be a burden..”

“Awkt enough of that, lassie..” Johnny cuts in, nuzzling his face against my un-injured shoulder, desperate for touch. His scent wraps around me like flames.

“You all want me to stay..?” I ask, confused

There is a chorus of agreement in the small room.

My tears fall loose, and Kyle is there to wipe them away.

“Is that a yes, bug?” He whispers into my hair.

I nod, sniffing away my tears and snot.

As I nod, I’m bombarded by the heady scent of the four Alphas. Pure relief and happiness wafts through the room. My omega is jumping up and down with joy.

—————— Timeskip (1 week) ————————

I’d finally been discharged. It felt weird getting to walk beyond the halls of the infirmary. Of course, the Alphas of task force 141 followed my every step. They’d visited every day, for hours at a time, and I was rarely left alone for the duration of my stay. They were trying their best to make up for what had happened last week. I felt as though I was in a happier place. Mentally and physically.

Johnny was blabbing about what he had planned for the next few weeks.

“So this week, we’re gonna be takin’ it easy, but the nurse said you’d be up for more activity by next week so we thought we could-”

“Wait.. what? How long have you got on leave, Johnny..?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to get my hopes up.

“Not just me, hen.. John made sure to put all of us on leave for at least the next four weeks. Ain’t that right, Alpha?” He explains, practically buzzing.

My eyes fly to John, almost giving me whiplash..

“Really?!”

He smiles down at me, “yes, love. Needed to make sure you were settled and happy. Need to make up for the past couple of weeks..”

I squeal, excited, grabbing Johnny’s bicep and squeezing, bouncing up and down.

“Oi, calm down. Nurse said to take it easy!” Ghost barks, gently removing me from Johnny and escorting me by my good shoulder, back to our quarters.

“I feel better, Simon..” I whine, glancing back at him.

“You’re on a huge dose of painkillers, you don’t know if you feel better or not. Now take it easy..”

I grumble under my breath. Stupid Alpha.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s strike one..” he warns.

“You’re not funny..” I roll my eyes, pouting like a spoilt child.

“What makes you think I’m joking?”

We reach the kitchen and he sits me down on the sofa. Johnny and Kyle sit either side of me. I immediately adjust myself so I’m sprawled across Kyle’s lap, with my feet up on Johnny’s lap.

Johnny puts the TV on and flicks to a random documentary about animals and starts massaging my toes.

“Anyway, next week, I thought we could try and plan something to do away from base. As a pack..” Johnny continues his earlier conversation.

My heart leaps at the suggestion of being a pack, but my brain reminds me that they’ve not made a move to claim me yet, and I’ve only been properly intimate with Kyle.. just the thought of intimacy sends heat through my body.

I nuzzle into Kyle’s neck, inhaling his soft scent. He kisses my hair and tightens his hold of me ever so slightly, pleased to have his omega back in his arms. I chase the warm feeling, shuffling closer and closer, practically straddling him, pushing my nose further into his scent glands. Then I feel him tense up, I whine, upset, pulling away and looking at him with sad eyes.

“I- I’m doing something wrong..?” I ask, pained.

“No. No not at all, love. But you’re still hurt. You need to be careful. Just don’t want to hurt you..”

“Aye lass, nurses said no strenuous activity” Johnny chips in, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily.

“Was just cuddling…” I whine

“You were about to start more than cuddling, Omega..and you know it” Simon adds, from behind me.

I whip around, angrily, and point an accusatory finger at Simon.

“You’re just a kill joy. You don’t like me being happy..” I accuse, perhaps a bit harshly, but I was upset that he kept ruining my happiness.

Simon looks a bit put out by my comment, and steps back slightly, probably shocked that I’d been so harsh.

John steps forward from his place at the kettle.

“Sweet girl, that’s no way to talk to pack, is it? Apologise to Simon. He just wants you to get better..”

I furrow my brow, standing wobbly from my place on Kyle’s lap. “I’m not pack, and I’m not sorry. He’s being mean..”

I turn and leave the kitchen, heading back to my own room. I’d not been in my nest for a few weeks.

