Pinned
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”
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
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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?!
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.
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.
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.
Chapter 32
Description: after a little bit of miscommunication, you finally get your boys back. Whoop! Laika’s emotions are all over the place…..
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.
Description: Shit happens. Lots of shit happens. John gets hurt. Laika goes ‘missing’. Laswell’s back. Tensions are unresolved. Eek..
i truly cannot stress how much of a fucking freak ghost is. he is a fucking weirdo. he is so fucking strange. mask? always on. 90% of cutscenes are happening and the man looming in the back, staring off into the middle distance. he speaks a max of, like, six words per interaction. he does not make eye contact or — worse — he makes extremely prolonged eye contact. he is a fucking freak. he is a deranged weirdo. i know we like to gas him up and make him all hot n horny but he is a fucking freak and it's time we start championing him as such
