Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay, how about we call it a night and go our merry way?”

Five raises his hands, attempting to defuse the situation before it spirals into more trouble than he cares to deal with. Judging by the pissed-off expressions on the thugs’ faces and the waves of aggressiveness rolling off Diego, a headache seems inevitable.

“Not unless he says he’s fucking sorry for meddling in our business.”

One of the bigger, bald men jabs an accusing finger at Diego, beads of sweat glinting on his forehead.

“To hell with you, dickhead!” Diego lunges forward, trying to push past Five’s outstretched arm, which serves as a barrier between him and the four men. The stench of tequila wafts from Diego’s breath.

“Easy, easy,” Five says calmly, though a hint of irritation creeps into his voice. He really doesn’t want to do this tonight. Not because he fears these morons, but because Diego, clearly drunk, will make everything harder. Fighting these thugs off while dodging Diego’s sloppy punches and kicks, then dragging him home safely, sounds exhausting. This situation calls for brains, not brawn.

God, he misses his powers. Finishing these idiots in under three minutes would be convenient, but those days are long gone. He’s learned not to rely on abilities he no longer has. Besides, killing people in public and vanishing without a trace isn’t an option anymore. His killer instincts must stay buried.

Observing the tattooed men, Five lets a confident smirk curl his lips.

“Don’t make me do this the hard way, alright? What do you think Scythe would do if he found out you were wasting his precious time on someone he doesn’t want you messing with? If you know what’s good for you, we’ll stop this right here and part ways amicably. How does that sound?”

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly, though there’s a sliver of truth in it.

The men all bear the same tattoo on their left biceps: a snake coiled around a scythe’s blade. These are members of the Serpent’s Scythe gang—one of the country’s most notorious criminal organizations. Drugs, money laundering, human trafficking, and arms smuggling are just the tip of their criminal empire. Their boss, Scythe, is a name whispered with terror, his ruthlessness unmatched. Five knows Scythe well. The CIA has had him under surveillance for some time due to his ties to foreign terrorist organizations.

Scythe has been lying low for months, aware of a looming government investigation. His underlings have strict orders to avoid trouble, and Five is betting on that knowledge to bluff his way out. While his identity and the mission are classified, a little tactical use of insider information might just do the trick.

The name lands like a bomb. A flash of terror crosses the thugs’ faces.

“How do you know that name?”

“You’d better believe I know a lot more than just his name. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what he’ll do to you if you violate his orders to lay low.”

Smugness radiates from Five, his confidence unshakable. The thugs hesitate, weighing their options. Five looks too young and too small to pose a real threat, but his detached, murderous aura tells them they’d better think twice. The mention of their boss’s orders seals their doubts. Could this kid be tied to the “other side” of Scythe’s business?

Still, one of them—the obvious idiot—decides to push his luck.

“Why the fuck should we listen to you?”

Five doesn’t bother replying. In one swift motion, he pulls a sleek credit card knife from his pocket and flicks it with practiced precision. It slices through the air, striking the neck of an empty beer bottle on a table 25 yards away. The bottle shatters with a sharp crack, the shards scattering across the bar.

The room goes silent. All eyes are on Five as he retrieves another blade, twirling it lazily between his fingers.

Sweat beads on the bald thug’s head as the men turn back to Five, who levels his cold gaze on them, his voice sharp and deliberate.

“So, can we call it off now?”

The men slowly raise their hands in surrender. Without another word, Five grabs Diego by the collar and drags him toward the exit. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as the duo leaves the bar.

Outside, Five folds the knife back into its compact form and tucks it away, turning to a confused and very drunk Diego, who’s leaning against a lamp post for support.

“Let’s go home now, Diego.”

“Why’d you ruin the fun, Five? I could’ve taken them in… (hiccup) … ten minutes tops.” Diego grins stupidly, his moustache twitching. Even intoxicated, Diego is still Diego—full of misplaced bravado.

“You’re drunk,” Five says flatly. “You’d have made a fool of yourself. Actually, you already did. It’s late, and I’m sure as hell you’ll have a lot of explaining to do when we get home.”

Diego’s grin falters, replaced by a grimace as the realization hits him. Five steps forward, slipping an arm under Diego’s to help him to his feet.

“Come on. I’ll get you home.”

They both get in the car, and after the first ten minutes, Diego says nothing and just stares out the windscreen. Finally, he stirs in his seat and glances at Five, who is characteristically driving in silence.

"How did you find me there?"
"Pure luck. I was hanging out with some workmates when I saw you causing a commotion," Five's voice drips with annoyance.

"I didn't ask for your help," Diego retorts defensively.

"Yeah, so you’ll get your ass handed to you by these thugs," Five mocks.

"So what am I supposed to do? Let them bully the little guy?"

"Yes, you should. It's none of your business, Diego."

"I know you're always sort of a heartless asshole, but to this level of indifference..."

"What do you think they'll do when they see you home late, battered and drunk as a skunk, huh?" Five cuts him off rudely before Diego can finish his insult. They both know that when Five says "they," he means his family—Lila and the kids—mostly Lila. But for some reason, Five hasn't mentioned Lila's name in a while. He always refers to her collectively with Diego’s family. Diego knows that Five doesn't like Lila, and his disdain for her seems to have grown worse over the years. There used to be a time when they were kind of buddies after the universe got reset and they found out that Lila’s parents were alive. But then, after a few years, Five started distancing himself from her, going back to being icy, just like when they first met. Diego doesn't know what caused the change, but it doesn't really affect him much.

Five's words, however, cut deeper than intended, and Diego stumbles for words.
"Stop being overdramatic, Cinco. These dickheads are amateurs and sloppy. I’ll be out in ten minutes, max," Diego protests weakly.
"Really? Last time I checked, you couldn’t even walk a straight line," Five retorts. As if to prove his point, he makes a sharp left turn, hurling Diego forward, making him look like he’s about to puke.

"What the hell, Five? What’d you do that for?"
"Actually, what are you doing, Diego? You have a family—wife, kids—and you’re still playing Batman? We don’t have our powers anymore. This is our reality now. Deal with it." Five growls. Diego’s impulsiveness always grates on his last nerve.

"Easy for you to say, living the dream life, still going on adventures and doing whatever the hell you want," Diego retorts bitterly, glaring daggers at Five.

"The CIA’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Diego," Five responds quickly, glancing at him with lips pressed into a thin line.

"Well, it still can’t be worse than being a delivery truck driver with three small kids, a nagging wife, and nosy in-laws." Diego blurts out, his face twisted in frustration. Five suddenly slams the brakes hard, again flinging Diego forward. The alcohol in Diego’s stomach rushes to his throat, and he clamps his mouth shut to stop himself from vomiting. He curses heavily under his breath, and the collar of his shirt is yanked forward by Five, whose menacing green eyes lock on him with crushing intensity.

"Grow the fuck up, Diego. Everyone has their own problems to deal with. You’re not the only one, and you never will be. You have a fucking family that some people can only dream of. You want to throw it all away because of some stupid, childish dream? Yeah, Dad fucked us up. He made us think we were special, that we were the heroes who saved the world. But we’re not them anymore, and Dad's not here. You need to get a grip on yourself, Diego. Your family needs you, got that?"

The murderous look in Five’s eyes is the same top-notch assassin’s stare Diego experienced in Dallas in 1963. Although Five doesn’t threaten to kill him on the spot if he doesn’t follow his plan, this same look still makes Diego stop dead in his tracks. He hates that he can never win an argument with Five because that fucking twat has a point. As much as Diego likes to wallow in despair, he knows things could be a lot worse. He has a good family, after all. It’s just that he feels trapped in this endless cycle of normal life, which he’s not equipped to handle. Before, dealing with violence and peril was easy—he just had to think on his feet. But now, this life requires mindless planning day in and day out. Before he can say anything more, the bitter, acidic taste of alcohol rises in his throat. He presses his hands tightly over his mouth.

In an instant, Five recognizes what’s going on and turns Diego’s face toward the door, yelling,
"Don’t fucking puke in my car."

Diego frantically opens the car door and stumbles out, emptying his stomach onto the curb. Heaving a deep sigh, Five grabs a bottle of water from the car and climbs out. Handing Diego the bottle, who is still clutching his stomach, Five speaks with a hint of pity in his voice.

"There’s always a way out, you know? The CIA might not be for you, but you can always go back to the police. Start fresh."

A realization slowly dawns on Diego’s face as he twists the bottle cap back into place.

"You think I can do that?"

"Yeah. You’ve already had the training. You just need to get the discipline part in place. You’re an idiot, but you can learn, can’t you?"

Diego looks like he wants to protest the insult for a moment, but then he settles for timidly agreeing with Five,
"Yes, I think I can."

They get back into the car without incident, and Five drives in silence again for a few minutes before suddenly speaking up.
"If you want to send me your resume again, I’ll take a look."

Diego looks at his younger brother with incredulity, because it’s not every day this hard-ass bastard is nice to him—even if it’s just out of pity.

"Thanks, Five." He pauses for a moment before adding, "You’re a good brother."

Five says nothing, his face remaining unreadable. This isn't the first time Five has dealt with Diego causing trouble over the last few years, and he’s already helped him multiple times. There’s a certain level of gratitude and respect Diego feels toward Five now, which stops him from constantly disagreeing with him. Five has definitely softened a lot after living as a normal person for the last six years. His apocalypse-induced homicidal rage and snark have been toned down significantly, making way for a more civil, more controlled version of Five. Although he’s still blunt and aloof most of the time, at least he doesn’t threaten to kill his siblings every few days anymore.

They finally reach Diego’s house. The warm light from the porch lamp is the only thing illuminating the otherwise dark home. It’s past midnight, and Five kills the engine, letting silence settle between them as he turns to his brother. “Think you can manage to get in?”

Diego rattles his keys in his pocket as proof. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

Five nods. “Good. See you around, then.”

He makes no move to follow Diego inside. It’s been a long time since Five stepped foot in Diego’s home, except for the occasional unavoidable family gathering. Diego suspects it’s because of Five’s distaste for Lila—he keeps his distance more these days.

Diego hesitates. “Are you coming to the twins’ fourth birthday next month?”

Five’s response is immediate. “I’ll have to take a rain check. Schedule’s unpredictable.”

Diego presses. “Come on, everyone’s coming—even Viktor and Allison.”

Before Five can respond, the front door opens, and Lila steps out, wrapped in a cream cardigan over her mauve pyjamas. She looks livid. She strides over to the car, tapping on the windshield.

Diego’s face pales, and he glances at Five for backup, but Five just rolls down the window, his expression impassive.

“What the hell are you doing coming home this late?” Lila hisses through gritted teeth, clearly holding back her anger so she doesn’t wake the neighbourhood—or the kids. She narrows her eyes at Diego, taking in his dishevelled look and glassy eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“Just a few shots with Five, nothing more, babe,” Diego mumbles, trying to sound casual.

At the mention of his name, Lila’s gaze shifts to the driver’s seat. Her expression flickers with a moment of surprise, even a trace of relief. “Five.” She seems thrown off, her tone softening as she addresses him. “You took him home?”

“Well, he isn’t exactly in a fit state to drive himself,” Five replies, his tone flat, clearly uninterested in whatever warmth she’s offering. He doesn’t embellish or make excuses, and yet he’s careful to shield Diego from her full wrath.

“So that’s it?” Lila’s eyes remain on Five, something unreadable flickering in them. “He was just… hanging out with you?”

“Yes, just a few shots.” Five lies with perfect ease, his voice never wavering. After everything he’s done to pull Diego out of this mess tonight, the least he can do is smooth things over with Lila. Besides, for reasons even he can’t articulate, Lila seems to believe his word more than anyone’s—even though he’s been nothing but curt and distant with her in recent years.

Lila’s gaze returns to Diego, and her frown deepens. “What are you waiting for, princess? Get out of the car. We have a dentist appointment for the twins tomorrow at seven a.m., remember?”

Diego doesn’t need telling twice. He scrambles out of the car, looking half-relieved, half-pathetic. Standing beside Lila, he casts one last glance at Five, hesitant. “So… see you next month at the twins’ birthday?”

Lila looks surprised by this, but she quickly masks it with a playful smirk, glancing back at Five. “Yeah, make sure you come, Five. I don’t bite.”

Five raises an eyebrow, nodding with visible reluctance. “Okay,” he mutters, giving her the barest hint of acknowledgment before putting the car in gear.

As he drives off, he catches a glimpse of them in his rearview mirror—Diego standing awkwardly next to Lila, who’s already crossing her arms, probably ready to lecture him the second they’re inside. Five’s grip tightens on the wheel. The thought of setting foot in that house, surrounded by family, with Lila looking at him with that mix of hope and exasperation—it’s all too much. Some scars, he thinks, just can’t heal.

The first thing Five does when he steps inside his apartment is pour himself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid spilling to the brim before he lifts it to his lips. The burn in his throat is barely a distraction from the frustration clawing at him, the aftertaste lingering like a reminder of Diego’s chaos—and her. Tonight had taken its toll, but the part that gnaws at him most isn’t the usual weariness of playing the loyal brother or cleaning up his sibling’s recklessness. It’s seeing her again, a sight that somehow always leaves a raw nerve exposed.

Five loosens his tie, the action bringing a momentary release from the tension coiled within him. He’s spent years perfecting this act, the distant, unbreakable brother, the cool and indifferent friend. Nobody else has seen through it—not even her, thankfully. And yet, every time she looks at him with that easy familiarity, his resolve frays just a little, his mask slipping dangerously close to revealing what lies beneath.

Tonight, she’d smiled at him, the kind of smile that had always felt like a risk. He should have said no to the invitation, should have made up some excuse like he always does, but the word caught in his throat. It would have been so easy to avoid the twin’s birthday—another evening in close proximity, another brush with that unbidden pull toward her. But, damn it, he could hardly bring himself to refuse her. Why couldn’t he say no to her, when he’d long mastered the art of denial with everyone else?

He takes another drink, feeling the whiskey settle like a low-burning coal in his chest. His life would be easier if he could simply deny her altogether—if he could ignore the warmth she stirs in him, ignore how one glance from her loosens something he’s spent years reinforcing.

His mind drifts, unbidden, back to Luther’s wedding—the night she’d grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. He remembers the crash of music, the warmth of the lights, and the unmistakable scent of her perfume, sweet and sharp, more intoxicating than champagne and cigars. Her sleek black dress had clung to her in a way he tried—and failed—not to notice.

And then she’d laughed when he spun her—head tipped back, eyes bright, joy spilling from her like something reckless and alive.
That laugh hit him in the chest.
Her scent curled into his gut, warm and deep, sinking into him before he could stop it. 

Every instinct had urged him to pull her closer, to let his hands settle at her waist, to bury his face in her hair and inhale until her scent became something he could never forget. It took everything he had to hold the line.

That moment—that scent, that laugh, that impossible warmth—cracked his composure in a way that has never healed.

That night had changed the way he felt about her forever. He’d tried to wave it off as a drunken lapse, just another foolish impulse lost in the chaos—and with Reggie’s secret dealings demanding their attention, ignoring it wasn’t difficult.

But when the universe reset, Five found himself adrift, stripped of purpose in a life that no longer felt like his. And in the quiet of that uncertainty, the memory kept resurfacing—sharper, more insistent than he’d ever let himself acknowledge. It felt like now or never, like the window he’d never dared look through was about to close.

The moment he saw the engagement ring on her finger—and Diego’s face lighting up as he bragged that he was going to be a real father—Five’s mind went blank. A sudden, crushing tightness seized his chest. In that split second, he knew he was too late. Whatever chance he thought he might have had—whatever secret, impossible thing he had carried—ended there. She wasn’t his to want. She never had been. And he would have to bury every trace of those feelings so deep they’d suffocate before ever seeing daylight again.

At least, that’s what he told himself.
Reality has been far less merciful.

For all the horrors he’s endured—the apocalypse, the years alone, the Commission, time ripping him apart—forgetting her has somehow proven harder. Pathetic, really. That a woman he once swore he couldn’t stand is now the one person he can’t get out of his head. Maybe he’s just built wrong. Once someone gets under his skin, once they leave a mark on his heart, that mark never fades. Everything else blurs out. And suddenly she’s all he can see, all he can think about, no matter how hard he tries to stop.

It still amazes him how she ever got there. How the girl who used to infuriate him—with her chaos, her sharp tongue, her utter disregard for tact—somehow became the one person he can’t shake. Reckless yet brilliant. Brash but precise. Arrogant yet self-aware in a way that made him feel seen. Immature but clever, so painfully clever it hurt his pride. She was contradiction personified, and he hated how deeply those contradictions hooked him.

And beneath the madness, she was extraordinary. Her instincts, her logic, her chaotic clarity. She saw straight through problems he complicated. She always surprised him. Always challenged him. No other woman had ever held his attention so completely. Not even Delores.

And that’s the brutal truth about Lila:
once she gets under your skin, she stays there.

So no, it doesn’t shock him that Diego fell for her so quickly. What unsettles him is how Diego—blind, impulsive, perpetually clueless Diego—is the one she chose. It’s not the ring that stings. It’s the mismatch. Diego doesn’t see her. Not the depth. Not the brilliance. Not the pieces she hides from the world. And yet he gets the version of her Five never had the right to reach for.

Five doesn’t resent Diego for loving her.
He resents him for not understanding her.

Meanwhile, Five is left swallowing emotions he never meant to feel, sitting in the corner like a bystander while the universe hands Diego, as usual, the one thing Five would bleed for but cannot touch. It eats at him. The unfairness. The helplessness. The way life keeps falling into Diego’s hands while Five is left wrestling with feelings sharp enough to cut him open from the inside.

Sometimes he tries to trace it back—the exact moment things went wrong. Was it when he let her get too close? When she dragged him into that closet and he didn’t pull away? Or earlier—when he sought her out, craving her insight on the Kugelblitz and finding something far more dangerous than an answer?

But deep down, he knows.

When they decided to start this new life, when he swore he’d bury those feelings, he should’ve put distance between them. Kept his boundaries. Protected what little was left of himself.

He didn’t.

He overestimated his restraint. Lied to himself about his control. Thought proximity wouldn’t unravel him.

He forgot who he was dealing with.

Because Lila Pitts is impossible to resist.
She always has been.

And every time this mess deepened, it was because of him.
His choices.
His weakness.
His inability to stay away from the one person he was never meant to want.

He fed the very feelings he was trying to kill.

5 years and 7 months ago

Five stood in front of the MIT physics building, frustration etched across his face. The security guard—who had probably just started the job today—was giving him a hell of a hard time. If he’d known it would be like this, he would have contacted someone from administration for a special pass. But he’d let his guard down, having entered and exited this building easily before.

And of all days, it had to be today. The day he needed to present his research paper in front of top-tier professors to secure his place in the acceleration program and complete his PhD within two years.

Yet this new, overly diligent security guard didn’t believe for a second that he belonged here. He was adamant about Five showing some kind of ID, insisting that no one who looked like a thirteen-year-old kid could have anything to do with such a serious institution.

Five hardly ever forgot things. But, of course, today was one of those rare occasions—his student ID was nowhere to be found.

Damn it.

It had already been a hassle finding someone to drop him off, considering he didn’t own a car or have a legal driver’s license in this reset timeline. After running through his list of potential chauffeurs (and being met with varying degrees of refusal), he’d finally convinced Lila to give him a ride. And now, after all that, he couldn’t even get inside.

Time was ticking, and his frustration only grew.

Damn this timeline. Damn his lost powers.

Three months. Three months without his abilities, and the adjustments had been excruciating. Being treated like a kid wherever he went was maddening, which made academia his only escape. The only way to gain respect was to be a child prodigy. So he’d thrown himself into writing a groundbreaking research paper on wormhole formation in time dilation and space-time continuum theory—crucial for time machine development. He’d networked with the best minds in the field, eventually impressing Dr. Frank-Whitmore, the head of the physics faculty, enough to earn an opportunity to defend his work before a panel of esteemed professors.

After today, he could finally go back to being his arrogant self.

That is, if this fool would just let him through the damn door.

Just as he was about to lose his patience, a familiar voice—coated in a distinct East London accent—cut through the tension.

“Max, what the hell are you still doing out here? Hurry up, Dr. Frank-Whitmore is waiting for you.”

Five turned his head slightly to the right, and there she was—Lila, striding toward him with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose (undoubtedly stolen from a nearby office) and her hair neatly pulled into a bun. Tucked under her arm were several folders, and clipped to her blouse was a name tag.