*Kyle’s POV*

I know a pent up omega when I see one. She’s desperate for touch and attention. Absolutely desperate.

She blows a gasket when Simon interrupts our little cuddle session. It had been quickly escalating into something more, she’d been neglected for too long..

And then the poor thing hobbles away, in a mood, probably back to her nest. I want to go after her. Calm her down. Make her happy.

I wait for her door to slam shut before speaking to the rest of the pack.

“She needs her Alphas. Her pack… she’s pent up..”

“And hurt, Garrick. And mentally exhausted from the last few weeks. She needs time.”

“I don’t see the issue with letting her set the pace..” I argue.

“Aye, I’m with Kyle, let her decide.” Johnny agrees.

“Boys” John prowls over,

“Just give it a few days. Please. Just don’t cross that line. Not until I give you the go ahead. That’s an order. Simon’s right. She needs time. Time to heal. Mentally and physically. Poor omega’s been through the mill. Remember she hasn’t even properly presented yet. Or shown any signs of her first heat. We need to back off until she’s ready…”

I drop my argumentative gave as the pack Alpha tells us the ground rules. I’m slightly disappointed but I cannot argue back.

“Kyle, look at me” he sighs, gentler than before.

I glance up.

“Go to her - Johnny, you too - hang out, be near her, even cuddle. I’m not disallowing that. You just can’t escalate anything, she’s only been with Kyle so far, and remember how she reacted afterwards. She panicked. We need to make sure she’s ready for us. As a pack.. understood?”

“Yes, Alpha” I reply, and from the corner of my eye, I see Johnny nodding.

“Go make sure she’s ok then” John nods his head in the direction of her room and I jump to my feet and speed off down the hall with Johnny.

*Laika’s POV*

Three knocks on the door break me out from my thoughts.

I’ve been sitting in my best in the cupboard for a few minutes, reorganising my blankets and throws, and scented items, trying to make it comfortable again. My brain had been playing on a constant loop since storming out of the kitchen.

Not good enough for them. Knew this would happen. Simon doesn’t want me near his pack mates. Simon doesn’t like me. Kyle is just being nice. John thinks I’m stupid.

“Bug..? It’s us.. can we come in..?” I hear Kyle from through both doors.

I stand and open the cupboard, walking towards the bedroom door. I inhale, trying to figure out who the ‘us’ Kyle referred to was. Probably Johnny. I confirm my suspicions with his scent slowly making itself known.

I slowly open the door and peak up at them.

“You angry at me..?” I ask, sadly.

“Oh Bonnie, c’mon, let us in and we’ll make it all better” Johnny practically shoves through the door and picks me up off of my feet suddenly.

I yelp and grab hold of him, conscious of my wrapped up shoulder wound.

“Johnny!” I gasp, wrapping my arms and legs around him for stability.

“Soap!” Kyle warns, “you heard what John told us…”

“Awkt, just stop actin’ weird around her. We’re just push in’ her away. Ain’t that right, sweet lassie?”he replies to Kyle, cheekily nuzzling his nose into my scent glands.

I feel giggles bubbling from my throat and the burden on my inner voice suddenly silences itself.

“Missed you, Johnny” I laugh, cuddling him closer. He moves us both towards my nest, stopping before entering to make sure I was ok with him being in my nest. I nod my head, smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

Kyle watches on from the middle of the main bedroom. I see a hesitant smile reach his lips.

He turns away and for a second I think he’s leaving. I release a loud whine and am about to plead with him to stay but he quickly closes the door to my room and turns back to face me.

“Shush, love. Was just shutting the door so the two killjoys wouldn’t catch us in your nest” he laughs.

“Come cudddddlllleee” I whine, making grabby hands at him past Johnny’s back.

“I don’t know if we’ll all fit in your little nest.”

“Jus’ do as the little lassie says, Garrick. She needs her Alpha’s. Ain’t that right?”

I nod my head enthusiastically, delighted that I’m finally getting some much needed attention from them.

Kyle squeezes in behind me, cautious of my shoulder. He pecks me on my head, and tells me how sweet I am. I’m basking in all the attention and feel purrs slipping past my lips.