She looked the part of a university staff member, Five had to admit.

Catching on immediately, he played along.

“Well, I would be inside already if this gentleman here didn’t refuse to let me in.”

The security guard turned his attention to Lila, scrutinizing her. “And you are?”

Lila touched the name tag on her chest and grinned. “Dr. Rachel Green.”

Five nearly rolled his eyes.

She glanced at the guard’s own name tag, then squinted as if committing it to memory. “What seems to be the issue here… John?”

“This boy doesn’t have an ID,” John replied stiffly. “I can’t just let him in without proof he belongs here.”

Lila let out an exaggerated gasp—so theatrical that Five had to fight the urge to smirk.

“Oh dear, John. No, no, no. Do you have any idea who this boy is?”

John blinked. “No, ma’am, I don’t—”

“He’s the rising star of the physics faculty,” Lila interrupted impatiently. “Dr. Frank-Whitmore has been looking forward to meeting with him all week. He’s presenting his groundbreaking research on the extra-erroneous quantum physics of time jumps and spatial leaps in the space-time continuum.”

Five winced.

That was just a string of meaningless jargon meant to sound impressive to people like this guard. But Lila’s unwavering confidence sold it. John looked visibly uncertain, especially at the mention of the faculty head’s name. Still, he hesitated.

“But… if he doesn’t have an ID, I can’t just—”

Lila clicked her tongue and pulled John aside, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“John, listen. I get it—you’re just trying to do your job. And I respect that. But I wouldn’t be the one standing in this kid’s way if I were you. He may not look like much, but he’s a prodigy, and the professor is expecting him.”

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice even further.

“Between you and me… he’s a bit unstable.”

John stiffened.

“The last time someone questioned his access, he hacked into the university’s computer system and took it down for two hours. Imagine that on your first day, John. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

John’s eyes flickered to Five, who was now checking his watch, his expression a perfect picture of impatience and irritation. A bead of sweat rolled down the guard’s temple.

“But I just—”

“I’ll escort him in myself,” Lila cut in smoothly.

Before John could protest further, she linked her arm through Five’s elbow and dragged him inside.

“John, you seem like a nice guy. I’d hate to see you stuck with night shifts over something so trivial.” She shot him a wink before disappearing through the doors with Five.

Once they were a few flights of stairs up, Five yanked his arm free.

“Dr. Rachel Green? Seriously? And when exactly did you steal those glasses and that name tag?”

Lila laughed. “The moment I saw you struggling.”

He scowled. “I could’ve handled it.”

“No doubt,” she replied dryly. “Which is why you kept checking your watch like a maniac while locked in a silent battle with a security guard.”

Damn it. She was too perceptive.

Five wanted to argue more, but he was already late for his extremely important meeting. As much as it pained him to admit defeat, he decided to wave his white flag early.

He muttered a begrudging, “Thanks,” before turning on his heel to hurry to his meeting.

Lila grinned mischievously. “You owe me, you little shit.”

He huffed but didn’t turn around. What she didn’t see, though, was the small smile tugging at his lips.

Still, he had to get the last word in.

“Make sure to return what you’ve nicked,” he called back, mimicking her accent.

“Oh, piss off, you ungrateful brat!” she laughed.

Chapter Text

After the incident with the guard, Lila somehow became Five’s reluctant guardian. He tried to handle everything on his own, but there were times when he needed the presence of a full-fledged adult to sign off on things for him—and Lila was the most logical choice.

It made perfect sense. Luther’s unpredictable schedule as a strip club dancer made it impossible to know when he’d be available to help. Diego was out working from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. Allison was drowning in problems with Ray, Claire, and her acting career. Klaus was struggling to stay sober. Viktor had fucked off to Canada, and Ben had fucked off to God knows where, chasing his millionaire dreams.

That left Lila. She was the only one with a stable schedule, even though he knew she was busy herself. Yet, no matter how much she complained, rolling her eyes and making a show of acting like it was such a hassle, she never actually said no. She was always there, ready to lend a hand.

So, anytime she went out of her way for him, Five made sure to return the favor. Whether it was helping around the house when she was heavily pregnant or pushing the shopping cart and loading the groceries up her car, he always found a way to repay her.

When Grace was born, he was the first uncle to hold her in his arms.

They were both trying—in their own awkward, reluctant ways—to integrate into this strange new normal, one built on mundane routines instead of apocalyptic survival.

For the few years Five spent at MIT doing his PhD, Lila became a regular visitor to his campus. She knew where he conducted his research, where he had lunch, and even where he spent his downtime. They found a charming little coffee shop nearby—her haven for croissants and chai lattes, his for a properly brewed cup of coffee.

They talked about anything and everything. It was almost unsettling how similar their views were—how their differences didn’t spark conflict but instead challenged and stimulated each other intellectually.

Lila had no trouble keeping up with the complex physics theories Five rambled about, often offering surprisingly insightful suggestions that sent him down new trains of thought. And Five, despite himself, could just as easily sit back and listen when she ranted about the latest drama with the neighbourhood housewives.

They could talk, laugh, and debate about everything—from the most trivial nonsense to the grand design of the universe.

What Lila didn’t realize, though, was that somewhere along the way, she had become his anchor. In a timeline where everything suddenly felt dull and meaningless, she was the one thing that kept him grounded.

And despite all his grumbling, eye-rolling, and theatrical protests whenever she pushed him out of his comfort zone, Five actually took her words to heart. He even tried new things—like the time she convinced him to join a student rock band at MIT, just for fun.

It was a warm summer day. Five had just wrapped up his lectures, and Lila had finally managed to escape the house for a few hours—her first real break in months after the relentless cycle of caring for Grace.

Noticing the dark circles under her eyes, her parents had practically pushed her out the door, insisting she take a rest while they watched the baby.

And for some reason, she decided to bother the only Hargreeves brother who actually gave her the time of day—even if he’d never admit it.

The bell above the café door jingled as Five stepped inside, the smell of freshly ground coffee mixing with the faint scent of old books from the university students hunched over their laptops. He spotted Lila immediately, sprawled in a booth near the window, lazily stirring her cappuccino with a smirk already in place.

"Took your time, old man" she teased as he slid into the seat across from her.

"Some of us actually have lectures to attend," Five deadpanned, setting his backpack down.

Lila rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Speaking of, have you thought about my brilliant suggestion yet?"

He raised a brow. "You mean your ridiculous idea that I should waste my time on extracurricular nonsense?"

"First of all, rude," Lila said, pointing her spoon at him. "Second, it's not nonsense. You spend all your time either in class, buried in your work, or ignoring people like a grumpy old man."

"Sounds ideal."

"Sounds boring." Lila leaned forward. "Come on, Five. Just pick something. Debate club? Chess? Oh, wait—" her eyes gleamed mischievously, "what about a rock band? I saw an advertisement recruiting a guitarist on the bulletin board outside the canteen earlier”

Five scoffed. "And what makes you think I can play anything?"

She tilted her head. "I don’t know, just a hunch. You’ve got that ‘secretly talented at everything’ vibe. So? Any hidden skills?"

Five exhaled slowly, gripping his coffee cup as he mulled over Lila’s suggestion. A rock band. Ridiculous. But the idea wasn’t completely absurd, at least not in terms of ability.

“I learned piano first,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “Reginald insisted we all learn a musical instrument when we were kids. Something about discipline and cognitive development. Not that he ever actually cared whether we enjoyed it.”

Lila snorted. “Figures. Bet he made you play Beethoven at six years old.”

“Chopin, actually,” Five corrected. “Though I preferred jazz, when I could get away with it.”

Lila gave him an amused look. “Why does it not surprise me that you were an insufferable little prodigy?”

Five rolled his eyes but continued. “I only picked up the guitar later—when I was stuck in the apocalypse. No music, no entertainment, nothing but silence and ruin. So, when I stumbled across an old guitar in an abandoned house, I taught myself to play. Gave me something to do besides, well… surviving.”

Lila's smirk faltered for a second, something unreadable passing over her face. “Huh. So, what I’m hearing is, you’ve got some real tragic rockstar potential.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“So, what’s stopping you?” Lila asked, folding her arms.

Five sighed. “Aside from the fact that I have no interest in ‘jamming out’ with a bunch of college students? I don’t exactly fit in, Lila. These kids are nearly one third of my age.”

Lila scoffed. “Oh, boo-hoo. You’re stuck in a teenager’s body, but you’re acting like an eighty-year-old shut-in. You already missed out on your youth being trapped in the end of the world for forty-five years. Maybe it’s time to make up for it.”

He stared at her, fingers tapping lightly against his cup. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is,” she shot back. “I mean, what do you have to lose? Worst case scenario, you hate it and quit. Best case? You have fun for once in your grumpy, time-traveling existence.”

Five sighed again, but this time, there was something less resigned about it. Maybe she had a point. Maybe he had been isolating himself too much. And maybe—just maybe—it would open up some new doors for him. After all, he did not have to watch behind his back for another disaster about to happen anymore. There was nothing wrong to live a little.

“Fine,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “But if this turns out to be a disaster, I’m blaming you.”

Lila grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Present day

The screen illuminated in front of Five as he skims through the information.

"Diego Hargreeves – Age: 21. Dismissed from the academy after failing three written examinations and one psychological evaluation, despite excelling in physical and tactical training. Departed without formally notifying the board. The academy made multiple attempts to contact him, all of which he ignored, leading the board to issue a final decision of permanent dismissal."

It certainly has its advantages to work for the CIA, as Five can use his connections to access classified documents without raising suspicion. In this reset timeline, Diego’s reason for being kicked out of the police academy doesn’t even seem that serious. If he can pass the tests with flying colours and convince the board that he’s a changed man, he could re-enrol. After six months of rigorous training (which Five is confident he can pass), Diego could be a police officer again. It seems easier than Five initially thought.

This could help Diego regain some of his confidence. After all, it’s hard to blame him for how fundamentally messed up he is after growing up under Reggie’s care (or lack thereof). They all are—flawed and broken in one way or another—and it’s painful to see how they try to fit into the lives of ordinary people while hiding their abnormalities. No one can redesign Diego or stop him from having this hero complex; it’s been embedded in him for 30 years, like DNA. Without it, he’d face a major identity crisis. Maybe getting his dream job back will make him happier and put an end to his idiotic behaviour, sparing Lila from being the only adult in the house.

Five pinches the bridge of his nose, then pulls out his phone and dials Diego’s number. The phone rings three times before Diego answers.

“Hey Cinco, what’s up?”

“I’ve checked your file. It wasn’t a serious offense. You can file for the exam, and if you pass it, you can get back in,” Five says, going straight to the point.

“That’s great news, man! Thanks so much! I wish I could kiss you right now!” Diego exclaims, his excitement practically vibrating through the phone.

“Don’t get too damn eager,” Five warns. “You haven’t passed the test yet. At your age, you better start training hard again, or those 18-year-olds are going to kick your ass. They have a quota, remember?”

“Five, don’t be a buzzkill. I’m in the best shape of my life!” Diego retorts.

Five rolls his eyes. “Yeah, last time I saw you, you could hardly finish 10 flights of stairs.”

“Don’t worry, old man. I started training with Luther last week. It’s those brats’ asses I’m gonna kick.”

“Well, you’ll need to study for the written test too, it’s not just about brawling, dumbass,” Five sighs, trying to curb Diego’s enthusiasm. Before Diego can say anything else, Five adds, “I’ve got the last five years’ worth of tests. I’ll send them to you now. They don’t seem to change the questions much.”

“Aw, thanks, Five. I owe you one,” Diego says, his voice full of gratitude.

Five cringes, for reasons he can’t quite place, then responds quickly, “Whatever, talk to you later.”

Before he can hang up, Diego calls out, “Hey, see you at the party on Saturday?”

Right, the party. How could he forget? Five mumbles a begrudging response, “Yeah,” before hanging up. Well, like it or not, he can’t run away forever.

Five parks his car along the curb in front of Diego’s house, shuts off the engine, and hesitates for a moment before opening the door to step out. He’s arrived an hour early, a decision that doesn’t come easily. He’s debated with himself about whether he should show up later to avoid being around her as much as possible, but he knows Diego and Lila always scramble like headless chickens before any party, so if he arrives late, he won’t be able to help much. He used to come early to assist Lila before the rift happened between them, and she always appreciated it, often joking that he was her personal Minion.

He presses the doorbell, waiting patiently, and it doesn’t take long before the door swings open, revealing a smiling Gracie standing in the doorway.

 “Uncle Five!”

“Hey, Gracie,” Five replies with a small smile, but his greeting is soon drowned out by the chaos inside the house.

“Where the hell are the paper cups?”
“Has anyone set up the tables yet?”
“The balloons are still not done!”
“Can someone please check the roast chicken?”
“Shit, I’ve just cut my finger!”

As expected, the house is in complete disarray. Gracie beams at him, undeterred by the chaos. “I haven’t seen you in so long, Uncle Five!”

“Yeah, been busy,” he responds, giving her head a quick, affectionate pat. He hands her two large bags of presents for the twins. “Could you take these to the present’s table for me?”

“Of course, Uncle Five!” Gracie’s smile is wide as she grabs the bags. Five slips off his shoes, neatly placing them on the rack before stepping further inside. At the dining table, Lila is tying up a bunch of small gifts for the kids’ friends, while Diego and Lila’s dad are setting up the tables. Anita is busy stir-frying rice in a large wok. Diego spots him first.

“Hey, Five,” Diego greets, a grin on his face.

“Hey,” Five replies, trying to keep his voice neutral.

As Five moves around the house, he keeps to himself, efficiently pitching in where necessary. He avoids eye contact with Lila as much as possible (after a curt greeting earlier when she gave him a small smile to acknowledge his presence), focusing on his tasks—placing the drinks on a separate table and making sure everything is organized for the party. He quietly observes the chaos unfolding around him, strategically finishing off the incomplete tasks left by others.

Within 15 minutes, Klaus, Allison, and Claire arrive together. Klaus walks in first, his steps hesitant and uncertain. He’s wearing a mask and rubber gloves, constantly wiping his hands as if afraid to touch anything. His eyes dart around the room, anxiously taking in every surface. “I, uh, hope everyone washed their hands…” Klaus mutters under his breath, eyes wide and constantly scanning for any potential germs. He’s clearly on edge, avoiding direct contact with anyone and standing as far away from the group as possible.

Allison walks in next, giving Five a calm nod before checking in with Anita about the food preparations. Claire follows, her quiet demeanour a nice contrast to the others’ energy. She offers Five a soft, knowing smile before quietly helping out in the kitchen.

Another 20 minutes pass, and then Luther walks in, his presence filling the room as usual. He greets everyone warmly, scanning the room for anything that still needs to be done. He gives Five a quick nod before helping Diego and Lila’s dad with the final touches.

Five stands off to the side, observing the flurry of activity. Everything is falling into place—except for the fact that Lila keeps moving around, crossing his path every now and then. He takes another quiet breath, trying to remind himself that the party will be over soon. And then he can disappear again, back into the safety of his own world.

Then Viktor appears in his usual plaid shirt and skinny jeans, looking healthier and happier than when he left. After months of relentless nagging from Luther, he finally returned from Canada to see the family. And yet, seeing him now, Five wonders if leaving had actually been the best thing for his youngest brother. Not many people get a second chance, and for someone like Viktor—who had spent most of his life as an ordinary person—it makes sense that he could slip back into normal routines with ease. Maybe leaving had been the right move for him. Maybe it would be the right move for Five, too. The thought lingers, unwelcome yet persistent. If only he could be that decisive.

The twins’ friends arrive soon enough, plunging the house into even greater chaos. Kids run wild, shrieking and laughing, while the adults settle into their own rhythm—beers in hand, swapping small talk between bites of delicious food.

Five keeps to his corner, nursing his drink and avoiding conversation as much as possible. He’s almost succeeded when Klaus creeps up beside him, still wearing gloves but with his face mask finally off.

“Mind if I hide out with you, Cinco?”

“Hiding?” Five takes a slow sip of his beer, barely sparing him a glance. “I’m not hiding.”

Klaus scoffs. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve spent the last few hours avoiding human interaction like it’s the plague. Which, by definition, is hiding.”

“Then what do you want?” Five asks flatly. “If you already know I’m not in the mood for talking?”

Klaus leans in conspiratorially. “Look around, brother. This place is crawling with germ-infested children—a breeding ground for the next pandemic. I’m just hoping your terrifying aura will keep them at bay.”

Five sighs, long and deep, rubbing a hand over his face. He just wants this damn party to end.

“How’ve you been, Five? I hardly see you around anymore.”

“Busy,” he replies curtly, hoping that’s the end of it. But Klaus, undeterred as ever, presses on.

“What’s going on with you and Lila?”

The question catches Five off guard. He finally looks at Klaus now—really looks at him. Those wide, knowing eyes staring back at him, unreadable yet too perceptive for comfort. Five looks away again, lowering his voice.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on.”

“Really?” Klaus hums, unconvinced. “You two used to be best buddies, thick as thieves. Then, what—one or two years ago? You suddenly freeze her out, act like you hate her guts.”

“Maybe I do hate her,” Five says quickly. Too quickly. The bitterness coats his throat like bile.

Klaus raises an eyebrow. “Really? Enough to suddenly turn you into Diego’s devoted little brother?”

Five stiffens. Klaus tilts his head, watching him, reading him, and damn it—Five hates how he always does this. For someone so useless at everything else, Klaus was born with an uncanny ability to put the missing pieces together.

“I’m not allowed to care about that idiot?” Five mutters, but even he knows it’s weak.

Klaus clutches his chest in mock sentimentality. “Of course, you can, Fivey. Helping him get back into the police force—so noble of you.”

“How…?”

Before Five can even finish his question, he’s cut off by a familiar voice.

“Police force? When did this happen?”

Lila stands right behind them, arms crossed, looking surprised—and slightly pissed. Clearly, she’s overheard their conversation. Five and Klaus both turn to her, caught like deer in headlights.

“He didn’t tell you?” Klaus whispers, as if he’s just been hit by a truck.

“No.” Lila’s reply is sharp, her gaze flicking between them. “And don’t they have to go through six months of training with barely any stipend?” Concern creeps into her voice.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

Klaus and Five answer at the same time. Five immediately shoots him a warning glare, silently telling him to shut up so he can handle this.

“He’s only been thinking about it,” Five says carefully, trying to placate her.

“Oh yeah?” Lila’s eyebrows knit together, clearly unconvinced. “And yet Klaus somehow knows before I do?” Her voice rises a notch.

“He didn’t tell me,” Klaus blurts out, scrambling to fix his mistake. “I just overheard him talking to Allison.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he realizes his blunder.

“So Allison knows too?” Lila’s jaw tightens. She’s furious now, and Klaus bites his tongue, resisting the urge to dig the hole even deeper.

Five glares daggers at him, but before he can say anything else, Lila storms off in search of Diego.

“I didn’t mean to stir shit up,” Klaus mutters, clasping his hands over his mouth, guilt plastered all over his face.

“Oh, shut up, Klaus,” Five grumbles, rubbing his temples. He turns and walks off, needing an escape. “I need to use the restroom.”

And he does—partly to wash his hands, but mostly to avoid another one of Klaus’s catastrophically nosy conversations. The idiot has caused enough trouble for one day.

As Five washes his hands in the sink, he hears hushed but heated voices just outside—the unmistakable sound of Lila and Diego arguing.

“It’s only six months. I can get back in.”

“That’s not the issue. The issue is you didn’t tell me.”

“I was going to—once I had something solid to tell you.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to manage three kids while you’re off for six months? And the money—what are we supposed to do?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“How?”

“Can we leave this for later, babe?” Diego’s voice turns pleading now.

Five can’t see them from where he stands, but he doesn’t need to. He can picture Lila’s expression—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with frustration. She may have an explosive temper, but she knows when to rein it in, especially with their kids’ birthday party still in full swing.

“Just get back down there.” Her voice is tight, clipped. Diego hesitates, then his footsteps retreat down the hall.

Five sighs. That idiot didn’t tell her. Of course, she’s pissed. A decision like this should’ve been discussed openly and maturely. A flicker of guilt creeps in. He knows he’s partially responsible for Lila’s frustration—he was the one who encouraged Diego to go back to the police force in the first place.

He waits a moment, hoping she’ll walk away. But after a few minutes of silence, he still doesn’t hear her move. Resigning himself, he steps out of the bathroom.