“John and Si will come around soon, don’t worry..”

“Don’t they want me anymore..” I ask shyly,

“No, lass. They think you’ll break. Told us to be gentle and let you rest. Think Si wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and keep you at arms length for the rest of your life..”

“Simon’s being mean. He doesn’t like me..”

“That’s not true…” - “yeah it is”

Johnny and Kyle stay in my nest and we continue to cuddle and scent together for a while. I start to feel a little better after their constant promises that Simon and John aren’t mad at me and that they still want me. I feel a little more reassured.

“I - I have a question..?”

“What is it ‘mega..?”

“When I.. when I had my scent patches on… did you notice..? Because I mainly put them on because Simon has always said I stink… but you two and John never seemed too bothered by my scent. Or… lack of scent… I guess…”

“It’s not that we weren’t bothered by your scent, love..” Kyle starts. “-it’s damn near addicting once we get a whiff of it, Bonnie”

“You just had a very subtle scent. It slowly started to get thicker, ever so slightly, but I guess we didn’t notice as much with the scent patches because we weren’t with you.. you went off with Simon, remember… but.. when we found you on the street, surrounded by those cops and you’d gone feral… when the scent patches were taken off, your scent is stronger than ever… hit me like a fuckin’ train…”

“S’stronger..?” I ask, shyly..

“Yeah. Stunk of distressed Omega at first.. thought it wis’ just cos you went feral… thought it’d go back to like is wis before but it hasnae. Smell as sweet as a cherry pie, little lass.”

Johnny makes his point clear when he presses his nose into my scent glands and groans appreciatively. “Oi Johnny.. don’t be greedy!” Kyle laughs jealously.

I giggle but present my neck to Kyle to allow him some space to enjoy my new found scent.

“Love..” he growls lowly .. “you can’t just present your neck to an Alpha like that.. fuck”

He clearly struggles to restrain himself from jumping at me there and then.

“Aye lass, walking a wobbly tightrope doin’ that in front of us, ya little minx you…” Johnny grumbles from behind.

“You both like my scent..?” I look for reassurance.

“Can’t get enough of it” Johnny mumbles.

“Sweet as I dreamt of..” Kyle sighs.

I smile, bashfully, at both the Alphas, pulling them both down to lay with me in my nest.

Johnny ends up being the big spoon, tucking himself tightly behind me, and Kyle faces me, cuddling me face to face. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck and wind my legs with Johnny’s, purring happily.

“M’ happy to be home with my Alphas. Would never run away from them.. ever…” are my last mumbled words before falling asleep, feeling safe, happy and wanted.

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saints of One Way Trips

Chapter 31

description: More shit goes down. Laika wakes upand goes feral. Cops are cops. Simon is Simon. Laswell is a bit harsh to the boys. Johnny and Kyle are lovesick. Simon feels feelings. John feels guilty. Needs to make it up to you in the next chapter…

*Simon’s POV*

No. No. NO. NO. FUCK.

How could she have slipped away without me noticing?! Why did I let this happen?! She’s gone…

I sling the sniper rifle to the side, not bothering to pack it away. It’s not important right now. The elevator is right down on the bottom floor so I waste precious seconds waiting for it to return. Still quicker than using the stairs from the top of a fuckin’ sky rise.

I’d already alerted the pack Alpha, and I know that the two sergeants would have heard my voice over the comms as well. This has turned into a massive shit show.

Laswell’s voice comes over the radio then.

“No visuals on Laika. Simon, any idea how long she’s been missing from your post?” -

“No. She crept out. Could have been anytime. I was watching the scope the entire time”

“God, Simon..” John rumbles disapprovingly through comms. It makes my stomach lurch.

The last time John and I ‘spoke’ we were about to have a fist fight over the Omega we wanted to claim and make a member of our pack.. And now she’s gone. And I am to blame.

“Kate - I’ll find my weapon and then search for the omega.. I’ll need medical once we’ve got her. Broke a couple of ribs, I reckon..” John’s breathier-than-usual voice rasps through my earpiece.