The quiet creak of the door makes Lila look up. Her face is drawn, eyes red-rimmed. Five feels a sharp pang in his gut. He hates seeing her like this.

“You heard everything.” Her voice is quiet.

“Yeah.”

“You’re helping him get back into the Academy?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s an intensive program, right? Overnight training, barely home, only back on weekends for six months?”

“It could be.”

Her voice softens, but the frustration lingers beneath it. Five doesn’t have an answer—not one she’d want to hear, anyway. Unlike Diego, Lila isn’t an idiot. She’s always thinking five steps ahead, much like Five himself. When he suggested Diego rejoin the force, he had already mapped out a plan for how they could make it work. But, of course, his idiot brothers—Diego for not telling her, and Klaus for blurting it out—had managed to screw things up.

And he knows exactly why she’s upset.

It’s not just about Diego chasing his dreams. It’s about Lila being the one left behind—again. Stuck shouldering the weight of their family, doing the lion’s share of the work without complaint because she loves her kids, because this is the life she chose. Like it or not, she’s committed to it.

But Five knows better. He knows there’s still a part of Lila that wants out, that wants something for herself. And it kills him to see her talents wasted, her potential reduced to an exhausted, overworked version of herself. If Diego were just a little smarter, a little more organized, a little more considerate, they could make this work without burning each other out—without trapping themselves in this cycle of resentment and obligation. He badly wants to tell her there are solutions. That they don’t have to be stuck in this suffocating routine forever. But he stops himself. It’s not his place to say.

Still, watching her like this—worn down, frustrated, and cornered—makes it impossible for him to stay silent. So, against his better judgment, Five decides to say something.

 “Maybe it’s not the worst idea for him to go back to the force. He’s miserable at his current job. If he actually does something he’s good at, maybe he’ll stop whining like a little bitch all the time.”

That surprisingly earns a chuckle from Lila, her eyes lighting up slightly as she doubles down.

“He does whine a lot.”

“And he never shuts up,” Five adds. Maybe he should stop talking—go back to being distant, keeping her at arm’s length—but hearing her laugh sends an unfamiliar thump through his chest. A ripple of something warm and almost pleasant. “If words were calories, he’d be the fittest person alive.”

That earns another laugh, her gleaming white teeth on display. God, he’s missed that smile. This—this effortless back-and-forth—is what he’s been denying himself for years. Maybe he should really stop, because this kind of ease between them shouldn’t exist.

“Yup, if complaining were an Olympic sport, he’d have more gold than bloody Michael Phelps,” she fires back, and against his better judgment, he feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile.

But then, just as quickly, her expression darkens. Reality sinks in.

“It’s not that I don’t see how miserable he is,” she admits, “but his paycheck helps a lot. It’ll be a big struggle for six months.”

“I know. But don’t worry about it,” Five says smoothly. “When Reggie reset the universe, he set up seven trust accounts—one for each of us. Aside from me and Ben, no one’s even touched theirs. I can convince him to dip into it this time. Call it an emergency.”

She exhales, considering. “You know how stubborn he is. He wants nothing to do with Reggie—not after what he did to us at Hotel Obsidian.”

“Leave it with me, okay?” Five insists, confidence blazing in his green eyes. She looks at him for a moment, then nods.

“Okay,” she echoes. Then, after a beat: “But he got kicked out last time. Will they even let him back in?”

“It wasn’t a major offense. If he passes the test and training, he’s back in.”

“Speaking of training… is that why he’s been hitting the gym with Luther for the last few weeks?”

“Yeah, I guess. He’s been out of shape for a long time,” Five states bluntly.

“Well, hard to stay in shape when you spend all day behind the wheel and all night on the couch watching TV,” she mutters.

Five grimaces at the mental image—Diego lounging around while Lila bustles around the house, handling dinner, the kids, everything. But this is nothing new. It’s been like this for years. Diego is too selfish to even notice his marriage slowly cracking around him.

“But anyway,” Lila sighs, rubbing a hand over her face, “if he gets back in, like you said, maybe it’ll help. I’ve seen some improvement in him lately. Just hope his enthusiasm doesn’t burn out so fast.” She gives Five a pointed look, more like a confirmation than a question. “You’re the one who put the idea in his head, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Five admits, then—before he can stop himself—adds, “I didn’t tell him not to tell you, though.” He shouldn’t have to explain himself, not after the way things have been between them these past few years. But for some reason, he doesn’t want her thinking he’s the reason for her frustration.

“I know.” She smiles, a small, knowing thing. “Not telling me? That’s classic Diego. You? You just wanted to help.”

A brief silence stretches between them, her gaze lingering on his. Eventually, she speaks again.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping Diego.”

Five swallows, his throat tightening. The words that immediately surface in his mind are ones he can never say: It’s not for Diego.

But he keeps his mouth shut.

She should never know.

“I should get back to the party,” she says, offering him one last smile before turning to leave.

But before she can take a full step, she loses her footing.

For some reason—maybe the slick floor, maybe sheer misfortune—she stumbles forward, and before he even thinks about it, Five’s hands shoot out to catch her. She falls right into his arms.

His grip is firm, cradling her shoulder blades, while her hands instinctively clutch at his sleeves. The impact is immediate.

She’s warm. So warm. Soft in a way that makes something inside him tighten, and the sweet, familiar scent of her invades his senses like a drug, pulling him under before he can fight it.

She looks up at him. He looks down at her.

A tingling sensation crawls up his spine, like the static charge before a storm. It skates along his skin, light and fleeting, but leaves behind a shiver that lingers just long enough to make him hyper-aware of every nerve in his body. Every point of contact between them seems to sigh in relief.

They need this.
They want this.
It’s been so long.

“Five,” she breathes. His name falls from her lips in a quiet, shaky whisper, her gaze steady—expecting.

He wants to lean in.

But then—

“Mummy! Can we do the piñata now?”

The child’s voice snaps the moment in half.

Five lets go of her instantly, stepping back like he’s been burned. Reality crashes down on him in an unforgiving wave.

“I—” His throat tightens. “I should go too.”

The words tumble out, unsteady, but he doesn’t wait for a response. He turns on his heel, strides down the hallway, and reaches the coat rack in seconds. Jacket. Shoes. Out the door.

By the time he realizes what he’s doing, he’s already in his car, driving. His grip on the wheel is too tight. His pulse is too loud.

He shouldn’t have come.

3.5 year ago

Five adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as the dean droned on about excellence and perseverance. The irony wasn’t lost on him. If only they knew he had finished his PhD in two years—not through perseverance, but because he already knew half of the material before he even set foot in MIT.

The applause barely registered as he walked across the stage, shook hands, and received his doctorate. No family in the crowd. No cheering siblings. Just him, the degree, and a quiet sense of… nothingness. He should feel accomplished, but all he could muster was detachment. Like he had just ticked off another box on a never-ending to-do list.

As he stepped outside, adjusting his coat against the crisp Cambridge air, a voice called out.

“Well, well, look at you, Doctor Five.”

Five froze mid-step. His gaze snapped toward the source of the voice, only to find Lila grinning at him, leaning lazily against a lamppost. In her hands—of all things—was a bouquet of flowers.

“What the hell—?”

She strutted over, shoving the bouquet into his chest. “Congratulations, ya little shit.”

He stared at the flowers, then at her, then back at the flowers. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What? Can’t a girl celebrate her mate getting a fancy doctorate?” she smirked, looping her arm through his before he could protest. “C’mon, coffee’s on me.”

Before he could object, she was already dragging him down the street, weaving through students and faculty as if she belonged there. Five sighed, more amused than annoyed, and let her lead the way.

The café was warm and smelled of espresso and fresh pastries. Lila sat across from him, resting her chin in her palm, watching him with that unreadable look of hers.

“So,” she started, twirling her spoon in her coffee, “why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Five exhaled, drumming his fingers against the table. “Because it doesn’t mean anything.”

Lila arched a brow. “You’ve got a doctorate from MIT in two years. That’s not ‘nothing,’ mate.”

“It feels like a sham.” He shrugged, eyes fixed on the steam rising from his cup. “I didn’t earn it the way normal people do. I didn’t struggle for it. I just… already knew everything.”

Lila’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Five stared at his reflection in the black surface of his coffee. “Two years. That’s what they all see—a kid genius, earning his doctorate in record time. But it’s a lie.” He tapped his temple. “I didn’t learn all of this in two years. I had forty-five years of practice. Forty-five years of trial and error, running calculations in my head, reading every book I could scavenge, trying to figure out how to manipulate time while the world was burning around me.”

Lila watched him, her usual smirk fading into something unreadable.

“This isn’t an achievement,” Five continued, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t earn this degree the way everyone else did. I survived the apocalypse and came out of it knowing more about physics than the average professor, but only because I had nothing else. No distractions. No normal life. No… childhood.” He clenched his jaw. “It’s not impressive. It’s a sham.”

Lila was silent for a moment, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You wanna talk about being a sham?” she said, voice lighter than he expected. “I spent my whole life being trained to kill people. And now? I have to play nice. Smile at the neighbours. Make small talk at the grocery store. Pretend I give a shit about ‘mommy and me’ ballet classes just so I don’t scare off my kid’s future playdates.”

Five glanced up at her, surprised.

“I go to those stupid classes and sit with a bunch of suburban moms who talk about meal prepping and their husbands’ fantasy football leagues,” she continued. “And I nod along like I know what the hell they’re talking about, even though the only thing I know how to prep is a body for disposal.”

Five huffed a quiet laugh at that.

“My point is,” Lila said, tilting her head, “everyone’s a sham at some point. You think those professors you presented to didn’t have their own shortcuts? Their own privileges that got them where they are? You think all those rich CEOs actually worked their way to the top?” She shook her head. “Life isn’t fair like that, Five. It’s not about who deserves what. It’s about what you do with what you’ve got.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “And what you’ve got is impressive. Surviving the apocalypse isn’t something most people do. Most people just die.” She shrugged. “You? You came out of it a genius. So yeah, maybe you had a forty-five-year head start. So what? That doesn’t make you any less of a brilliant little shit.”

Five stared at her, processing.

Lila raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I just gave you a heartfelt pep talk for nothing.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “No… it’s just…” He smirked slightly. “I’m trying to picture you sitting in a circle of ballet moms, listening to them complain about their husbands.”

Lila groaned. “It’s a fucking nightmare, mate.”

Five chuckled, finally lifting his coffee and taking a sip, even though it was lukewarm. It tasted a little better than it had twenty minutes ago.

Maybe he didn’t feel like a complete fraud after all. Because if she said so, why would he need to argue?

A warm feeling crept over his chest—one that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore these days. And he was sure it wasn’t from the sip of coffee he had just taken. It was her, as usual. She always had a way of cheering him up, even beneath the insults she hurled at him to mask the fact that she was, in reality, far more empathetic and observant than she let on.

When none of his siblings cared enough to even try to understand what their almighty brother struggled with, she did. She listened. She pried things from him until he confessed and admitted what was on his mind. She didn’t just drop the subject and move on—she pulled him out of his tough shell and forced him to loosen up, to live life a little.

If anyone else had attempted to do any of this, they would have been met with his infamous death glare until they scurried away. But not her. She never flinched. His initial annoyance and hostility toward her had been brushed off like nothing. She never seemed to care for his personal space, barging into it whenever she felt like it. And what surprised him most was that he let her. He let her be in his face, touch him, drag him around as if he were her plaything.

Since when had the egotistical Number Five become so obedient and willing? He couldn’t explain the strange gravitational pull Lila had on him from the beginning, but one thing was certain—she cared about him when no one else did. And for a man who had endured a lifetime of horror and solitude, it was nice to be cared for.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sight of her suspiciously scribbling on a folded napkin. She seemed focused, yet the way she kept the tip of her tongue between her teeth to suppress a mischievous smile told Five she was up to no good.

“What are you doing?”

“A gift,” she replied without looking up, her smile widening.

“A gift?” Five raised an eyebrow. “For whom?”

A few more flicks of her wrist, and then she lifted the napkin, aligning it next to Five’s face, clearly satisfied with the result.

“Who else? For you, numb-nut.”

Her grin turned downright evil as she flipped the napkin over to reveal her masterpiece. Staring back at him was a sketch of a grumpy black-haired boy with a fringe swept to the right and a pair of cat ears poking out from his head. A deep scowl was drawn between his brows. It was, without a doubt, a caricature of him.

He had to admit—it was a great sketch. But he would never tell her that out loud.

“What the hell is this?” he barked, infusing some annoyance into his voice while trying his hardest to keep his lips from curling into a smile.

“This is you, duh. Always grumpy, like a black cat.” She laughed out loud.

“I’m not grumpy.” He snapped, though without much conviction—especially since he was now smiling.

“Yeah, says the guy who perpetually wears a scowl in the middle of his forehead,” she challenged, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“More like perpetually reminding myself that I’m surrounded by idiots,” he shot back, holding his hand out toward her. She tossed the pen into his palm without hesitation, her face full of intrigue.

Pulling out another napkin and laying it on the table, Five immediately started on his own sketch. It didn’t take him long. When he was done, he slid the napkin over to her with a smirk.

Lila looked down to see her own caricature—this time as a feral fox with a cheeky grin and a troublemaker’s glint in her eyes. She looked both hyperactive and crazy at the same time.

“Looks nothing like me. I’m completely harmless.” She feigned a hurt look.

“Yeah? Tell that to the 125 kills you’ve racked up.” He smiled nonchalantly.

“Please, that’s nothing compared to the 599 you pulled out of your ass.” She rolled her eyes.

Then, suddenly, her gaze flicked to the clock on the coffee shop wall.

“Shit, I have to go. Time to pick up Grace.” She shot up from her chair, grabbing the napkin with Five’s sketch of her and shoving it into her bag—an action that did not go unnoticed by him.

Five didn’t move from his seat. He simply took another sip of his coffee.

“Okay. Bye.” He said it simply as she waved and rushed through the door.

A sudden surge of loss flashed through him as she disappeared behind the shop door.

He shouldn’t enjoy their meetings this much. But he always did. And somehow, every time they met, he had to employ more of his top-notch acting skills to pretend he wasn’t affected by her leaving.

Darting his eyes down to her drawing of him again, he let out a quiet chuckle.

“A gift, huh?”

Carefully folding it in half, he tucked it inside his chest pocket.

He looked out the window. It would start raining again soon.

Ok this stoy is going much longer than I expected. Might have to end it at 4 chapters, but we will see. I have fun writing about these two idiots falling in love to be honest. 

Chapter Text

Present Day

“Hey man, where are you going? We haven’t cut the cake yet.”

Diego’s text flashes across the screen.

Five takes a long, burning gulp of whiskey before quickly typing back a lie.

Sorry, have to leave straight away. Emergency at work. Tell the twins I’m sorry.

It’s all good, they’ll understand.

Btw, meet me on Tuesday next week after work. My place. Need to talk about the police test.

Ok, sure. C ya.

He doesn’t bother replying. Instead, he flips his phone face down on the bar counter, silencing any more messages, any more reminders of the life he has just walked away from. He’s had enough for one night.

This shouldn’t be happening.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhales sharply, trying to shake off the feeling—the ghost of her warmth still lingering on his skin. One moment of carelessness. That’s all it took. One reckless second, and he had nearly thrown himself off the cliff he’s spent years avoiding.

Kissing her. In her house. In the middle of her children’s birthday party.

He almost laughs at the sheer absurdity of it. Is he insane? Yes. Stupid? Clearly. But more than anything, he’s weak. Because even now, with the whiskey numbing his throat and the city lights blurring outside the bar window, he still wants to turn around and go back.

But he won’t. He can’t.

If things go according to plan, maybe—just maybe—this mess will finally end soon.

Tuesday arrives, and Diego turns up at Five’s place at exactly 5 p.m., full of energy and talking like he has already aced his upcoming exam. Five lets him ramble for a while before cutting in with a few interview questions—questions that Diego completely butchers.

Heaving a deep sigh, Five rubs his temple. “Right. Take notes. Study them. Otherwise, you’re gonna walk into that interview and bomb it so hard they’ll ask you to retake high school first.”

Diego huffs but scribbles a few things down. Five, however, notices something else—Diego is looking more toned, stronger. The training is clearly working.

A few years ago, if Five had taken a jab at Diego’s messiness or personal issues, Diego would have jumped into a full-blown argument, defensive and full of excuses. But not now. After everything Five has done for him, Diego isn’t as quick to fight back. He actually listens to Five now, even respects his opinions—though he’d never outright admit it.

Before Diego can leave, Five reaches for his check book, scribbles on the first page, tears it off, and hands it over.

Diego frowns. “What’s this?”

“A loan.”

“For what?”

“Diego, you’ll be off for six months. You have a wife and three kids.”

Diego glances at the check, then back at Five. His eyes widen. “I—I can’t take this. This is more than I make in a year.”

“Do not worry, it’s not even that much.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Diego’s grip tightens on the check. “I wouldn’t be able to pay you back anytime soon.”

“You don’t need to.”

Diego shakes his head stubbornly. “I just can’t, man.”

Five exhales, already exasperated. “And what’s your alternative? You wanna dip into Dad’s trust fund for us?”

Diego grimaces at the thought. “No.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Five leans back and adds, “Don’t tell anyone where the money came from.”

“You don’t want Klaus raiding your house, huh? Got it.” Diego pauses, staring at Five in suspicion. “But seriously, how the hell do you have this much money? You’re, like, nineteen.”

Five smirks. “Perks of being lost in the future for 45 years. When you’ve read about everything that’s going to happen, it’s not hard to make money. Real estate, stock market, cryptocurrency… pick your poison.”

Diego squints. “Wait… So, you’re, like, a millionaire?”

Five doesn’t answer, but the look on his face is confirmation enough.

Diego shakes his head in disbelief. “Must be nice to say money isn’t a problem.”

Five shrugs. “I don’t care about money. I only need the basics to survive. And good coffee. And scotch.”

Diego snorts. “Yeah, well, most people don’t have that luxury, brother.”

“There are other ways to make up for the lack of money, Diego.”

“Like what?”

“Small gestures. They add up.”

Diego raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Five takes a sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable. “Waking up early to make breakfast for your family for a change. Buying flowers for an anniversary without needing to be reminded. Doing the dishes without being asked. Bringing in the laundry and putting it away.”

Diego gives him a suspicious look. “That sounds oddly specific.”

Five doesn’t flinch. “Have you done any of those things?”

“Uhh… maybe a few times?” Diego admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

Five sighs in exasperation. “Diego. You have three kids. How much do you think one person can do around the house?”

Diego groans. “Alright, alright, I get it! No need to roast me alive.”

He rolls his eyes but then adds, “By the way, Lila almost chewed my head off when she found out I applied for the police exam without telling her.”

Five takes another sip of his coffee, carefully keeping his expression neutral. “Can’t say I blame her. You have a habit of charging into things without thinking.” In his head, he wants to blurt out, Of course she would be livid. You’re an idiot. Who hides that from their wife and the mother of their three kids?

“Yeah, yeah,” Diego grumbles. “But surprisingly, she’s actually cool with it now. Said it makes sense for me to go back.”

Five doesn’t respond at first. He already knows why she changed her mind—because of their last conversation before he fled like a coward. He can still hear her voice in his head, the way she had looked at him then. But of course, he would never let Diego know that.

Instead, he just shrugs. “Guess she finally realized you’re useless at everything else.”

Diego scoffs. “Oh, screw you.”

Five smirks behind his coffee cup. “Just trying to help.”

Some days are harder than others. The longing creeps in without warning, triggered by the smallest reminders. A cup of coffee with the same rich bitterness as the one from his university café. A torn rock band brochure clinging to a shabby brick wall, where scratched paint and cement battle for dominance. A familiar song drifting from a bar he once frequented with his colleagues. A British accent in passing. A glimpse of someone with long, dark hair and beautiful brown skin.

It hits like a wound torn open anew—throbbing, searing, aching.

His grip tightens around his coffee mug as his mind drifts, unravelling hundreds of possibilities—things he could have done differently, words left unsaid, choices left unmade. But none of them change the truth. What’s done is done. And he can never turn back time, not now, not after six years of being just an ordinary person.

Then, a voice—familiar and unmistakable, dipped in a Southern accent—calls his name.

“Five.”

He turns sharply, meeting a pair of warm, wide brown eyes. His heart stutters.

“L…Leena?”

A bright smile spreads across her face. “Hey, oh my God, it really is you! Long-time no see, Five.”