“Solid copy. Let me know immediately of any sightings. We can’t let her disappear”.

*Laika’s POV*

I see black. My head thumps and my shoulder aches. It’s warm, but stiff. Something’s wrong.

I still can’t will my body to follow my consciousness, my eyes won’t open, my voice - silent. I can hear John rumbling from across the hall, and I hear him moving slowly from his position over the hall. He sounds winded and short of breath.

“Shit. My gun” he groans to himself “- and my fuckin’ hat”

He sounds close now. So close. I know that I can’t be too far from the blast site, as I tackled Hassan right in front of the doors. I hear his heavy boot hit flesh, as he rolls and moves the two dead guards and the dead marine in an attempt to try and locate his gun and his stupid bucket hat. I hope he rolls me over and realises that I’m right here.

No such luck. It’s at this moment, I really start to regret my decision to wear scent patches. He doesn’t know I’m here. He obviously finds his gun and hat, as he checks his remaining ammo and I hear fading, uneven footsteps. He must be leaving. I wish I could move. I wish I could call out to him. I try to force my brain to force a movement, but all it does is send more pain to my shoulder. I feel the tiniest whimper escape from my throat. Good. I must be coming round.

*Johnny’s POV - a couple of hours later*

Kyle and I manage to wrap up the objective, with a little help from Simon and a well timed head shot on Hassan. The missiles were redirected and detonated safely. But I felt no pride. No relief. She’d gone. She’d left us. Just upped and left while Simon had his back turned...

We’d all stayed at the facility for ages, searching for her. But she’d gone. At least we hadn’t found a body… I guess that’s one small positive from this situation.

John debriefs with Laswell and re-tells the mission and how he has a bit of a close shave when Hassan had him on his knees, about to shoot him point blank range from behind just after that explosion knocked us both out. Thankfully Kyle managed to drag us away but the poor marine that tackled Hassan just as he pulled the trigger on Price wasn’t so lucky, poor bastard.

Officials are saying a power surge is to blame for an explosion over downtown Chicago last night due to severe winds leaving thousands of residents in the dark. Electricity is expected to be restored by this evening.

We land at a shady bar in Chicago with Laswell.

She sits at the bar watching the news as Price brings two glasses of alcohol for him and Laswell.

“What’s the plan on locating Laika. We need to find her. She’s not just vanished. Surely someone saw something.”

“-John, I’m sorry to be negative, but she very obviously left on her own terms. Perhaps she will return once she has cooled off. I noticed the atmosphere was a little bit tense on the helicopter ride in. Look - I’m not in the best place to theorise what went down, but I’m assuming there was a disagreement? She may have left, John. She never liked conflict. You’ve all read her files. She’s a flight risk. One upset suspected-Omega, coming off suppressants for the first time, unbonded but glued to a pack of Alpha’s who are yet to claim her… I reckon she’s ran… she needs time…”

-“we don’t have time, Kate.. what if -”

“She’s smart”

“They’re after her. You know as well as anybody…”

-“and if she wants to go back, she will. John. It’s out of my hands. She has the ball in her court.”

My brows furrow and my stomach lurches. I can’t just listen to this absolute pile of piss. There’s no way…

“Naw. That’s Bullshit, Laswell -”

I’m shouting before I even realise I’ve stood up and interrupted their conversation.

“Sergeant…” she warns me with a raised eyebrow.

“Naw, she was with me and Kyle before we left for this. Perfectly fine. She was happy. She widnae’ just have left us. They’re no fuckin’ way. Kyle..? Tell her!”

I motion Kyle over to the bar.

“It’s true, Kate. She was acting normally this morning. It was just the Captain and Lieutenant who she was pissed off at. But she wanted to prove a point. Not run off. We went shopping. Had lunch.. nothing would have suggested she was planning to run off..”

“Sergeants, look. I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t have any leads or suggestions. Of course, I’ll keep my ear to the ground. It’s in all of our best interests to find her and return her to the pack, but my best advice is to let her make her own decision. That’s the end of the matter. I’m sorry it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Now. About Iran…” Laswell turns back to Price, clearly suggesting that me and Kyle butt out of their private conversation.

I can smell the anger and frustration in Price’s scent, and I know that my own scent is sour and thick.

I grab Kyle and Simon and leave the bar.

“She cannae be serious” I shout once we are out on the street. I kick a rubbish bin and growl, angrily. I want to punch someone. Or something.

“Johnny-”

“Don’t even fuckin think about tellin’ me to calm down, LT” I growl back, before he has chance to finish his sentence.

“Kyle, have you got your phone on you? Mine got busted in the blast”

“Uhm-” Kyle pats his pockets and pulls out his phone, placing it in my palm.

“What.. you goin’ to just call her and ask her to come back.. think that’ll work do ya’?” Simon teases, sharply.

“I dinnae see you comin’ up with any better ideas. And it was you who fuckin’ lost her” I growl, ready to punch him.

“Guys.. this isn’t helping. Is it?” Kyle tries to calm us down.

I press her name on Kyle’s phone and the line just goes dead immediately.

“FUCK” -

*Laika’s POV*

I eventually woke up. Cold, and stiff. And stuck. Stuck under a body.

It takes me a few attempts to get the dead man off of me, especially with my shoulder being completely unusable. I’m covered in blood and dust, obviously from the dead guy I’d been unknowingly using as a flesh blanket.

I stagger to my feet, feeling dizzy, and weak.

I hear voices. They sound American. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, so I decide to keep myself hidden. I manage to eventually find the exit, without alerting any of the others in the huge high-rise building. I don’t know what time it is, and my phone is broken.

When I get to the ground floor, there is what looks like an ocean of body bags. That is what those people must be doing. The clean-up crew. It’ll probably look like nothing ever happened here by tomorrow morning. In and out. No one gets hurt. Hah. Yeah right.

I stumble my way into the dark night. Still feeling totally drowsy and nauseous. I must have taken a hard hit to the head. I feel warm and cold all over. I really need help. I check my phone again, as if it might miraculously un-smash itself. I long to see one of the Alpha’s name on the screen. But I’m alone. In Chicago. Just limping down a random street in Chicago. Covered in blood.

I jolt when I hear a shocked voice.

“Holy shit, lady. What the fuck?! I’m callin’ the cops” - wait what?

Oh no, a civilian has seen me.

“Oh. No no no that won’t be necessary, sir… I’m fine!” I try and smile, holding my hands forward in a placating manner.

“You crazy-ass bitch walking about like that. Stay back!!”

I shake my head.. “no.. no, please!”

“Yeah - 911? Uhm, there’s a woman walking about covered in blood. Looks like she’s been blown up, good lord.. she’s carrying a gun..”

I gulp, and tremble. I don’t know what to do. I can’t run. Not in my condition. I can’t argue with this civilian, he’s clearly distressed by my appearance. Surely I don’t look that bad, right..?”

“I-I’ll wait.. I won’t run..” I plead, hoping to calm the guy down. He can’t cause any more of a scene if he tried. I see curious passer-bys start to look.

I try to stay close to the walls, in the shadows.

That’s when I hear the distant sirens. A couple of minutes later I see the blue lights flashing off of the night sky, and nearby buildings. I kneel on the ground, praying that the police would be kind enough to just listen. And maybe they’d even let me borrow a phone..

Shit! SHIT.

Four cars screech to a halt in quick succession and I can hear a helicopter from above and then I see that I’ve been lit up in a huge search light, by said helicopter. What the fuck is going on?!?

“ARMED POLICE, LAY YOUR WEAPON DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD” a voice yells over the megaphone.

I whimper, terrified. I can feel my omega clawing to come out. No. NO. This can’t happen now. You can’t go fucking feral now you stupid mutt.

I slide my gun away from myself, and then reach into my tac-vest and throw a knife to the ground. It clatters sharply against the road.

I try to place my hands behind my head as instructed, but that damn shoulder of mine doesn’t play ball.

One arm is up. The other is - well - limp to my side.

“I SAID BOTH HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD”

I shake my head, trying my best. Tears flow freely down my face, my body racked with my harsh sobs. “I can’t” I whisper, pained. Weak.