Before he can react, she wraps her arms around him in a quick embrace. The sudden rush of warmth, the unrestrained affection—it catches him off guard. But out of politeness, he doesn’t pull away. After all, Leena was the only girl he had ever hooked up with during his university days.

She pulls back, eyes sparkling. “How have you been?”

She looks radiant—her hair pulled into a ponytail, her energy as vibrant as ever.

“I’m doing great,” he lies smoothly. “How about you? What are you doing here?”

Before she can answer, his sharp gaze flicks over her outfit, the surroundings, and what he remembers of her university major. The pieces click together instantly.

“Wait—you work for Aether Dynamics?”

A delighted chuckle escapes her lips, revealing gleaming white teeth.

“Still as sharp as ever, huh? Yeah, I started three months ago.”

“That’s fantastic. What are you working on at the moment?”

Leena’s smile is bright, easy, the kind of warmth that makes people feel welcome. She hasn’t changed much in that way. Five remembers it well—how effortlessly she lit up a room, how she could talk to anyone and make them feel like they mattered. He used to admire that about her.

“I’m actually diving deep into a new project on quantum entanglement and how it could potentially improve computational algorithms. It’s pretty exciting, but also challenging. You know how it goes with research—constant trial and error, but the breakthroughs make it all worth it” – she answers, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Work’s been keeping me busy, but I can’t complain. It’s been—what—two years since we last saw each other?”

“Yeah,” Five nods, glancing down at his coffee. “Time flies.”

“It does.” She watches him for a second, studying his face like she’s trying to read between the lines. “I didn’t think I’d run into you again. You just kind of… disappeared after the concert that night.”

Five exhales a short, almost amused breath. “I guess I did.”

“I mean, I knew you weren’t the type to keep in touch,” she says lightly, but there’s a flicker of something more in her voice—something a little nostalgic. “You always had this way of… being there but not really there, you know? Like your body was sitting next to me, but your mind was somewhere else. Always thinking about something, always lost in your head.”

She pauses, then tilts her head slightly, giving him a knowing look. “Or maybe lost on someone else.”

Five stills for a fraction of a second. His grip on the coffee mug doesn’t tighten, his face doesn’t change, but the pause is there. And Leena notices.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You don’t have to say anything. I always kind of knew. Back then, I really liked you, you know? I thought maybe you liked me too, but it always felt like I was standing in the shadow of something—or someone—I couldn’t see.”

Five lets out a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “You were… are a fantastic person, Leena. Honestly, probably too good for me.”

She rolls her eyes, an amused but unimpressed smile tugging at her lips. “Ah, there it is. The polite deflection. Classic Five.”

He smirks faintly. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.” She shrugs. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s bullshit.”

That makes him chuckle under his breath. She always had a way of calling him out.

“But hey,” she continues, nudging his arm playfully, “it wasn’t all bad. I had fun with you—when you were actually present, that is.”

He looks at her then, meeting her gaze properly for the first time. She’s being honest, not bitter. There’s no resentment in her voice, no lingering sadness. Just understanding.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I did too.”

Leena smiles, and for a second, it’s like they’re back at university, two people who had something fleeting but real.

“Well,” she exhales, checking the time on her phone. “I should go. It was really nice running into you, Five.”

“You too.”

She hesitates for a brief moment before stepping closer, placing a light hand on his arm. “I hope you find whatever it is you’ve always been chasing.”

Five doesn’t say anything to that. What could he say? She had always been perceptive.

Leena gives him one last smile before turning away, walking off into the crowd. Five watches her go, the taste of nostalgia lingering in the air like a song from a long-forgotten past.

And then, just like that, she’s gone.

Five met Leena Patel during one of the courses he took while pursuing his PhD. Before he entered the program, Leena had held the distinction of being the youngest student working on a doctorate in quantum physics at the university. She had been only 21 at the time, but they had barely interacted. Five, who had always been absorbed in his own world, had never paid much attention to his peers—he barely acknowledged their existence.

It wasn’t until he was physically 16 years old that he properly noticed Leena. By then, he had already outpaced most of his academic counterparts, graduating two to five years ahead of the norm. Meanwhile, Leena was still completing her dissertation. Their paths might never have meaningfully crossed had it not been for a case of mistaken identity.

One day, at the university coffee shop, Five spotted her from a distance and, for a brief moment, thought she was Lila. From behind, and in the right lighting, they looked strikingly similar—the same height, the same long dark hair, the same slender frame. Even up close, their features bore a resemblance: dark brown eyes, a high nose, and full, almond-shaped lips. But upon closer inspection, the differences became clear. Leena’s features were softer, rounder, and more demure, while Lila’s were sharp and striking—at least, that’s how Five saw it.

Without thinking, he had called out Lila’s name. To his surprise, Leena had simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. She assumed it was just another lazy pick-up attempt—something she had experienced countless times before from male students who thought mistaking her for someone else was a clever way to start a conversation. Five, on the other hand, was caught off guard when she addressed him by name.

Apparently, she had known of him for quite some time. After all, it was hard not to. Everyone at the university was aware of Five Hargreeves—the elusive, unsociable genius who barely spared anyone a second glance yet somehow ended up as the lead guitarist for the university’s rock band, The Paradoxes.

That first encounter could have been the end of it, just another passing moment, but Five soon found himself intrigued. Leena wasn’t just another bright student—she was brilliant in her own field, a true intellectual equal. Over time, their paths continued to cross—through student activities, in the library, at his usual coffee shop. Their conversations were always engaging, filled with sharp wit and insightful observations. It was... pleasant. But the thought of dating never seriously entered his mind.

Not until that day.

It began with an email—one that, despite its significance, felt almost inevitable. The CIA had reached out to him, congratulating him on completing his PhD at the age of 15 and inquiring whether he would be interested in joining their ranks. The message didn’t shock him; he had known, deep down, that his skill set made him a prime candidate. He had choices. He could remain in academia, becoming a professor or working at a prestigious physics institute. Or he could take a different path—one that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to his former life at the Commission.

It wasn’t as if he missed his old assassin days. But after surviving four apocalypses, he had learned that disaster was never as far away as people liked to believe. There was a nagging instinct, a constant whisper in the back of his mind that told him: Prepare. If the world ever went to hell again, being aligned with the most powerful intelligence agency on the planet might just give him an edge.

So he accepted.

The recruitment process was rigorous, but he passed every test with ease. His intelligence, strategic and tactical thinking, marksmanship, and hand-to-hand combat abilities impressed the evaluators beyond expectation. His small, unassuming frame and boyish face, once an annoyance in everyday life, turned out to be a significant advantage—it made him the perfect spy.

And just like that, Five Hargreeves had a new role to play.

The first person he wanted to tell his good news to was, of course, Lila. He had been itching to share it for weeks, ever since the CIA first contacted him, but she had been so busy that she hadn’t even been able to sneak out for their usual coffee breaks.

Today, though, he texted her:

"Are you free for a cup of latte?"
"What’s up, old man?"
"I have some news to share."
"Good or bad?"
"Not good, not bad. Just news."
"Ok, I can duck off at half past 12. Same place?"
"Yeah."
"See ya."

She showed up right on time, wearing a black blouse with tiny floral prints, straight-cut jeans, and her hair in a messy bun. She looked exhausted—no makeup, dark circles under her eyes—but somehow, she was still the most captivating thing in the room. The second she stepped into the café, everything else faded into the background, dissolving into a soft blur, like bokeh lights in a photograph.

And then she saw him.

Her lips curved into that wide, effortless smile—the kind that made her whole face glow, like the first rays of morning sunlight breaking through the horizon. His insides turned to mush. Since when did she have this effect on me? Was it pathetic to think she had the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen? Probably. But it didn’t make it any less true.

She slung the strap of her bag over the back of the chair and flopped into it unceremoniously, scanning him up and down before grinning.

"Alright, out with it. What’s the good news?"

Five arched a brow. "Why do you assume it’s good news?"

She smirked, leaning forward. "Well, first—you're practically glowing. And second, your usual scowl isn’t there."

Before he could react, she reached out and tapped the space between his eyebrows, smoothing the spot where his frown lines usually sat. He flinched, trying to dodge the sudden movement, but the brief contact left a lingering warmth on his skin.

"Okay," he admitted. "I got in. I’ll be working for the CIA starting next month."

"What?? No way!"

Lila practically shouted, drawing a few stares from the other customers, but she didn’t notice—or didn’t care. In a burst of unfiltered excitement, she grabbed both of his hands and squeezed them, beaming.

His heart did an odd little flip.

Getting accepted into the CIA hadn’t exactly been a shock to him. If anything, it was anti-climactic—he had known from the start that he would pass every test with ease. But seeing her react like this, so genuinely thrilled for him, made it feel like a victory. A real one.

This was what made it worthwhile. Sharing these moments with someone like Lila—someone so full of life, even when she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

"I’m so happy for you," she said, grinning. "Well, looks like you’ll be kicking ass again."

"And legally assassinating people, maybe," he joked.

She laughed at his dark humor. "And legally snooping through people’s files if you deem them a threat to the motherland’s security." She gave him a mock-serious look, then smirked. "How was the test?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere near as hard as the Commission entrance exam. Or Reggie’s annual evaluations, for that matter. Although I did have to focus on keeping my heart rate steady during the polygraph."

"Yeah, I bet they’d love to know about your record with the Commission."

"Lucky, I’ve still got it." A smirk tugged at his lips, dimples deepening.

Lila wrinkled her nose in mock disapproval at his smugness, though her own smile never wavered.

"What about the written and shooting tests?" she asked.

He leaned back casually. "Almost perfect scores across the board. I intentionally got one answer wrong, though, so it wouldn’t look suspicious."

She burst out laughing. "Yeah, right. If I were the examiner, I wouldn’t doubt a single thing."

"Wow, so Dr. Hargreeves will soon become Agent Hargreeves. You'll get to travel the world, go on grandiose missions that actually mean something. I’m so jealous of you," Lila said with a grin.

She didn’t look jealous—not one bit. But somehow, Five felt sorry for her anyway.

"No need to be. If you took the exam, you’d pass it with ease," he said, and he meant it.

For a moment, she looked surprised, amber eyes widening slightly before her expression softened into something warmer, gentler- but instantly her cheeky smile came back: "Of course I would. I’d smash all the competition, including you. Anything you can do—"

"I can do better," he finished in unison with her.

They both burst into laughter.

It was strange—unbelievably strange—to be here, in a café, joking like this. If someone had told them four years ago in Dallas 1963 that one day they’d be sitting across from each other, sharing an easy moment without a knife to each other’s throat, a kick to the shin, or a punch to the gut, their past selves probably would have died of sheer disbelief.

But before they could continue, a voice interrupted from behind.

"Five."

He turned to see Leena standing there in a simple t-shirt and jeans.

"Oh, hi, Leena," he said, glancing instinctively at Lila.

She was already watching with interest, her face lighting up with unmistakable amusement.

Leena followed his gaze and gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi, I’m Leena."

"Hi, Leena, I’m Lila," she said smoothly, flashing her a toothy, mischievous grin.

Leena smiled back, then turned to Five, as if waiting for him to introduce them properly.

He hesitated.

"Lila is…"

"His dearest sister-in-law," Lila finished with mock sincerity. "The one and only, for now."

Five rolled his eyes but didn’t correct her.

"Leena is… ah, my friend from one of my physics courses," he said.

The hesitation in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. But if Leena was bothered by it, she didn’t show it—on the contrary, she seemed pleased to be called his friend.

"Sorry again for interrupting, but I wanted to ask you a favor, Five," she said.

"Sure, what’s up?"

"Do you have any extra tickets for The Paradoxes' concert this Saturday? My friend and I really want to go, but we missed all the ticket sales. She's a huge fan of Jake."

Five nodded. "I think I have three spare tickets I never use. If you drop me an email—" he grabbed a napkin and scribbled down his email address, handing it to her. "I'll send them over once I get home."

Leena’s face lit up. "Oh my god, you’re the best, Five. Thanks so much! My friend will be over the moon."

Then, hesitantly, she added, "And… you’ll be performing this weekend, right?"

"Sure as hell," he replied, grinning.

A light blush crept onto her cheeks before she quickly excused herself, waving goodbye to Lila on her way out.

The second the door swung shut behind her, Five felt the weight of Lila’s smirk before he even turned to look at her.

"So Fivey has a girlfriend and told no one about it?" she teased.

He scoffed. "Girlfriend? Pfft. She’s one-third of my age."

Lila arched a brow. "So? You’re also physically younger than her."

"No, Lila."

"Why not? She’s gorgeous, has good manners, and clearly has a thing for you."

"She doesn’t."

"Oh my god, Five—did you not see the way she looked at you? The blush? Don’t be so dim-witted. That girl is smitten with you."

For some reason—an unclear, irrational reason—her casual dismissal of the idea burned him. A small, sharp anger flickered at the back of his mind.

"Nonsense. We’ve only met, what, six times? You can’t like someone you’ve only met six times."

Lila snorted. "That’s four times more than when Diego and I started hooking up."

Something inside Five twisted at that. His fingers curled slightly against the table, jaw tightening.

"Do I look like Diego? Or you?" he shot back, voice colder than he intended. His brows knitted together in that deep scowl she used to joke about, and just like that, her teasing smile faltered. "I’d never jump into a relationship with someone I’ve only known for a few months."

Lila leaned back slightly, blinking at his sudden shift in tone. "Hey, back off, old man. I was joking. No need to shoot me with a rocket when I just poked you with a stick."

Realizing his overreaction—his sharpness—he exhaled, deflating.

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"Honestly, what’s with you?" she cut in, frowning now. "What’s so wrong with living a little? You’ve been given a second chance to experience life again. Why not just… try dating someone for a change?"

For a fleeting second, he searched her face—hoped for a flicker of hesitation, some tiny sign that she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed.

He found nothing.

She was utterly unbothered by the idea of him with someone else. She didn’t care. Not the way he wanted her to.

His heart clenched, a dull, quiet ache spreading through his chest like a slow, seeping wound.

But he wasn’t about to show that. He wouldn’t.

So, forcing an air of nonchalance, he leaned back and smirked. "Yeah, maybe you’re right. Leena is kinda cute."

Lila laughed. "Cute? Please, she’s dazzling. You’re a lucky old bastard."

She was still smiling. But all he felt was hollow.

The warmth in her expression should have been enough to pull him out of it, but instead, it only deepened the ache. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything, though. She was here, right now, and that was what mattered.

He forced his thoughts aside and shifted the topic.

"How’s home these days, anyway?"

Lila let out an exaggerated groan, stuffing a massive piece of almond croissant into her mouth—one he had already ordered for her before she arrived.

"Ugh. Dead," she mumbled around the pastry. "One kid is busy. Three kids? Worse than hell. But at least I have my parents to help out, so I guess I can’t complain too much. Diego, though? He could definitely try harder. I’m so fed up with having to practically spell out everything for him, or nothing ever gets done. It’s like he’s incapable of thinking from A to B to C."

Five’s fingers tightened slightly around his coffee cup. "Do you even sleep?"

She groaned. "Four to five hours a night—if I’m lucky."

He frowned. "Organization was never Diego’s strong suit."

"Or anything, really," she laughed.

They exchanged a knowing look—one of those silent, wordless agreements about Diego’s never-ending incompetence.

"I know he tries," she admitted with a sigh, "but is it really too much to ask for him to fry an egg without burning the whole house down?"

Five smirked, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "I mean, considering Diego's history with sharp objects, I’m honestly more surprised he hasn’t stabbed the frying pan yet."

Lila snorted, nearly choking on her croissant. "Oh, trust me, if I leave him alone long enough, he might just do it out of frustration. One of these days, I'm gonna walk in on him wrestling a spatula like it’s one of his enemies."

Five chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, it’s a miracle the guy has survived this long. Basic survival skills? Non-existent. But hand him a pair of knives and an impulsive need to save people, and suddenly he’s unstoppable."

Lila sighed, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself. "Yeah, yeah, he’s a walking disaster. But he’s my walking disaster." She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "As much as I want to strangle him sometimes, I still believe he can change. Slowly. Like, glacially slow."

Five raised an eyebrow. "So basically, he’s a broken vending machine you keep kicking, hoping one day it’ll finally spit out the right snack?"

Lila pointed at him. "Exactly. And I’m too stubborn to give up and just go to a different machine."

Five scoffed, but there was something warm in the way she said it. It wasn’t cheesy or dramatic—just matter-of-fact. She knew Diego was flawed, but she loved him anyway. It was as simple as that.

"Well," Five muttered, swirling what was left of his coffee. "Here’s hoping he doesn’t set the house on fire before that glacial progress kicks in."

Lila grinned. "Eh, worst case scenario? At least I know you’d be first in line to say 'I told you so' while handing me a fire extinguisher."

Lila wiped her fingers on a napkin and leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “Speaking of disasters—how’s your little rockstar career going? Your big concert’s this Saturday, right?”

Five huffed a small laugh. “Little? We’ve sold out the venue.”

Lila smirked. “Yeah, yeah, and who told you to join that band in the first place?”

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“Me.” She pointed at herself dramatically. “I did. I told you to stop being a recluse, pick up your guitar, and actually have some fun. And now look at you—mysterious prodigy by day, rock god by night. You should be thanking me, really.”

Five scoffed. “Oh, absolutely. My eternal gratitude, O Wise One.”

“That’s more like it.” She grinned, satisfied. “And don’t you forget it when you’re basking in the adoration of your fans.”

He shook his head with amusement. But then, as she took another bite of her croissant, she mumbled, almost absentmindedly, “Meeting you is probably the highlight of my week, y’know.”

Five blinked. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he busied himself with his coffee for a second before responding, “Well, enjoy it while you can. It’s going to be harder for us to meet here once I start with the CIA.”

Lila’s chewing slowed, and for a moment, she looked almost... disappointed. But then, just as quickly, she smoothed her expression over and shrugged. “Pfft. Don’t be dramatic. We’ll figure something out. You’re not vanishing off the face of the Earth, right?”

“Not planning on it.”

“Good. Then we’ll make it work.”

Five watched her for a beat, his grip tightening slightly on his cup. It was such a Lila thing to do—to act like everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.

She quickly changed the subject. “So what happens to your band after you leave? Gonna break all their little hearts?”

He exhaled, leaning back. “I’ll try to keep playing with them when I can, but I don’t know how long I’ll last. Depends on how much my new job keeps me occupied.”

“Tch. What a shame. You finally start acting like a normal person, and now you’re back to being a secret agent. Typical Five.” She shook her head in mock disappointment. “Bet they’re gonna write a tragic breakup song about you.”

He smirked. “I’d be honored.”

“Damn right, you would.”

He thought long and hard about Lila’s words. As much as it pained him to accept her indifference toward him, he knew she was right. He couldn’t keep pining after a woman so far out of his reach. She was with someone else—someone he owed his loyalty to. Someone who would lay down his life for him without hesitation, just as he would do the same. His brother.

This had to stop.

Maybe finding someone else would help. Maybe dating someone new would make things easier.

Leena was a good girl—bright, mature beyond her years despite still being young. They could talk about physics for hours, lose themselves in conversations about black holes and quantum mechanics, and she shared his taste in music. It wouldn’t be so bad to spend time with a girl like her.

But nothing ever came fast or easy for Five.

For the next year, he let things unfold slowly, building a friendship with Leena first. She started coming to more of his band’s concerts, and he found himself enjoying her company. Yet, between his new job at the CIA and the classified nature of his work, there were limits to what he could share with her. To Leena, he was just a public servant—nothing remarkable. He couldn’t tell her about the sudden trips to secret bases or overseas assignments, the way his life was constantly on the move. A relationship under these circumstances seemed nearly impossible. But Leena was patient. Kind. She didn’t seem to mind taking things slow.

Even so, he missed his coffee breaks with Lila.

These days, it was harder to see her. Now that Grace was in school, Lila’s days were packed—juggling housework, multiple extracurricular, and teaching the kids both English and Punjabi. And if the entire household fell sick? That was a full-blown nightmare. Five had survived the apocalypse, but even he couldn’t imagine shouldering the never-ending responsibilities she handled daily. Sometimes he thought that surviving the apocalypse was a walk in the park compared to what she managed every day.

Sometimes, he wanted to smack Diego upside the head for being so blind. Do more, you moron. Don’t you see her drowning?

Only sheer, inhuman restraint kept him from saying it outright.

So when he finally got his license at seventeen, when he had a car of his own, he started helping out whenever he could. If he wasn’t working, he’d ask Lila if she needed anything—and whatever it was, he did it without hesitation.

She always appreciated his help in her own way—teasing, tossing offhand insults at him as if to keep things light. More than once, she offered to repay the favor, but he brushed it off every time. It’s not a favor, he’d say. I have to go that way anyway. Why take two cars when one will do?

Little did she know, her smile was the only reward he needed.

Her relationship with Diego was so on and off that it was hard to keep track of what was really going on. One day, they'd argue so badly in front of everyone—except for the kids—and the next, they’d seem back to normal. Five couldn’t understand why they didn’t address their issues one by one instead of stacking them up and rehashing the same arguments over and over. But he understood Diego’s tendency to argue and the way his foul mouth ran off when he was angry, which only made things worse. Diego wasn’t the easiest person to reason with, and Lila, exhausted from her daily responsibilities, often didn’t have the energy for yet another draining conversation by the end of the day.

One Saturday, Five dropped off some groceries he had picked up for her. As he approached the house, he noticed the door slightly ajar. He hesitated for a moment before overhearing Lila and Diego arguing inside:

“Why do you constantly need me to remind you to do it, Diego? Why can’t you just see it and do it without me turning into a dragon?” Lila’s voice was sharp, tight with frustration, almost breaking as she spoke.
“It’s not even that big of a deal, Lila. Are you in the mood for a fight again? I’m just minding my own business,” Diego's tone was defensive, low, like he was trying to brush it off, but Five could hear the faint edge of irritation.
“That’s exactly the problem! You’re only minding your own business. What am I to you? Your housemate? Your mom?” Lila's voice cracked slightly, the exhaustion behind it unmistakable.
“There’s no need to go off like that. Just tell me in one sentence, and I’ll do it.” Diego sounded more resigned now, but still a little dismissive, his words hurried, as if trying to placate her.
“That’s not the point, Diego. I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should observe and just do it. Do you think I need to wait for the kids to tell me what to do so I can prepare them for school and childcare? No, Diego! Observe and do. It’s as simple as that.” Lila’s voice grew softer, more weary with each word, the frustration fading into a tired plea.
“Babe, okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll do it. No need to yell at me.” Diego’s tone softened, but Five could hear the resignation and guilt in his voice.
“I wish I didn’t have to,” Lila snapped, her voice tinged with both anger and fatigue. She sighed heavily, almost as if she had no energy left to argue. “Diego, we’re in this together, but it’s so hard. I’m drowning, and you don’t even see it.”
“Of course, I see it, babe. You’re exhausted. Come here.” Diego's voice was gentle now, almost soothing, as though he was trying to comfort her.

Though Five couldn’t see them, he could almost picture Diego moving to cradle Lila’s face in his hands.
“We’ll make it work, okay? No more yelling, I’ll do it. I’ll get better.” His words were softer, full of regret, but there was a hint of sincerity.
“Okay.” Lila sighed deeply, and it sounded like she had let go of the fight, resigned to the emotional weight of the moment.

Five didn’t want to intrude any further. He quietly left the grocery bag on top of the shoe rack and turned to leave.

As he drove off, his mind swirled with a hundred thoughts. After all, Lila and Diego were still a family. They fought, they made up—it was a daily occurrence—but at the end of the day, they wouldn’t leave each other. What had he been doing? Waiting for something bad to happen, hoping she'd leave him? Leave Diego? The father of her three kids? No. He knew how fiercely loyal Lila was, and Diego—though stupid and oblivious—was pure at heart. He loved his kids and would do anything to protect them. Even if he could be less clueless about what was happening around him.

Five realized he needed to stop. His presence in their lives wasn’t healthy for anyone—not for him, not for Lila, and not for Diego.

When he reached his apartment, he grabbed his phone and sent Leena a quick text:
"Are you free tomorrow for a movie?"

It had been a pleasant date, and Five could tell that Leena was giving him all the signals for the next step. When he rested his hand on the armrest in the cinema, she didn’t pull away, allowing the contact to linger. The way she looked at him felt a lot more suggestive than usual.

So, as he walked her back to her apartment, their hands hovered close, almost brushing against each other. She asked,
“Do you want to come upstairs for a drink?”
“Okay,” he replied simply, and she offered her hand. After a brief moment of hesitation, he took it, and they stepped into the elevator together.

Her apartment was small but tidy, the faint scent of lemongrass filling the air.

Five couldn’t quite recall how it happened, but before he knew it, she was kissing him, guiding him toward her bedroom. As the door clicked shut, the room plunged into pitch darkness.

Between heavy breaths, Leena whispered,
“No light. I like it dark, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” he breathed in response as she pulled him down beside her on the soft bed.

His thoughts began to blur as desire took over, pushing everything else to the back of his mind.

This shouldn’t be too hard—forgetting about someone else.

 As they kissed, Five’s mind began to drift. His senses, overwhelmed by the closeness, the heat, the rhythm of her movements, slowly faded into a fog. But amid the haze, a familiar face slipped into his thoughts—Lila’s. Her image hovered, more vivid than the darkness surrounding them, and it was her lips he imagined pressing against his.

The soft warmth of Leena’s body against his now felt distant, almost replaced by memories of Lila’s laughter, the way her eyes could soften in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Five forced his focus back, trying to push the intrusion of thoughts away, but the more he tried, the more persistent they became. He couldn’t help but picture her—Lila’s hands, her breath, her scent—all blending with the sensation of Leena’s touch.

He heard Leena’s voice again, breathless, but it sounded like an echo, distant and muffled as he lost himself in the memories of Lila. His mind raced, confusing the two women—until it was impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

But it wasn’t Lila in his arms, and this wasn’t where he should be. Still, the desire clawed at him, and for a moment, it felt like nothing mattered except trying to forget.

He would probably hate himself the next day for letting his mind wander this way, for letting Leena blur with Lila. But for now, he allowed himself to give in. It had been years since Lila was the subject of his sex dreams, and even longer since he’d touched himself thinking of her. Now, with the heat of the moment surrounding him, it felt too real to care anymore. Let his struggle sleep for just one night. Let him enjoy this.

Chapter Text

If you and I were born in a different situation, if you met me first, will you look my way?

The air in Ribbon’s office is thick with tension, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. Stacks of classified reports lie scattered on the polished mahogany desk, a testament to the chaos unraveling in Lebanon. Ribbon sits stiffly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, his face grim as he finally breaks the silence.

"What’s the situation in Lebanon?" he asks, his voice low, wary.

Derek, standing by the window with his arms crossed, exhales sharply. "We’re keeping a close watch. Faris Al-Masri was assassinated on Tuesday. All intelligence points to Tarek Al-Hadid."

Five leans against the far wall, his head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. His eyes, however, are sharp as ever. "Possible," he murmurs, "but unlikely. This doesn’t fit his usual methods."

Ribbon’s gaze flickers to him. "What do you mean?"

Five pushes off the wall and steps closer, slipping effortlessly into the center of the conversation. "The execution was too precise," he says, his voice cool, measured. "Faris Al-Masri was a walking fortress—paranoid as hell, always flanked by three highly trained bodyguards. Yet someone got close enough to take the shot at point-blank range and still managed to vanish into thin air? That’s not Tarek’s style."

Derek frowns. "Then who?"

Five lets the question hang for a moment before exhaling, almost amused. "Bassam Rahmani."

Ribbon arches an eyebrow. "The one who’s always smiling?"

Five smirks, nodding. "Exactly. A flawless setup like this has his signature all over it. Tarek’s power has been slipping for months—too many enemies, too many internal fractures. Bassam didn’t just see an opening; he created one."

He takes a step closer, his presence alone seeming to darken the room. "First, he frames Tarek for Al-Masri’s assassination. Then, he waits for the inevitable backlash. Tarek gets backed into a corner, loses allies fast. And once he’s weak enough—" Five snaps his fingers, the sharp sound cutting through the heavy air. "—Bassam strikes. He won’t just take control. He’ll erase Tarek completely."

Derek exhales through his nose. "That makes sense, but what’s Bassam’s endgame?"

Five leans back against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze distant, calculating. "Simple. He’s not in this for power—he’s in it for revenge. The moment he secures leadership, he’ll do what Tarek never dared to: push for an all-out attack on American assets. His hatred for the U.S. isn’t just rhetoric. He’s been waiting for the right time to strike, and now, with no one to keep him in check, he’ll go all in."

Ribbon and Derek exchange a look—one of quiet realization, of unspoken dread.

"How long before this spirals?" Ribbon finally asks, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability.

Five shakes his head. "Months. Maybe less. Once Tarek falls, Bassam won’t waste time consolidating power—he’s already done that in the shadows. He’s been planning this for years, and now, everything is lining up exactly the way he wants it."

Derek mutters a curse under his breath. Ribbon exhales slowly, rubbing his temples.

"And no one's seeing this coming," he says, more to himself than anyone else.

Five’s gaze flickers toward the window, the city lights reflecting in his cold, knowing eyes. "No. Because everyone’s too busy watching Tarek, thinking he’s still the biggest threat. But by the time they realize he’s just a dead man walking..."

He turns back to them, his voice calm yet decisive. "Bassam isn’t unstoppable. He’s ruthless, but that also makes him predictable. If we strike right after he takes out Tarek, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone. Take them both out, and the entire power structure collapses. Without both Tarek and Bassam, no one left in their organization will be strong enough, smart enough, or brutal enough to hold it together. They’ll tear each other apart."

Ribbon studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. "So we wait. Let Bassam do the dirty work for us—then we move."

Five doesn’t respond, but the faintest glint of satisfaction flickers across his expression before it’s gone.

The room falls silent, the weight of their next move pressing heavy in the air. Ribbon straightens, his tone hardening with authority.

"Five, give me a detailed plan. When do we strike? How many personnel do we need for the operation?"

Five meets his gaze, his mind already working through the logistics. With a single nod, he turns to leave, signaling Derek to follow. Without a word, they exit the room, leaving Ribbon behind—quiet and deep in thought as the pieces of the plan begin to fall into place.

"That was really impressive, Mr. Five." As soon as they’re out of earshot, Derek looks at him with beaming admiration.

“These are just predictions based on the intelligence we’ve gathered, Derek. We’ve been tracking this case for four months." Five doesn’t slow down for a second, pulling out his phone from his pants pocket. It’s been buzzing nonstop back in Ribbon’s office.

Three missed calls from Diego. Typical. He must have passed the interview. That idiot can never contain his enthusiasm.

“I’m taking my lunch break now. We’ll plan the operation after that.”

Before Derek can respond, Five turns the corner, heading straight for the canteen.

Once outside, he dials Diego. The phone picks up on the first ring.

“You know I’m at work, right?” Five’s voice is laced with annoyance.

“Oops, sorry, Cinco! I just wanted to tell you the good news.”

“You passed, didn’t you?”

“YES! I aced it. They said they'd love to give me a second chance.”

“Congratulations.” A faint ghost of a smile touches Five’s lips.

“Man, I’m so excited! Thanks for all the interview questions we practiced. They asked the exact same ones.”

Five pulls the phone slightly away from his ear as Diego's voice grows louder, piercing his eardrum.

“Well, it wasn’t hard to predict, given your history,” Five smirks. “When do you start training?”

“Next week.”

“That soon?”

“Yeah, I’m the last applicant for the year, so they’re starting me right away.”

“You got everything sorted at home?” Five asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Yeah, I deposited the check you gave me in the bank and gave Lila the card, but, uh...” Diego’s voice drops a little, sounding more timid.

“Spill it, Diego,” Five snaps.

“Okay, I know you don’t like Lila, but… when I’m away, can you please keep an eye on her and the kids for me?”

Five is taken aback, the request catching him off guard. The irony stings—of course, Diego would ask him to watch over Lila, the source of all his frustration.

“I have work to do, Diego. I’m sure she can manage on her own. Why not ask Allison, or Luther, or even Klaus?”

“I will, but… you’re, you know, more reliable than they are.”

A deep sigh escapes Five, half resigned.

“I’ll see how it goes.”

"I need more intel on the building’s exits—preferably aerial shots from this angle," Five says, his eyes still locked onto the satellite images of the Jaysh al-Sayf compound. Planning a flawless attack on the terrorist organization requires far more data than they currently have. At the moment, they’re still operating in the dark.

"Understood. I’ll deploy a mini-drone to capture the necessary images."

"Good. Also, send me a list of operatives with experience working in Lebanon, specifically in 104-degree heat in the Beqaa Valley."

Derek pauses. "You’re planning the operation for summer?"

"Likely. If Bassam consolidates power, the timeline points toward an escalation around that period. These projections aren’t definitive yet, but if necessary, I might have to assess the situation on the ground myself."

"I’ll have the list compiled immediately," Derek replies, his enthusiasm evident. Then, as if remembering something, he adds, "Mr. Five, you asked me about the Civilian Informant Program last week."

Five finally turns away from the screen, giving Derek his full attention. "You have an update?"

"Yes. A new position just opened up—an investigation into a religious cult called The Children of the Sun."

"What’s the time frame?"

Derek nods, flipping through his notes. “The cult is expanding faster than we expected. If we can get someone on the inside within the next few months, it would give the CIA critical intel on their structure, funding, and recruitment methods.”

Five’s eyes narrow slightly. “Rapid growth means either a strong financial backer or a message that’s hitting the right kind of people. Where are they gaining traction?”

Derek sighs. “Mostly in the Midwest and parts of the South. They’re recruiting disillusioned veterans, ex-law enforcement, and survivalist groups—anyone with a grudge against the government. But lately, they’ve also been targeting college students and young professionals, repackaging their ideology into something more palatable.”

Five tilts his head, already seeing the pattern. “Classic cult strategy. Start with the vulnerable, mix just enough truth with the lies to make it believable, and then radicalize them once they’re in too deep.”

“Exactly.” Derek glances at his notes again. “We need an operative inside before they grow into something unmanageable. Preferably someone unassuming, adaptable, and multilingual—they use a lot of coded language, blending religious prophecy with anti-government rhetoric, so we need someone who can pick up on the nuances.”

Five exhales sharply, tapping his fingers against the desk. “That’s a short list.”

“Even shorter when you consider the risks,” Derek points out. “If our person gets burned, there’s no guarantee we can pull them out.”

Five doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze flickering back to the intel reports on his screen. Finally, he says, “I need a full dossier on this cult—history, leadership, recruitment tactics, known assets. If we’re going to send someone in, I want every possible variable accounted for.”

“I’ll have it to you within this week,” Derek assures him.

Five nods once. “Good. Because if they’re expanding this fast, we don’t have much time left. But I might have some suitable candidate for the job” – a small smirk forms on Five’s lips as Derek’s intrigue is piqued up considerably:

“Oh who it might be?”

“So you want me to babysit Lila while Diego’s off playing cop?”  

“Something like that,” Five says, sorting his bookshelf as Klaus scrubs the countertop.  

Ever since Klaus got sober and developed a cleaning obsession, he’s been a nuisance. After every fight with Allison about touching her stuff or bubble-wrapping everything without permission, he’d show up at Five’s place, nagging until he got permission to clean. At first, it was annoying as hell. But as someone who survived an apocalypse, Five hates disorder. With his long hours at the CIA, emergency meetings, and sudden overseas or classified travel, keeping things tidy is a struggle. If Klaus wants to clean for free, who is he to stop him?  

Besides, as much as Five loves his solitude, loneliness is a bitch. And Klaus’s constant chatter is still better than dead silence—because silence lets his mind wander to a certain someone.  

What is she doing now? What is she wearing? Did she sleep enough last night? Is she sipping her favourite chai latte at that café she likes? Is she racing around, dropping Grace off at violin recitals and ballet class while threatening some idiot who made her daughter cry? Is her hair in a messy bun or a ponytail? Did Diego say something stupid and ruin her day? Is she pushing a shopping cart down the supermarket aisle, humming to a song on the loudspeaker, maybe even tapping her foot to the beat?  

It never stops. These thoughts swirl in his head, giving him no damn rest. Because they’re pointless. Thinking about someone who probably never spares a second for him is just plain stupid.  

Distraction is necessary. And right now, Klaus is a welcome one.  

“Did Diego ask you to look after her?” Klaus deadpans.  

“What?” Five’s knee-jerk reaction gives him away. Klaus’s perceptive green eyes are locked onto him, and Five knows there’s no point in dodging the question.  

“Yes, he did.”  

“So why dump it on me?” Klaus narrows his eyes. Five looks away, lightly dusting off a book before sliding it back into place.  

“You know why. I can’t stand her,” he lies smoothly.  

“Yeah, sure. Totally believe that.”  

“Why do you always talk like you know everything?” – Irritation forms on Five’s eyebrows  

“Maybe I do know something?” – Klaus smiles sweetly, feigning innocent.

“You know shit Klaus. Lila and I never liked each other when we first met. She wanted to kill me - multiple times”

“That was lifetime ago, mon frère. After all the enemy and rival crap, you two are basically the same person—except she’s crazier. But, you know, easier on the eyes and way better at conversation than your grumpy old ass.”

“So what? I’m not allowed to hate her anymore?” Five sneers. “Maybe I just realized she’s insufferable.”  

“Oh yeah, the way you look at her? So full of rage and hatred.” Klaus’s sarcasm is thick.  

“Cut the crap, Klaus.”  

“So explain why you’re always extra pissy when I bring her up?”  

It’s a good comeback. Too good. Even Five is momentarily at a loss. He regrets letting Klaus in today. Since his idiotic brother is clearly on a mission to uncover something he thinks is worth his time—just to frustrate the hell out of Five. Klaus’s ability to read between the lines is unnervingly sharp.  

There’s no point in deflecting. Five exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice is clipped, final.  

“Whatever you think it is, it doesn’t matter. So, are you helping her or not?”  

“I didn’t say no.”  

“Good. She’ll try to handle everything herself, but get her schedule and help where you can.”  

Klaus quirks a brow, giving him that suspicious look again.  

“That doesn’t sound like a guy who ‘hates her guts.’ Sounds more like a secre—”  

“KLAUS.” Five’s voice is sharp enough to cut steel. His death glare follows, and Klaus immediately throws his hands up in surrender. 

“Okay, okay! No more teasing! But… what’s in it for me, Fivey?” His eyes glint with mischief.  

Five sighs, already regretting this. He grabs his checkbook, scribbles a number, rips out the page, and slides it across the table.  

Klaus’s eyes practically glow.  

"You’ve always had this much money, but you threw a fit over me borrowing twenty bucks?" Klaus pouts dramatically.

"Why the hell would I fund your addiction, Klaus? Try not to be that stupid again."

Klaus clutches the check to his chest, gasping theatrically. “Wow, Five. Throwing my dark past in my face like that? That’s cold. I’m reformed now! A changed man! The only thing I’m addicted to these days is the sweet, sweet scent of lemon disinfectant.” He inhales deeply, as if savoring the imaginary aroma.

Five rolls his eyes. “Right. And yet you’re still an insufferable pain in the ass.”

Klaus smirks. “That’s just part of my charm.” He waves the check in the air. “But seriously, what do you even do at that creepy little CIA job of yours to be throwing around this kind of cash?”

Five ignores him and shuts the bookshelf with a sharp click. “Just do what I asked.”

Klaus narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh. Fine, I’ll help. But let’s be honest here—if you’re so convinced Lila is ‘insufferable,’ why do you even care?”

Five stiffens for a fraction of a second. “Because Diego does.”

Klaus hums knowingly, stuffing the check into his pocket. “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

Five glares at him. “Are we done here?”

Klaus grins. “For now. But this conversation? Far from over.”

Five shakes his head, exasperated by Klaus’s relentless nosiness. As he turns away, he pauses and throws a glance over his shoulder.

“And Klaus—don’t tell anyone about this. Got it?”

Klaus, completely unfazed by Five’s warning tone, only looks more intrigued. “Relax. Your little secret is safe with me.”

Then, after a beat, he smirks. “But Lila’s not stupid. She’s gonna notice if I suddenly start playing guardian angel.”

“Then tell her Diego asked you to help.”

Klaus lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re a real mastermind, aren’t you?”

Five shoots him a look. “Just do as I said.”

Although Five entrusts Klaus with keeping an eye on Lila if she ever needs anything, he never fully believes his lazy, unreliable brother will follow through. So, every now and then, he takes it upon himself to check on her—from a distance, always unseen.

He knows her habits. He knows that when she needs space to think, she takes a quiet walk around the park near her house. He knows she stops by the coffee stall to pick up a chai latte, the warmth of it grounding her when her nerves are frayed.