“WHY AREN’T YOU COMPLYING. ALL UNITS, ARMED AND DANGEROUS - I REPEAT. ARMED AND DANGEROUS.”

All of a sudden I’m rushed by a team of about 8 Alpha officers and one of them grabs both my arms, wrenching them both behind my back as they hand cuff me, tightly.

I wail. My shoulder feels like it’s on fire. It feels as though it’s getting cut off. I’d never felt pain like it. I scream, and thrash. And my omega turns feral. I growl and scream, kicking officers away from me as I fight the pain. The Alpha’s causing me pain. I try to run away. Run away from my shoulder. The pain.

They tase me. I fall to the ground, face first, no arms to break my fall. Of course it’s my shoulder and face that takes the fall. My omega decides it’s time for her to take the drivers seat, now. Everything goes black. I’m like a passenger in my own body. I can hear everything. And some of the sounds are coming from me. Ok, maybe not some. Maybe the majority.

*Simon’s POV*

I am on a short fuse. One wrong move and I’ll kill someone. I blame myself for this. For the tension in my pack. Johnny would shoot me if he could. I am not helping myself either. It’s not easy when I get like this. I withdraw from the situation. Pretend to be cold and unattached.

In reality, I would kill every last person that stood between my pack and her. Every last one. If it meant she’d be safe, back where she belongs, hell the whole fuckin’ world could burn for all he cares.

I feel hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I consider walking to the Chicago bridge and throwing myself off. But that wouldn’t bring her back. So I don’t. I just throw snarky comments at Johnny instead.

I feel a pit of guilt in my stomach. He’s just trying to help find her. But it’s useless. She probably left because of me. Probably decided the Russian bastards were better than us. Probably decided that she didn’t want us anymo-

AGGHHHHHH

My blood runs cold. The Alphas walking beside me freeze. A fleeting moment of eye contact between us all, and our feet are carrying us toward the blood curdling, pained scream.

Kyle’s the fastest. Because of course he is. Johnny is slower, but still faster than me. I can’t stand that I’ll be last there. I push myself faster. Faster than I’ve ever moved.

*Kyle’s POV*

My legs are moving before my brain has time to catch up.

It’s her. She’s screaming. But she’s alive. And close.

As I get closer, I see sirens and cops. Loads of cops. My alpha growls. And then I feel Johnny’s presence behind me.

“Laika? LAIKA?” He shouts into the sea of officers and police cars.

“ALPHA” she screams. Terrified.

“HELP. HELP ME.”

Johnny and I shove through the cops and civilians who had gathered to watch. If any of them got punched or knocked out. Well that was their own problem.

Then I finally see her.

She’s covered in dust and blood. How? She wasn’t -

Her eyes meet mine. Feral Omega eyes. Her face is scraped, her shoulder’s been torn through - looks like a bullet wound. She’s a mess.

“ALPHA..”

*Laika’s POV*

Alpha. Alpha’s here. He came for you. Sweet Alpha. He’s here.

I try to crawl towards the safety. But I’m roughly stopped by another officer. I hear a growl.

My other Alpha.

“Get your filthy fuckin’ hands off her, ya fuckin’ brutes. Cannae you see she’s fuckin’ hurt?!” Johnny yell at them .

“Alpha..” it’s all my omega can whine. It’s the only word my omega knows, it seems.

I crawl again, towards Kyle. My hands are still cuffed behind my back, so I’m pushing with my legs, scraping my shoulder along the stone.

Ass up, face down, so to speak…

Kyle surges towards me. He gathers me in his arms, gently. He cradles my face, like I’d break in his hands, and seep through his fingers like sand.

“Alpha..” I whine happily.

“Shhh baby. Shhh, it’s ok. It’s ok.. calm down. Come back to me baby. Y/n..?” He coaxes into my ear, trying to let the omega know she can leave now. Her job was done: survive.

“Which one of you cunts has the key.. before I fuckin’ detonate this whole fucking city” a voice bellows from behind Kyle’s back.

Simon.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE SCENE. THIS IS A POLICE ARREST!”