On the rare days when he finishes work early, he goes there—not to speak to her, not to be seen, but just to look . She isn’t always there, and sometimes he miscalculates, leaving him lingering among strangers for nothing. But on the days when his timing is right, when he spots her moving through the world in that unhurried, absentminded way of hers, it’s enough. Enough to reassure him. Enough to keep the worry from eating him alive.

Less than 2 years ago

“So, how’s it going between you and Leena?” Lila asked, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

“We’re, uh… going steady, I guess.” Five hesitated, taking another sip of his coffee. In truth, he didn’t want to talk about Leena—especially not in front of Lila.

Technically, he and Leena were something . They spent time together once or twice a week, had slept together, but never labeled it. She hadn’t pushed, almost as if she sensed that his full commitment wasn’t there yet. Five didn’t blame her. Hell, after their first night together, he had spent the entire time thinking about someone else. The realization had hit him like a gut punch the next morning, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of guilt and disappointment in himself.

Sixty-something years of existence, and never once did he imagine he’d become the kind of bastard who used one woman to chase the shadow of another.

But there was no denying it now—Lila was buried in his mind far deeper than he wanted to admit.

Spending time with Leena only made it clearer. With Lila, there was ease —an unfiltered honesty that he didn’t have with anyone else. He never had to censor himself, never had to worry about being judged or misunderstood. If he cracked a dark joke about death or destruction, she’d throw something equally twisted back at him without missing a beat. No awkward pauses, no hesitation, just a rhythm that felt natural. Five had never truly had a friend before, but if anyone came close, it was Lila.

She was maybe even his best friend.

She had a way of grounding him, pulling him back from the edge when his mind wandered to the horrors of his past. He lost count of how many times she had looked at him and instantly read his mood, how often they communicated without words, how seamlessly they finished each other’s sentences.

With Leena, it was… different. She was kind. Too kind. Compassionate, idealistic—a person who genuinely believed in humanity and wanted to use her gift for the advancement of mankind. Five admired that about her. But at the end of the day, it was too simplistic, too innocent for someone like him—someone who had seen the worst of the world, who had killed more people than he could count, who understood that sometimes, the only way forward was through blood and sacrifice.

Leena wanted to save the world. Five had spent his entire life burning parts of it down to protect what little was left.

She could never understand the kindest cut the way Lila did.

And that was the problem. Five didn’t like meaningless debates about moral hypotheticals—he had lived through enough real ones. When Leena spoke about her beliefs, he bit his tongue rather than start an argument. He knew if she ever saw the real him, the part that could justify sacrificing a few to save the many, she’d run. So instead, he played the role of a seventeen-year-old prodigy, hiding behind a mask that didn’t quite fit.

He wanted to move on. He really did.

But he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t happening anytime soon.

Because the second Lila texted, asking if he wanted to go for a walk in the park near her house, he wouldn’t even hesitate to say yes. It wasn’t even a conscious decision anymore. His brain had already placed her at the very top of its priority list.

"When are you gonna bring her in to meet the family?" Lila teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Five barely spared her a glance, keeping his expression neutral. "Not anytime soon. We’re not like that… yet."

He had no interest in pursuing this conversation, but he also knew better than to overreact. The last time Lila brought up his love life, he’d made a spectacular fool of himself—coming far too close to saying something he couldn’t take back.

Lila tilted her head, watching him for a beat as if assessing whether to push further. Then, with her usual effortless ease, she switched gears smoothly: "So, how do you balance your rock star career with your whole 'saving the world' gig?"

Five exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Not so well, to be honest. This Saturday’s my last show with them."

Lila raised a brow. "Was it that bad?"

"Yeah, you know how the CIA works. Apparently, having a highly identifiable face isn’t ideal for someone in my line of work. Shocker, right?" He let out a dry chuckle, and she rewarded him with a grin.

"Yeah, not when you’ve got hordes of adoring fans ready to plaster your face all over social media. Imagine: Agent Five, undercover operative… also Five, the rockstar heartthrob."

"Exactly." He smirked. "Besides, I was only in it for fun. Jake, on the other hand, actually wants to go pro. It’s better if I step aside now so he can find someone else."

Lila gave him a mock-pitying look. "Aw. Will you miss it?"

Five shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like I can’t still play at home. Honestly, that’s more fun for me anyway."

Lila scoffed, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "Yeah, yeah. You’re such an old sod."

Lila grinned. "Yeah, I can totally picture you now—Agent Five, the retired rock star, sitting on your porch with a guitar like some washed-up has-been."

Five scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Excuse you. If I’m playing at home, that just means I don’t have to deal with drunk idiots screaming requests for ‘Wonderwall’ every five minutes."

Lila cackled. "Okay, fair. But tell me, what kinda rock star were you, exactly? More My Chemical Romance or The White Stripes?"

Five smirked. "MCR, obviously."

Lila blinked, looking genuinely surprised. "Wait. Really?"

"Yeah. They had the perfect mix of emotion, chaos, and storytelling. Their music actually meant something, not just some garage-band experiment with a cool riff."

Lila scoffed. "Oh, so you’re too good for The White Stripes now?"

Five shrugged. "Not too good, just saying they’re a bit repetitive. MCR evolved. They had theatricality, sure, but it was earned. They weren’t just being dramatic for the hell of it."

Lila grinned. "You’ve got feelings about this."

"I have taste."

She chuckled. "Alright, what about Green Day?"

Five tilted his head. "I respect them. But let’s be honest—Billie Joe Armstrong found three power chords and called it a career."

Lila gasped. "How dare you?! ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ defined a generation!"

Five smirked. "I’m not saying they’re bad. Just predictable. Now, Linkin Park? That was a band that actually pushed boundaries."

Lila nodded. "Okay, that I can agree with. Chester Bennington’s voice? Unreal."

Five took another sip of his coffee. "Exactly. They had range, they had raw emotion, and they weren’t afraid to mix styles. It was fearless."

Lila pointed at him. "Alright, rockstar, tell me—who’s the greatest band of all time?"

Five smirked. "The Beatles."

Lila nearly choked on her drink. "Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me you’re an MCR emo kid and a Beatles purist?"

Five shrugged. "Good music is good music. The Beatles revolutionized everything. They didn’t just follow trends, they made them. You can trace almost every major genre back to something they did first."

Lila leaned back, crossing her arms. "So what, Queen doesn’t do it for you?"

Five exhaled sharply. "Look, Freddie Mercury was a legend. No one’s denying that. But Queen was flashy—sometimes too flashy. The Beatles had soul. They could be weird, they could be poetic, and they could be fun, all without needing a six-minute rock opera."

Lila shook her head, laughing. "You’re such a snob."

Five smirked. "And yet, you’re still here, willingly engaging in this conversation."

She rolled her eyes but grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Shut up and drink your coffee, art snob."

There it was—that effortless, electric back-and-forth that he could never quite replicate with anyone else. Conversations with Lila had a rhythm, a sharpness, an unpredictability that kept him engaged in a way few people ever did. He liked her quick wit, the way she always had a comeback locked and loaded, and her wildly inappropriate metaphors that somehow still made perfect sense.

He knew he shouldn’t let himself get any closer. But it was like trying to resist gravity.

Sometimes, he wondered if Diego could hold conversations like this with her. Could he challenge her, keep up with her, make her laugh the way Five could? He found it hard to picture. Diego was all heart and impulse—an open book with dog-eared pages—while Lila needed something sharper, something more intricate. Five had seen firsthand how his brother described the women in his life, how his first instinct was always to mention their "legs and butt". Five doubted Diego could ever fully appreciate Lila the way she deserved. But then again, what did he know? She must have seen something in Diego that he couldn’t.

Before he could dwell on it, Lila suddenly lit up. “Oh! Look! My favorite spot’s open.”

Before Five could react, she hooked her arm through his and tugged him forward, completely ignoring the fact that he was carrying a hot coffee in his other hand.

The bench she loved sat right by the lake, nestled under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree. The shade kept it from getting too hot, and the view of the water—glistening in the afternoon light—was actually pretty spectacular. It was also, in Five’s professional opinion, way too close to the water for child safety, but Lila didn’t seem to care. Every time they walked through this park, she always made a beeline for this exact spot. And, of course, Five never put up a fight.

What was there to argue about when you were spending time with your favorite person in the world?

As they sat down, Five instinctively shifted a little to the right—just enough so their thighs wouldn’t brush. Just enough to remind himself of the distance he needed to keep.

After a moment, he glanced at her. “Come to think of it—why’d you never come see me perform?”

Lila was quiet for a beat, her gaze focused on something across the lake.

Then, finally, she shrugged. “Oh, please. Do you really think I’d want to stand there, watching a bunch of kids screaming your name?” She turned to him, her expression playfully incredulous.

Five scoffed. “You wouldn’t have to. Jake was the main attraction. No one cares about the guitarist.”

“I would,” she said instantly.

It was so casual, so automatic, that Five almost missed it.

A slow warmth crept up his spine. His grip on his coffee tightened slightly.

Lila didn’t seem to notice the way the words hung between them. She just took another sip of her drink, then added, “I always liked guitarists the most.”

Five cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away. Don't read into it.

“Well,” he said, recovering quickly “even more reason to show up this time. It's my last show anyway"

Lila smirked. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Come on,” he pressed. “There’s a masquerade ball after the show. Open bar. All covered by the Student Association.” He gave her a pointed look. “Come for the free booze, if nothing else.”

Lila’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Now that sounds more like my scene.”

Five chuckled. He should’ve known.

"Fine, I’ll go to your last dumb concert."

Five gave her a flat look. "Appreciate the enthusiasm."

"But I probably won’t drink much. We’ve got Allison’s housewarming party on Sunday, remember?"

Five shrugged. "Yeah, so? It’s not until the afternoon, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, but no. I have this weird-ass issue with drinking too much—I completely black out. Don’t remember a damn thing. Not exactly a sensible thing to do when I’m surrounded by a bunch of college kids, is it? Plus, gotta be home before eleven anyway."

Five tilted his head, intrigued. "Blackout drinking? That explains a lot."

She nudged him with her elbow. "Shut up."

"Still, probably not the best idea," he admitted, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"When does your show start anyway?"

"Seven. Should be wrapped up by nine."

"Alright, I’ll come."

"I’ll shoot you a ticket to your email tonight."

"Hey, look!" Before Five could finish his sentence, Lila suddenly lurched forward, darting toward the water’s edge.

"What?" He followed her gaze, expecting something unusual.

"A fish!" She pointed excitedly.

Sure enough, a small, colorful fish flicked its tail in the coontail bushes near the shore, its scales shimmering under the sunlight.

Five arched an eyebrow. "You interrupted a perfectly good conversation for a fish ?"

She shot him a grin. "It’s a cute fish."

"It’s a fish ," he deadpanned.

Lila rolled her eyes, crouching lower. "You have no soul, you know that?"

Five smirked. "You’re just realizing this now?"

Before he could react, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it at him, droplets splattering across his shirt.

Five blinked, caught off guard. "Really?" He wiped the water from his chest, eyes narrowing with mock outrage.

Lila grinned, taking a step back, clearly pleased with herself. "Oh, don’t look so shocked, you had it coming.”

Five barely had time to process the splash before Lila spun around just as the sunlight caught her dark hair, turning it a shade lighter, almost golden at the edges. The glow rimmed her silhouette like a halo, but there was nothing angelic about the way she smiled—mischievous, teasing, almost flirtatious if he didn’t know any better. It was the kind of smile that could disarm a man if he let it. And damn it, he must have let it—because he didn’t react fast enough to block the incoming splash of water.

Cold droplets hit him square in the chest, soaking his suit, his tie, even his perfectly combed hair. Five barely had time to process the offense before Lila threw her head back, laughing—an unabashed, full-bodied laugh that only made her look even more maddeningly beautiful.

Cheap move, he thought. Using that smile as a distraction.

Without hesitation, he retaliated, scooping up water and splashing it right back at her. She shrieked, but the laughter never left her lips as they launched into a full-fledged, utterly ridiculous water fight. They had no sense of restraint, no thought of onlookers—just laughter, teasing, and water flying in all directions.

By the time they finally called a truce, both were drenched. Five sighed in resignation, peeling off his jacket, loosening his tie, and slipping off his soaked shoes, draping them over the park bench to dry.

Lila, grinning as if she’d won something, shrugged off her cardigan. Five made the mistake of glancing at her—just a glance—but it was enough. The thin fabric of her dress clung damply to her curves, outlining every detail he absolutely shouldn’t be noticing. He swallowed, forcing his gaze elsewhere, pretending the warmth creeping up his collar was just from the sun.

Lila caught the shift in his eyes. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, she flopped down onto the bench next to him, wringing out her hair and letting the damp strands fall back into place.

Five leaned back, trying his best to ignore the heat in his chest. "Next time you start a water fight, I’ll be ready," he muttered.

She laughed, eyes sparkling. "I’d like to see you try."

Then, with zero ceremony, Lila flopped down onto the grass, stretching out as if she didn’t have a single care in the world. Her legs fell slightly apart, her dark hair fanned out messily over the lawn, and she lifted her hands toward the sky, peering through the gaps between her fingers. For a moment, the usual sharpness in her expression softened, her voice losing its playful edge.

“I haven’t played like this in years,” she murmured. “Sometimes, I do miss being young and free.”

Five turned his head slightly to look at her. There was something fleeting in her face—a hint of regret, of longing. He didn’t interrupt. He just let her talk.

“There are certain moments in life where you question your choices, don’t you?” she continued, still gazing up at the sky. “But I have three wonderful kids. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

Her words struck something deep in him.

Because Lila had always wanted a family. A real one. A happy one. And he had taken that from her.

Even if he hadn’t known back then—hadn’t realized the two people he killed were her parents—he was still responsible. Yes, in this timeline, they were alive again. But that didn’t change the fact that they weren’t really her parents. Not the ones she lost.

And no matter how much time passed, no matter how much she laughed or teased or pretended to be fine, the wounds from her childhood—the broken little girl forced into becoming a weapon—could never fully heal.

He owed her this life. He owed her happiness.

But even if none of that had ever happened—even if their past wasn’t so dark and twisted—he knew one thing for certain: if Lila ever asked him for something, anything , he’d do it.

“The things we do for love, hey?” Five said quietly, almost to himself.

Lila turned her head, eyes widening slightly. For once, she seemed caught off guard. “You’re getting sentimental, old man?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just drunk off this fun you forced me into.”

She scoffed. “Your hardass needs to loosen up. How many people get a second chance?”

“Probably none.” He smirked and laid down on the grass beside her. The bright light of the afternoon sky made him squint before his eyes adjusted, and for the first time in a long while, he really looked at it.

Lila suddenly let out a dramatic huff. “It’s so fucking blue, hey? Looks like it overdosed on goddamn Gatorade.”

Five barked out a laugh, unexpected but genuine. “I swear you just get annoyed at anything.”

She turned her head toward him, still grinning, the sun catching in her wild, dark hair. “Oh, shut up, old man. My grumpy level can never measure up to yours.”

Five snorted. “That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said all day.”

She shot him a playful glare before looking back up at the sky. Five followed her gaze, exhaling slowly. "Who would’ve thought that Chaos incarnate could make him feel... peaceful?"

Saturday felt like it would never arrive for Five. The week dragged on endlessly, each day a heavy slog that crawled by far too slowly for his liking. He fought the urge to text Lila just to confirm that she'd actually show up to his concert. It seemed ridiculous—he was a grown man, after all—but the hours they spent together in the park by the lake kept replaying in his head, vivid as if it were yesterday. Her laugh. Her voice. The way she smiled. Her eyes, full of mischief. Her hair, shining in the sunlight. The witty banter they had, the stupid arguments over music, and their absurd water fight. Every little detail, like droplets of water running down her skin, lingered in his mind.

Every night, when he closed his eyes, it all came back to him, like a clip on repeat. It was always fun when they spent time together, but this time… it was different. It felt extra special. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t shake the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice or simply basking in her presence. When she agreed to come to his last concert, his heart had done a little jump, a small victory dance that he couldn’t explain.

Gosh, he was pathetic.

Finally, the day arrived.

The campus auditorium was buzzing with energy, the air thick with anticipation. Students clustered around the makeshift stage, their voices blending into a low hum that vibrated through the air. Five adjusted the strap of his guitar, trying to ignore the growing knot of frustration in his stomach. He kept glancing toward the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lila, but there was no sign of her.

“We’re screwed,” their main vocalist, Jake, muttered beside him, running a hand through his hair. “The drummer’s out, and we’ve got 25 minutes before we go on. Unless one of you has a miracle up your sleeve, we’re about to embarrass the hell out of ourselves.”

Five turned around to look at Jake, a deep frown forming. “What do you mean? Why’d he pull out now?”

“Food poisoning,” Jake groaned.

Normally, Five would have cracked a joke, but not now. He had been counting on this show, not only because it was their last but also because it was his chance to show Lila a good time. She had talked him into doing it, after all. She was the one who encouraged him, and he’d secretly planned it as a small gift for her. She deserved a fun night, away from the chaos of her life.

And now, with the drummer down, it felt like his plans were falling apart. He didn’t want to bomb in front of a crowd, especially with Lila there.

“Alright, so what’s the plan?” someone groaned. “Are we just gonna go out there and hum the drum parts?”

Then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, a familiar voice rang out from the side of the stage.

“Oi, dumbass. How’s your preparation going?”

Five’s head snapped toward the sound, and he almost gave himself whiplash. Standing there, out of place amid the panicked bandmates, was Lila. She waved at him with that damn smirk, dressed in ripped jeans, a faded band tee, and an effortlessly cool attitude that only she could pull off. Her shoulder-length hair fell in messy curls around her face, and she looked nothing like a mother of three. No, she looked like an attractive rock band member. It had been a long time since he’d seen her like this. Not since Hotel Obsidian.

Before Five could even process the shock of seeing her, Jake grabbed his arm. “Who’s she?”

Five opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated. “She’s… Lila.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Lila, do you play drums?”

Five shot him a bewildered look. “Oh, come on—”

Lila arched an eyebrow. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t play drums?”

There was a beat of silence, then Five blinked in disbelief. “…Wait, you actually do?”

Lila grinned. “I wasn’t just trained to kill people, you know. Gotta have hobbies.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, so only Five could hear.

Jake didn’t even wait for Five to protest. “She’s in,” he declared, dragging her toward the drum kit like she was their last hope—which, at that moment, she was.

When she reached the drum kit, her fingers brushed the drumsticks as she sat down. “So, what’s the setlist?” she asked, casually tapping the sticks against the snare.

Five blinked, caught off guard by her movement. She was no newcomer.

Lila raised an eyebrow. “Will you hurry up and tell me the setlist, Five? We don’t have all day, you know.”

After receiving the answers from Five and Jake, Lila adjusted the drum kit a little, testing the sound. Then, without further prompting, she launched into a few beats. Her rhythm was smooth, controlled, and precise—nothing like what Five was expecting. It was clear in the way she struck the drums, the fluidity of her movements. She didn’t miss a beat.

Jake leaned over to Five, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Dude, she’s good. Like, really good.”

Five could only nod, dumbfounded. The way Lila played, how she completely owned the kit—it was obvious she wasn’t just some casual drummer. She had experience. Real, raw talent.

“What else are you playing?” she asked, not missing a single note as she adjusted her grip on the sticks. “The songs?”

Jake quickly rattled off the list, and Lila nodded as she kept playing, syncing herself with the beats in her head. Every piece of the rhythm felt like second nature to her.

Five stood there, staring, his stomach twisting. He hadn’t expected this—didn’t realize she was this good. Maybe it was just another of her surprises. But it was a good one.

“We’re going to be fine,” Jake muttered under his breath, watching Lila. “I think we’ve got this.”

Just then, the announcer called out the band’s name, and the crowd erupted into cheers. There was no more time to think, no more time to worry.

The first song began with a strong, steady beat—Lila’s beat. Five strummed the first chord, his fingers moving instinctively. The bass kicked in, and before he knew it, they were lost in the music.

And Lila—Lila was on fire.

She played like she owned the damn stage, like the drums were an extension of herself. Every beat, every crash of the cymbals, was flawless—perfectly in sync with the band. Her movements were effortless, fluid, in complete control, and she looked incredible—her wild hair, her eyes alight with excitement, her whole body moving with the rhythm.

Five had faced countless dangers in his life—he’d time-traveled, fought in battles, and survived the end of the world more than once—but nothing, nothing, compared to this. The energy of the crowd, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the electric connection between him and the rest of the band, and most of all—Lila.