That does it. That’s the straw that breaks the camels back.

“I’m a fucking Lieutenant for her majesty’s SAS. And I’m HER fuckin Alpha. So hand me the fuckin keys, so that I can uncuff her, or I’ll call a fuckin air strike on your family’s home. And your mother’s home. And all of your friends’ homes”

A shaking hand reaches forward, presenting a key to Simon.

“Good fuckin’ choice. Now piss off. All of you” he growls, dangerously, squaring his shoulders to the entire crowd.

Meanwhile, the omega watches on. I am slowly emerging from my feral state, but that only brings my attention back to my current situation what with my shoulder, and new scrapes to my face. And the fact I was tased. And my concussion. And so on..

I slump against Kyle slightly, feeling pure relief. He continues to coo at me, and stroke me gently.

“Bonnie? You broken..? Shit baby, look at yer Alpha.. need tae see yer pretty eyes..” Johnny’s rich accent floods through my brain.

“Johnny..” I smile, using what was left of my strength to look up at him from Kyle’s hold.

“Mate, she’s not good. We need to get her seen to now” Kyle plans aloud, for Johnny to hear.

“Aye.. need to find a hospital”.

“NO, med-evac landing in 2 minutes” Simon barks, finally making it over to unlock the handcuffs from my wrists.

My arms swing forward, having been released from their position behind my back, causing me to yelp in pain again.

Then I feel as if I’ve been torn from Kyle and I’m suddenly being held, bridal style, by Simon. I whimper, my shoulder jostling against his rough coat.

My nose finds his scent glands. I press my nose firmly into his neck and breathe him from the source. He grumbles and coos, his Alpha instinctively trying to comfort the omega in his arms.

He goes to press his nose into my scent glands, and a growl - an angry growl - comes from the gigantic Alpha.

“Johnny. Take those fuckin’ scent patches off her NOW”

Oh. Oh..

“M’sorry Alpha. Didn’t mean to leave. Please don’t give me into trouble. I’m sorry…” I cry against his throat.

I feel gentle hands slowly peeling the scent patches from my neck. Then I feel his nose pressing into my neck, then his lips, just brushing the shell of my ear.

“Don’t you ever do that again. Ever. Y’hear me?”

“I- I’m sorry. Please don’t -”

“Scared us. Scared me..” he finally admits.

*Captain John Price’s POV*

“Iran.. that’s your next step, John. I’ll make a plan, but do expect to be deployed within the next couple of weeks”.

“Cartels... Russians...?” I enquire.

“Shepherd... Shadows... They got past us”

Fuckin’ Shepherd. I glare into my whiskey glass, angry.

“Any sign of Shepherd?” I ask.

“He’s totally off the grid” - “Well, we'll find him.”

“No, we've got bigger fish... I've done some digging on the Russians”.

“Well, that's a dirty job, Kate” I grumble.

“Ultra-nationalists ambushed that convoy, John.”

“Kate, this conversation is over. You know, especially with Laika involved, that this isn’t a job for us”.

“They were working with someone new.”

That piques my interest. Slightly.

“Who?” I can’t help but ask.

Laswell takes out a photo from her vest and gives it to me to look at. I take a good look at the photo.

Makarov.

Laswell’s phone rings. She excuses herself to answer the call, and stands from the bar, leaving me sitting, staring at his picture.

My fist thumps the bar, glasses rattling and drinks falling. I scrunch his picture into a ball and squeeze.

He will die for what he did. Mark my fuckin’ words.

The door to the bar slams and I hear rushed steps coming toward me.

I turn to see a panicked Laswell. She’s not easily rustled up like this.

“John. You’ve got to go. Your pack - they’ve found her-”

My chair is pushed back and I’m barging from the bar before she’s even told me where I’m headed. I ignore her, calling Kyle instead. He answers on the first ring.

“Kyle. Where is she? Is she ok?”

- “she’s not great, Cap. She’s Uhm - she’s broken. But she’s alive. We got med-evac for her. All of us are here with her. Just come home, John. We’ll be there..”

Kyle ends the call.

Home. Go home to your omega..