She caught his eye mid-song, flashed him a wicked grin, and something inside him snapped.

He was completely, utterly gone for her.

As the final note rang out, the crowd exploded. Cheers, screams, whistles—it was deafening. Five was breathing hard, his heart pounding against his ribs, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t from stress. It was from pure exhilaration.

Lila stood from the drum set, twirling a drumstick between her fingers like she hadn’t just saved their asses. “Not bad, Fiveee,” she teased, tossing the drumstick at him.

He caught it reflexively, still catching his breath.

He should’ve said something witty, something cutting, but all he could think was holy shit, she’s beautiful.

Instead, he smirked and shook his head. “You’re full of surprises.”

Lila leaned in, her grin never faltering. “You have no idea.”

The proximity made his breath hitch. Lila was so close, her presence overwhelming in the best way possible, and the adrenaline rush from the mind-blowingly amazing concert surged through him. His emotions were running high—too high—like a dam about to break. Every ounce of tension, excitement, and longing built up inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into an embrace. But before he could react, a cheery southern accent broke through the haze of his thoughts:

“Five, that was so amazing, you are the best!”

Leena threw her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an enthusiastic hug.

Shit, he had completely forgotten about Leena. She was supposed to be here today, but he hadn’t even spared a thought for her all week. His eyes were still glued to Lila’s face, the electric connection between them still buzzing in the air. A fleeting, almost imperceptible look of awkwardness crossed Lila's face as she watched the other girl hold him.

Five finally tore his gaze away from Lila and awkwardly tapped Leena on the shoulder, managing a stiff smile. "Hi, Leena. Thanks for coming."

He cringed at the emptiness of his words, feeling like an idiot. But Leena didn’t seem to mind, continuing to gush about him with unabashed excitement.

“You should feel so proud, the crowd went crazy for you!” she said, before turning to Lila and beaming. “You were incredible, Lila! When I saw you, I was so surprised, but the whole crowd instantly became your fan.”

Lila smiled at Leena's enthusiasm. “Thank you. I haven’t played in four years, but I guess I’m lucky I’ve still got it.”

“Four years? Wow, that’s amazing,” Leena marveled.

Before Five could say anything, Leena turned back to him. “Hey, let’s go to the Masquerade Ball in the main hall, it’ll start soon.”

“Right, the Masquerade Ball... about that...” Five started to respond, but Lila suddenly cut in.

“I’ll need to go now. It’s getting late, and we’ve got plans tomorrow too.”

No, don’t go.

The thought hit him hard, like a physical punch to the gut. He wanted to beg her to stay, to share a few drinks and talk about the concert, to talk about anything —just to be with her a little longer. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to bask in her company, to hold her close and let out some of the overwhelming emotion building inside him. But before he could get a word out, Leena was already bidding Lila goodbye.

“See you around, then, Lila.”

Lila waved at him with a small smile, the one that always made his heart skip a beat. “See you tomorrow at Allison’s, Five.”

And then, with a decisive turn, she walked away. The thudding pain in the pit of his stomach hit him like a physical ache. Everything had happened so quickly. She was gone, and he had no way to stop it. He wanted more time with her—so much more time.

Leena’s appearance was a damn nuisance but he couldn’t say that to her because after all, it wasn’t her fault. Reluctantly, Five allowed himself to be dragged to the Masquerade Ball. He wasn’t in the mood to be there, but he knew that if he couldn’t have Lila tonight, he would drown out the ache in his chest with as much alcohol as he could find.    

When Five reached the hall, the sheer scale of the event hit him. Hundreds of people were already gathered, forming two long, winding lines—one for men, one for women—each waiting to receive a mask and a hooded cloak designed to obscure their identities entirely. The anonymity was intentional, the organizer claiming it would make the search for one's partner inside the ball all the more "thrilling." Five barely suppressed a scoff at that.

Leena shot him a sly, knowing wink before stepping into her designated line. "See you in there, Five," she purred before disappearing into the crowd.

The mask selection surprised him. There were dozens of designs—some delicate, some elaborate, some outright grotesque—but he chose a simple, black full-face mask accented with gold filigree around the eyes and mouth. The mouth remained open, for practical reasons. He had one goal tonight: to drink himself into oblivion, maybe find Leena or someone to get lost in for a few hours, and forget everything clawing at his mind.

Once he secured the mask and fastened the hooded cloak around him, he pushed open the grand doors and stepped inside.

The ballroom was drenched in decadence, an opulent dream steeped in shadow. Deep crimson banners cascaded down from the vaulted ceiling, their edges flickering under the dim blue lights that pulsed from the hall’s corners. Black drapery clung to the walls, blending seamlessly with the veiled figures swaying and twisting against one another. A low, sensual melody thrummed through the air, each note laced with an invitation to indulge. The space reeked of temptation—of whispered promises in dark corners and fleeting touches that meant nothing and everything at once.

Five moved through the crowd, the scent of expensive liquor and perfume thick around him, his steps unhurried as he made his way to the bar. The bartender slid a glass toward him without a word, and he welcomed the burn of alcohol down his throat. One drink turned into three. He wasn’t looking for Leena. Not yet.

And then he saw her.

A full-face gold mask beneath the heavy black cloak. But unlike the others, hers wasn’t fully closed—the front parted ever so slightly as she walked, revealing the shimmer of a short gold dress underneath. The contrast was striking, an intentional tease of light against the dark. In one hand, she held a glass. Her posture poised and relaxed. 

Something about her pulled him in immediately, an unshakable sense of familiarity that set his nerves on edge. The way she moved, the quiet confidence in her posture—it reminded him of someone. Someone he shouldn’t be thinking about.

The thought sent a slow burn down his spine.

The liquid in her glass glimmered but in the blue-tinted shadows, he couldn’t make out the color. Not that it mattered.

He was looking at her.

Glass in hand, he strode toward her without hesitation.

"That little gold dress is really something. Trying to blind people with it?" Five murmured, low and amused.

She tilted her head, considering him from behind the mask, silent—too silent. She let the pause stretch, just long enough to unnerve him. Then, she turned away, lifted her mask just enough to tip back her drink, and drained it in one go.

When she turned back to him, her mask was firmly in place again, voice muffled but sultry beneath it. "It’s saved for a special night… and a special someone."

The way she said it, the way she watched him, sent something dark curling inside him. The accent—Southern, familiar—settled something in his chest. Had to be Leena. And if she wanted to play a game? Fine. He’d bite.

"Sounds like a lot of buildup. Must be exhausting."

She hummed, tilting her head. "Depends. You think you can keep up?"

"I guess that depends on what exactly I’m keeping up with."

Her gloved fingers drifted up, brushing lazily under her chin as she watched him. Sizing him up. Calculating.

"What brought you here tonight, anyway?" she asked.

Five took a slow sip from his glass, voice flat, edged with something deeper. "I was abandoned by a beautiful lady. Thought I’d drink about it."

Not even a lie. When Lila left, a part of him always wanted to pull her back. Drag her back. All this repression had to go somewhere.

"Interesting," she murmured, stepping in. Her fingers skated down his chest, just barely there, drawing lazy, featherlight circles. Heat prickled down his spine. "I’m also abandoned by a handsome man."

His smirk twitched at that. A game, then.

"Guess that makes us a perfect match."

She tilted her head, her gaze still locked onto his through the slits of her mask. “So, tell me,” she purred, “do you always chase after women in gold dresses, or am I just special?”

Five smirked, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. “Depends. Do you always toy with men at masquerades, or am I just lucky?”

She let out a slow, amused hum, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. “Luck is for fools. I prefer control.”

His lips quirked. “Control, huh? That's what you’re looking for tonight?”

She took a slow step closer, her body a whisper away from his. “Maybe. Or maybe I want to lose it for once.”

Five’s fingers ghosted over her hip, barely a touch, just enough to tease. “I can help with that.”

He felt it rather than saw it—her lips curving into something sinful. 'Bold words"

Something about her voice, the way it lilted, the way it curled around each syllable—it didn’t feel like Leena. It felt like someone else. Someone familiar. Someone who had haunted his thoughts for the last four years, no matter how hard he tried to erase her.

His stomach twisted, doubt flickering in the back of his mind. It had to be the alcohol, clouding his senses, blurring the edges of reason. That, and the fact that he was already too far gone. He needed this. He needed an escape.

Before he could second-guess himself, she lifted another drink from a passing server—the one with the cherry on top. Instead of sipping it, she dipped a single finger into the deep red liquid, watching him with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Have you tasted this one yet?” she asked coyly.

His mouth went dry as she held her finger up between them, the drop of liquor glistening at the tip.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher.

Though he couldn't see her lips, he could feel the wicked amusement in the way she slowly, deliberately pressed a finger against his.

Through the eye slits of the mask, her dark, smouldering gaze locked onto his, sending a sharp pulse of electricity down his spine. His heart pounded violently in his chest. The scent of her—familiar yet foreign—wrapped around him, intoxicating, drowning out every thought except the primal need clawing its way through his veins.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he parted his lips and took her finger into his mouth, sucking, his tongue swirling around it in a deliberate, teasing motion. Her breath hitched. A second later, she grasped his hand, fingers lacing together like a silent promise, and dragged him into the first aid room.

The door clicked shut, cutting off the dim glow from the hallway, plunging them into absolute darkness. The bass from the music outside still throbbed through the walls, but here, the world had shrunk to just the two of them—breaths, heat, hunger. Then her lips crashed against his, and he met her with equal fervor. Their tongues tangled in a wild, maddening dance, every brush sending shockwaves of sensation through his body, straight to his groin.

He was already hard before. Now, he was painfully, unbearably so.

The pitch-blackness only amplified every touch, every sound, every scent. He couldn't see her, couldn't confirm who she was—yet his mind betrayed him, conjuring the only woman who had tormented his thoughts for the past four years. The only woman who could drive him to madness with just a glance. The only woman he had touched himself to, imagining her moans, her breathless pleas, the way her body would yield to him.

Lila.

Her hands moved instinctively, unbuttoning his shirt with a frantic urgency as she tore at his clothes. The cool air kissed his bare skin, but the sensation was fleeting, quickly replaced by her touch—soft, insistent, and searing. He didn’t hesitate, his hands moving to the zipper at the top of her gold dress. With a swift motion, he pulled it down, and the fabric parted, exposing the smooth warmth of her skin - She wasn’t wearing a bra . His hands immediately found her breasts, large and supple, filling his palms as if made to fit them.He groaned against her lips before his mouth descended lower, capturing a hardened nipple between his teeth, sucking greedily.

She whimpered, the sound breathy and desperate, her hands twisting into his hair as she pressed him deeper against her chest. Encouraging him. Begging him. He responded by flicking his tongue, drawing another delicious moan from her lips. The raw need in her voice only drove him further over the edge.

His grip tightened as he lifted her, wedging himself between her thighs, grinding his achingly hard length against her soaked core. Even through the fabric, he could feel her heat, her wetness seeping through his pants. Fuck. His restraint was slipping, unraveling too fast.

With a sharp tug, he ripped her panties away, and she wasted no time unbuckling his belt, yanking his zipper down. The moment his cock sprang free, an involuntary groan ripped from his throat, the relief almost dizzying.

And then—without hesitation, without second-guessing—he thrust inside her, hard and deep.

They both gasped.

She clenched around him, impossibly tight, slick, warm—perfect—as if her body was made for him, to take him, to consume him whole. He moved, slow at first, relishing every pulse, every squeeze, every delicious friction. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

His pace turned punishing, each thrust slamming into the deepest parts of her, hitting the spot that made her cry out, her nails raking his back, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

He was close—too close. The pleasure coiled unbearably tight in his gut, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to bury himself inside her until the rest of the world ceased to exist. Until nothing remained but this fever, this raw, unrelenting desire.

She shattered around him first, her body tightening, spasming, her moans dissolving into strangled sobs of pleasure. The way she clenched down on him, the way she writhed, sent him right over the edge, a deep groan tearing from his chest as he spilled inside her, lost in the white-hot oblivion of release.

But they weren’t done.

Minutes later, he turned her around, bending her over, and drove into her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts, kneading them roughly as he pounded into her. She moaned louder this time, not bothering to muffle herself, her pleasure raw and unfiltered. Another orgasm ripped through her, dragging him down with her as he came again, his body jerking violently with the force of it.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

The third time, she straddled him, riding him hard as his hands locked around her waist, guiding her movements, urging her faster, harder. She leaned down, biting his neck, marking him as he groaned and thrust up into her, deeper, deeper.

His hands roamed hungrily, exploring every inch of her as she ground against him, her pace frantic, desperate. When his fingers brushed the inside of her arm, something about the softness of that spot, the vulnerability of it, made him reckless. Without thinking, he lifted her wrist to his lips, his teeth grazing her delicate skin before he sucked, hard.

She gasped, her whole body tensing around him, her nails digging into his shoulders as a shudder tore through her. He could feel her pulse against his tongue, rapid and erratic, matching the pounding of his own heart. The dark bruise bloomed instantly, a mark of possession, of everything they weren’t supposed to be.

She didn’t stop him. She only moved faster, riding him harder, chasing that last wave of pleasure that would finally undo them both.

When they came this time, it was with a near-violent intensity, their bodies convulsing, shaking, clinging to each other like lifelines.

They fucked five times that night.

And yet, as he lay there afterward, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin, the room still thick with the scent of sex and sin—his mind still drifted back to her.

To Lila.

It had always been her.

Everything after that came in a blur. He didn’t clearly remember when the girl had gotten up from the bed, but at some point, she gathered her clothes, put them on in the dark, and by the time she opened the door to let some light in, she was fully clothed, her mask back on and the cloak and hood in place. She left without saying anything, and for some reason, Five couldn’t shake the certainty that she wasn’t Leena—despite not seeing her face. A gnawing, hollow feeling settled in his gut, something he couldn't name, as if he’d just leaped off a cliff and was now waiting for the inevitable fall, his stomach plummeting into a bottomless abyss. He tried to brush it off. Why was he feeling this way? She was just a stranger, after all. She was looking for fun, and he’d answered that need, just as she had his. But it had been the best sex of his life—and the thought made his chest tighten. Because the whole time, he had been imagining it was Lila.

He forced himself to focus, getting dressed and leaving the party. He’d gotten what he needed, after all. Calling a cab, he staggered home, unable to trust himself to drive. When he reached his apartment, the dizziness and exhaustion hit him full force, and he collapsed into bed, not bothering to change. Sleep dragged him under, but his dreams were filled with erratic, abstract flashes of black, red, masks, and gold. The scent of alcohol lingered, the music still echoing in the back of his mind.

The next day, he woke up at 11 a.m., the faintest headache throbbing behind his temples. He was tempted to stay in bed longer, but he knew he had to get to Allison’s party soon. With effort, he pulled himself from the covers and headed to the bathroom. As he stripped, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and was taken aback by the hickeys and nail marks marring his upper body, especially on his back. She had been brutal. Lucky for him, none of them were near his neck, so he could cover them up.

He went through the motions—washing up, brushing his teeth, brewing a coffee—but his mind kept returning to that girl from last night. There was something strange about the whole encounter, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Would they meet again?

The thought lingered in his mind, dark and insistent, like a shadow he couldn’t outrun. Something wasn’t sitting right. But it didn’t matter. It was just one of those nights.

Around 1 p.m., he drove to Allison’s house, the unease gnawing at him.

Allison’s new place was charming, nestled in a quiet neighborhood. A tall white fence surrounded the property, offering privacy, with a neatly manicured garden spilling over with vibrant flowers and lush greenery. The scent of fresh blooms mixed with the faint scent of the salty air from the nearby coast. A small, serene swimming pool glistened in the backyard, its blue surface reflecting the afternoon sun. The house itself was a soft, welcoming shade of cream, with wide windows that let in streams of natural light, casting a warm glow across the space. Every door was painted a soft duck-egg green, adding a touch of whimsy, while the decor was minimalistic but elegant, with sleek furniture and subtle art pieces lining the walls.

It was clear that Allison had poured her creative touch into every corner. The open-concept living room, connected seamlessly to the garden by wide glass doors, was airy and inviting, with a modern fireplace and a few tastefully placed potted plants adding life to the space. She was, without a doubt, the artistic one of all the siblings.

As he handed her a bottle of expensive champagne, he muttered, "Congratulations, Allison. Hope Klaus doesn’t cover them all up with bubble wrap soon."

Allison rolled her eyes, letting out a deep sigh. "He’d better not," she replied, her gaze lingering on the champagne bottle before she gave him a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks, Five."

"Am I the first?" he asked, casting a quick glance around as he stepped through the hallway into the open living room, which flowed seamlessly into the back garden near the pool. He noticed Claire setting up plates and Klaus hanging green and gold decorations.

"Yes, as usual, Five. You know the others."

“Yeah, nothing new,” Five said resignedly, waving at Claire and Klaus, who both returned an enthusiastic smile. He quickly joined the rest of the preparations with them, though there wasn’t much left to do—Allison was far more organized than Luther, Diego, and Lila combined.

Ben and Viktor were still in South Korea and Canada, respectively, and wouldn’t be attending. Not that it mattered much—they were never the party-hosting type anyway. Five shared that sentiment. His apartment would never see a party as long as he lived.

It wasn’t long before Luther arrived, lugging the biggest bouquet of flowers imaginable and three packs of beer. Diego and Lila, however, were taking longer than usual. They were always the last to arrive, but this time, they were unusually late.

Out of habit, Five’s eyes flicked toward the entrance to the kitchen every few minutes, making sure he didn’t miss Lila walking in. The image of her playing the drums last night was imprinted in his mind like a vivid, unshakable memory. The way her fingers twirled the drumsticks so effortlessly, the way her hair bounced in sync with each beat—it left his pulse pounding. She was perfect.

And somehow, impossibly, he loved her even more than he already had.

Yes, he loved her.

He had always been in love with her. He just spent too much time denying it—because it was easier that way, because pretending hurt less.

Even though he was always careful to keep his feelings restrained, somehow, Klaus still picked up on them.

“Something interesting happening at the kitchen entrance?” Klaus mused, leaning closer with a knowing smirk.

“What?” Five feigned ignorance, refusing to acknowledge whatever nonsense Klaus was getting at.

Klaus exaggeratedly shifted his gaze toward the doorway, mimicking Five’s subtle glances. “Your eyes keep sweeping over there every few minutes.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Five took a sip of his beer, inwardly cursing himself for being so obvious.

Klaus grinned. “Are you waiting for her?” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lila?”

Five shot him a sharp glare. “Shut up, Klaus. Why can’t you mind your own damn business?”

“I would—if someone wasn’t broadcasting his juicy personal life all over his face,” Klaus teased. Then, with a mischievous glint, he added, “By the way, your glow today could give some pregnant ladies a run for their money. What happened?”

Five scoffed, though his curiosity was piqued. “What makes you think something happened?”

“The vibe,” Klaus said simply. “You look like you just dropped ten kilos of stress off your shoulders. Also…” He pointed at Five’s collar. “That is definitely a hickey.”

Five stiffened. Damn it. He thought the mark was covered well enough. But of course, Klaus was nosy and detail-oriented when it came to gossip.

“Can’t I have some bloody fun for once?” Five muttered, still refusing to meet Klaus’s gaze. It was irritating—being peeled apart like an onion in front of his most annoying sibling.

“You can definitely have fun, Grandpa. You deserve it.” Klaus beamed, looking like he had just struck gold. Getting even a shred of scandalous intel from the most secretive Hargreeves was the highlight of his day. “So… this lady—who was she?”

“None of your—”

“So that’s why we were so late.”

A laugh rang from the kitchen entrance. The voice was unmistakable.

Lila.

Five’s head snapped toward her. She had just walked in with Diego, Gracie, the twins, and Allison. And for some reason, the moment his eyes landed on her, a strange, electric jolt shot through him. He had always been hyper-aware of her presence, but this was different. This time, his body reacted violently, like something deep inside his cells had been activated.

Excitement? Anxiety? He wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, it unsettled him.

Her gaze swept the room, acknowledging everyone—then found his.

For the briefest second, something flickered in her eyes. A flash of joy.

“Hey, Five. Hey, Klaus.”

“Lila,” he greeted, fighting to keep his voice steady, to contain the storm raging inside him. “Diego.”

She looked stunning today. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, and she wore a black, floral-print chiffon crop top with cropped skinny jeans. Different from what she wore at the concert last night, yet still effortlessly put together.

And still, the image of her behind the drum kit, setting the crowd alight, burned in his mind.

This woman was extraordinary.

If only she knew the hold she had on him.

He joined Klaus in greeting Diego and Lila properly, and soon, they all sat down for the family lunch. But the closer Five was to Lila, the more the strange tingling sensation intensified—as if his nerve endings were reaching for her.

The lunch was pleasant enough, aside from Diego’s usual complaints about work and Luther’s excitement over landing a regular performance gig. Five made the occasional response when necessary, but for the most part, he remained quiet.

Because the uneasiness clawing at him wouldn’t let go.

Every time he glanced at Lila, she was acting completely normal—laughing, chatting, multitasking as she tried to feed Coco and Stanley while keeping up with the conversation. And then—

“I was completely blacked out last night again. Don’t remember anything.” Lila sighed. “I should really stop drinking.”

Five’s attention snapped to her instantly.

What?

Last night, when she left, she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. So when did that happen?

“Yeah, Babe, you shouldn’t,” Diego chimed in. “That book club thing is a bad influence on you.”

Book club?

Five’s mind raced.

She told Diego she was at a book club last night?

Not at his concert?

Why would she lie?

Granted, Five had never mentioned his band to anyone—it wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something he cared if people knew. And sure, he never told them that Lila sometimes hung out with him there. Those moments felt… separate. Stolen.

Little pieces of peace.

Maybe Lila had felt the same.

“Yes, so I can’t have a few hours of fun every now and then?” Lila shot back, her tone sharp.

Diego faltered. “I didn’t mean it like that, Babe—”

“Good that you don’t,” she cut him off swiftly.

The table went uncomfortably silent.

For a moment, it seemed like another fight was about to spill out between them. The tension in the air thickened, the fragile peace teetering on the edge of collapse. Then, after a pause that seemed to stretch on forever, the conversation hesitantly resumed.

And then—

A small shriek cut through the air.

Stanley, refusing to eat his soup, shoved Lila’s hand away, sending pumpkin soup splattering onto her sleeve.

Lila’s face tightened in frustration, her eyes flickering between her son and the mess. “Stanley, come on,” she said softly but firmly, weariness evident in her voice. “Please, just eat your soup.”

She tried to wipe the mess off her sleeve with the back of her hand, but the soup had splashed far and wide, leaving a streak of orange across her shirt.

“Ugh,” Lila muttered under her breath, pushing herself up from the table. “I need to clean this up.”

The moment she stood, Diego’s eyes darted toward her, his face softening. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Let me help.” He stood up too, but Lila waved him off with a small smile.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she reassured him. “You sit with Stanley. I’ll clean it up. It’s no big deal.”

Five watched, standing frozen, as Lila moved toward the kitchen.

The rest of the family seemed distracted by the commotion, with Stanley now pouting in his seat, looking at his mother with wide, guilty eyes. Diego, taking on his father’s role, scolded Stanley slightly and reminded Coco and Gracie to eat more. Allison, sitting across from Five, fiddled with her utensils as though the moment had passed, her focus shifting to her plate.

Five remained where he sat, his thoughts still clouded by what Lila had said earlier about being blacked out. His mind raced, but the pull to check on her was undeniable. The kitchen felt like an isolated, safe space, one where he could say something to her without drawing attention.

The atmosphere in the dining room still hung thick with the aftertaste of awkwardness, and no one seemed to notice Five as he slipped out from the dining area and followed her into the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew he had a few questions that needed answers from her.

Lila stood by the sink now, muttering as she turned the water on, scrubbing at the stain. Five hesitated for a moment at the doorway, watching her for a beat. She was so focused on the task at hand, her movements automatic, almost detached. He should have left it alone. He could have. But something inside him drove him to step closer, unable to let this moment pass without making sure she was okay.

As he moved toward her, the rest of the house fell into a muted background hum—the distant clink of silverware, the murmur of Diego trying to calm Stanley, the low thrum of the TV playing in the other room. And yet, in the kitchen, time slowed to a crawl.

Lila pushed up her sleeve, raised her arm, inspecting the stain.

And that’s when he saw it.

A faint bruise, just above the inside of her wrist.

His mark.

A ghostly imprint of his lips, his teeth—evidence of last night, of her body on top of his, of the way she had trembled when he kissed that exact spot.

The moment Five saw the faint mark on her wrist, his mind snapped.

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck him, searing through his body, leaving his nerves fried and his thoughts in chaos. The uneasiness, the restless anxiety that had gnawed at him since the moment he woke up—it all made sense now.

It was her.

She was the woman from last night.

She was the girl he had met at the ball. The girl he had kissed, touched, worshipped. The girl he had made love to, again and again, until they were both breathless and spent.

His stomach twisted violently. He gripped the edge of the sink to steady himself, but it didn’t help.

Even though he hadn’t seen her face beneath the mask, his body had known. His instincts had recognized her. Somewhere, deep in his bones, in the very fabric of his being—he had known. His nerve endings had known. His cells had known.

But he had ignored it.

He had let himself believe the lie because what else could he do?

Now, standing here, the weight of the truth came crashing down on him with a force that made his knees feel weak. His heart was thrashing against his ribs, like it was desperately trying to escape the invisible grip squeezing the life out of it. His insides felt like they were crumbling, disintegrating into dust.

Thousands of questions flooded his mind, each one sharper than the last:

Why was she there?
Why did she lie about it?
Did she go home after?
Did she even think about him when she woke up?
How could she be standing here, acting so casual, while he was barely holding himself together?
How could she be so fucking blasé about something that was destroying him from the inside out?

“Are you okay, Five?”

Her voice broke through the madness, pulling him back to the present.

His eyes snapped to hers—big, dark, concerned. Completely unaware of the storm tearing him apart.

“I’m…am,” he stammered.

He felt physically ill. His stomach churned like he was about to throw up. His head pounded with the force of his own panic.

He never stuttered.

Not once in his entire goddamn life.

“You didn’t go home last night?” he forced out.

Lila frowned, like she was trying to piece it together. “Dunno, really,” she said with a shrug. “Was on my way to the bus station, saw a line outside the masquerade ball. I remembered you going on about the free booze, so I thought, sod it, why not?”
She gave a weak laugh. “Went in, had a few shots. After that? Bit of a blur, to be honest.”

She said it so easily, so naturally.

Like it was nothing.

Like he was nothing.

She didn’t know.

She had no fucking idea.

The person she had fucked last night—the person who had touched her, kissed her, lost himself in her—was him.

And she didn’t even remember.

A hollow, crushing ache spread through Five’s chest. It felt like the ground beneath him had cracked open, like he was free-falling into a black void with no end in sight.

She didn’t remember.

And she never would.

“Hey, you alright, babe?”

Diego’s voice cut through the air as he moved in beside Lila, his large hands lifting her arm gently to inspect the stain.

“I’m okay. No big deal,” Lila said, brushing it off with an easy reassurance. “Just a stain, it can be washed out.”

Diego sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay, Diego.”

Five stood there, staring at them, feeling like an invisible force had plucked his soul right out of his body. He was there, yet not . It was as if he were watching himself from the outside—watching this scene unfold like some cruel joke.

He had slept with her.

The only woman he had ever wanted. The only woman he could never have.

And she didn’t even fucking know .

A sick, suffocating weight lodged itself in his chest, pressing down harder with each breath. He had wanted her. So badly. So desperately. But not like this. Not in a way that had to be forgotten. Not as some drunken mistake that needed to be buried . To the center of the fucking earth.

He needed to leave. Now.

His fingers twitched, his mind clawing for any excuse, any escape route. Then, with a practiced ease that felt foreign in the face of the chaos inside him, he pulled out his phone, pressed it to his ear, and forced out the words, “I’ve got an emergency at work. I need to go.” His voice was even, controlled. The perfect lie.

He barely heard their responses. A half-hearted apology to Allison, a nod to the others. And then he was gone, moving fast, running without looking like he was.

The drive home was a blur.

The second the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, his body locked up. His breathing was ragged, uneven, frenzied . He yanked off his tie and threw it onto the floor, his pulse hammering so violently he thought his ribs might crack under the pressure. His chest heaved, his forehead damp with sweat as he paced in frantic circles, his hands shaking.

Then the panic took hold.

It crashed into him like a tidal wave, drowning him. His fingers dug into his hair as he tried— tried —to regulate his breaths, but they came in shallow, erratic bursts. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

With a sharp inhale, he stalked toward the kitchen, yanking open the cupboard and grabbing a glass. His hand wrapped around the neck of his favorite scotch, but before he could even pour, something inside him snapped .

With a furious, reckless swing, he sent both the bottle and the glass flying. The shatter was deafening as shards of glass and amber liquid exploded across the floor.

This doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps.

His jaw clenched, his vision blurring with rage and anguish. He upended a chair, then another. He tore books off the shelves, sending them crashing to the floor in a whirlwind of paper. A framed photograph hit the ground with a sharp crack .

But it still wasn’t enough .

His reflection flickered in a small wall mirror—eyes wild, red-rimmed, desperate . He looked like a man coming apart at the seams. A pathetic, ruined ghost of himself.

With a guttural growl, he grabbed the mirror and smashed it onto the floor.

Still not enough.

His fists clenched. His knuckles burned as he drove them into the wall. Once. Twice. Again. Harder. Harder until the sharp sting of splitting skin and the warm trickle of blood down his fingers barely even registered.

He didn’t stop until his body gave out, until he collapsed onto the wreckage of his own destruction, his chest rising and falling in ragged, exhausted heaves.

And then—through the storm—something drifted down beside him.

A piece of paper, fluttering in the air before landing softly next to his hand.

Five swallowed thickly as he reached for it, his fingers trembling.

A drawing.

Of him.

A tiny, grumpy black cat, fur bristled, scowling in a way that was unmistakably him .

Lila’s drawing.

His breath caught, the world narrowing to that single scrap of paper.

She drew this.

His throat tightened. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. Don’t be stupid. It’s just a sketch. But the lump in his throat grew, rising higher, burning.

The weight of everything crashed down on him all at once.

Lila.

Her smile. Her voice. The way she looked at him sometimes, like she almost saw him, but never fully did.

His shoulders trembled, his fingers curling around the paper like it was the last thing tethering him to reality.

And then, before he could stop it—before he could shove it all back into that locked, untouchable part of himself—he broke .

A sharp, shaky inhale. Then another.

Then the tears came.

Silent at first, just a slow, agonizing leak from the corners of his eyes. Then harder, faster, until his entire body shook with the force of it. His hands clutched the paper desperately as sobs wracked his frame, unstoppable, merciless.

He had never cried like this before.

Not when he was alone in the apocalypse. Not when he failed to save his family. Not when he lost everything .

But this?

This destroyed him.

Because for all the ways he had imagined having her— this was never how it was supposed to be.

Lila. Why did it have to be you?

Chapter Text

He didn’t remember how long he sat there, back against the wall of his apartment, staring at nothing. His phone had buzzed endlessly—missed calls, unread messages—but he had ignored them all, unable to summon the will to care. At some point, he had managed to send a brief text to Ribbon, claiming he was sick and would take the next day off.

It wasn’t even a lie.

Whatever this was—this crushing weight in his chest, this sickness curling in his stomach—he needed time to deal with it. Because at the end of the day, no matter how much he wanted to avoid it, he had to face himself.

He had slept with her.

His brother’s wife.

The betrayal sat like acid in his veins, burning him from the inside out. Even if no one ever found out, even if this secret was buried so deep it never saw the light of day, he would still have to live with it. The guilt wouldn’t fade. It would follow him like a shadow, whispering its reminder every time he looked at Diego, every time he saw their perfect family.

And yet—the worst part wasn’t the guilt.

It wasn’t even the betrayal.

It was knowing that, deep down, if she had been the one to instigate it, if she had known it was him all along, he wouldn’t have stopped it. He wouldn’t have been able to. Because loving her had never been a choice. It had always been a current pulling him under, relentless and inescapable.

For years, he had fought against it—clenched his jaw, swallowed the words that ached to be said. Forced himself to keep his hands to himself when all he wanted was to reach for her—pull her close, let his entire being absorb her presence. Her heartbeat against his. Her warmth. Her essence.

That night had been the breaking point. The culmination of years of restraint. A moment where he had finally let himself slip because fighting had become too exhausting.

But it had to end because, deep down, he knew he had fucked up the only good thing that had ever happened to him.

He had imagined a thousand different scenarios where he confronted her, but what could he possibly say?

"Hey, Lila. Remember the night at the masquerade ball, when you were drunk out of your mind? It was me. I was the one who had sex with you. I was the one who fucked you five times. So… do you want to leave your husband—who also happens to be my brother—to be with me? Should we let the whole family know you cheated on him with me?"

It all sounded unbelievably stupid, even in his own head. She didn’t remember anything, and what—he was going to bring it all up just to destroy her?

Five had never considered himself an altruistic person, but with Lila, he couldn’t be selfish. In this newly reset universe—where he had lost his power, his identity, and his goals—he had become purposeless. None of his siblings had cared enough to ask how he felt, how he should live. But Lila had. She had come to him, anchored him, taught him how to enjoy life. She had become his friend. She had made him truly happy. And that was all he had ever wanted—to make her happy, too.

So how could he ever bring himself to add to her burdens? She didn’t have much joy in her life these days as it was, and wrecking it with this secret would be a complete dickhead move. Better to swallow the truth, to bury it where it could never touch her. This way, she would still have the family she had always wanted, still be the perfect wife to Diego. And he—he would not be the one to take that away from her. Because he knew the truth: destroying her family would destroy her. And that, he could never allow.

So there was no point in confronting her, no point in stirring up a mess that couldn’t be undone. If left unspoken, it might as well have never happened. She had so much more to lose than he did. 

He only had to live with this secret, live with the love he could never confess.

He could survive that.

In Pain. In Emptiness. 

But he would live.

If all she ever wanted was a happy family, then he would help her achieve that.

Diego was an idiot, but he wasn’t a bad person. Their marriage wasn’t beyond saving—not yet. Their problems could be fixed, step by step, if they were willing to put in the effort. There was no need to let obligations and resentment rot them from the inside out. There was always a choice. There was always a way out.

Five had spent his entire life fighting against the impossible. He knew better than anyone that most things could be salvaged—if people truly wanted to save them. And their marriage? Compared to what he had endured, their problems weren’t impossible.

With that thought, he finally pushed himself up, forcing his body into motion. He moved through his apartment, picking up the remnants of his sleepless night, forcing order back into his space the same way he tried to impose it on his mind. As he reached down to pick up a napkin from the floor, his gaze lingered on the familiar caricature sketched onto it.

Lila’s drawing.

For a second, he hesitated. Then, without another thought, he tossed it into the trash can.

But as he turned away, something made him pause.

A moment later, he was fishing it back out, shaking off stray pieces of paper and debris. Without looking at it again, he slipped it between the pages of a leather-bound journal and shoved it onto his bookshelf.

Maybe one day, he’d be able to throw it away for good.

But not yet.

Not today.

Pulling out his phone, he composed a message to Leena, asking her to meet him at a coffee shop. When they finally sat across from each other, he got straight to the point.

He wasn’t ready for a relationship. He wanted to break it off. He was sorry for leading her on.

Leena was hurt, but she took it with as much dignity as he could have expected. When she asked about the bandages on his hands, he dodged the question. When she asked where he had disappeared to during the masquerade ball, he lied. Told her he had been tired and left early.

And that was that.

Days later, when he returned to work, he received his next assignment: four months undercover in Afghanistan.

The timing couldn’t have been more convenient.

Before leaving, he sent a brief text to his siblings, letting them know he was going on a classified mission. He considered sending something to Lila, hesitated with his fingers hovering over the keyboard—then decided against it.

He had already made his choice.

There was no point in complicating things any further.

Instead, he blocked her number.

Afghanistan had been grueling, but no worse than what he had endured at the Commission—or when he was alone in the first apocalypse. Yet this time, despite escaping physical pain, the misery ran deeper. His mind still functioned as it always had—calculating, strategizing, directing his body to fire at the right target at the right moment. He executed the mission with textbook precision. But beneath it all, an aching emptiness trailed his every move, a silent specter he could neither shake nor ignore.

The heat was unbearable, pressing down on him like a living thing. The dry wind carried the stench of dust and gunpowder, settling into his clothes, his skin, his bones. He sat on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, watching the sun sink behind the jagged horizon. The sky bled orange and violet, a bruised expanse stretching endlessly above him. In the distance, the distant crack of gunfire punctuated the evening air, but he barely flinched. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Five had made his choice. He’d severed the last tie that still tethered him to something human, something warm. And now, he was alone—truly, utterly alone.

The loss didn’t come as a sharp, immediate wound. It was slower, deeper, like an ache settling into his marrow. The kind of pain that didn’t announce itself with a scream but with silence, with the quiet spaces between heartbeats. He had lost people before. Lost a world before. But this… this was different.

Lila had been his best friend. That much he could admit, even if the words sounded foreign in his own head. And for a fleeting moment in his life—one he should have never allowed himself to taste—she had been something even more than that. With her, there had been a strange, reckless ease, a kind of happiness he had never known existed. Not the sharp-edged satisfaction of victory or the bitter comfort of solitude, but something lighter, something unguarded. A happiness that wasn’t calculated or earned, but simply was .

She had given him that. And he had given it up.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if he could force the memories out of his skull. The way she laughed, careless and unrestrained, like the world had never beaten her down. The way she challenged him, pushed him, made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t since before the world ended. The way she had looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching—something unreadable, something he had never let himself name.

He had walked away. He had to. That was the only way to make sure she got the life she deserved, the one Diego could give her. Five had always known how this story would end, even before it began.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

A helicopter thundered in the distance, kicking up a storm of dust, and Five finally exhaled, his breath ragged in his throat. He was a ghost in this world, a man without a past or a future. Lila had been the closest thing he ever had to something real . And now, she was gone.

His fingers curled into fists. He had done the right thing. He had.

So why did it feel like he had just killed the last part of himself that was still alive 

He still threw himself into the mission with mechanical precision, and in the end, it was a success. An anti-American terrorist leader was assassinated. Another war was prevented before it could escalate.

A broken heart had a strange way of sharpening the mind. Pain, when wielded correctly, could be a tool rather than a weakness.

So, he focused. He worked. He survived.

When he finally returned to the States, bracing himself for whatever mess he had left behind, the first thing he learned was that Diego had broken his right arm in a bar fight—defending a stranger against a gang of thugs. With Diego hospitalized for weeks, Lila was left to juggle caring for her careless husband and managing the kids on her own.

Five had had enough of his brother’s reckless stupidity.

A little manipulation, a few well-placed tricks, and soon enough, spyware was installed on Diego’s phone. Now, Five would always know where he was—just enough foresight to pull Diego’s ass out of trouble before he could land himself in it.

Lila, though—he avoided her entirely.

Not because he was angry. Not because he had moved on.

But because he didn’t know how to face her and pretend nothing had happened.

Whenever he saw her at the hospital visiting Diego, he waited. Waited for her to leave, for the coast to be clear before stepping inside. Even from a distance, she stirred something in him—something he had buried, something he refused to let resurface.

He had to be thorough. It was the only way he knew how to cope.

Maybe she had wanted to reach out. Maybe she hadn’t. Either way, he would never know.

No messages. No emails. Nothing.

He severed every thread between them, leaving only silence in its place. He told himself it was for the best. And yet, on sleepless nights when the world was quiet, he found himself staring at the ceiling, haunted by the words she might have said—if only he had given her the chance.

But he hadn’t.

They were no longer friends. Not even acquaintances. And that was his doing.

He hadn’t realized, back then, that the day by the lake—the easy laughter, the water glistening in her hair, that fleeting moment untouched by reality—would be the last time they stood together as friends. He had lost her, lost something irreplaceable, like a piece of himself torn away, leaving behind an absence no time, no distance, no force of will could ever fill.

He hadn’t cut her off because he hated her.

He had done it because he couldn’t bear it anymore.

The easy conversations. The lingering glances. The casual moments that meant everything to him but nothing to her.

Being near her without having her was never enough.

It would never be enough.

Because he would always want more. Always crave more. Always dream of being the one who made her laugh, the one she turned to at the end of the day, the one she looked at the way she once looked at Diego.

But that would never happen.

And he couldn’t live in the shadows anymore, couldn’t keep pretending, couldn’t keep burying his love beneath the weight of false smiles and unspoken words.

So he made his choice.

If he couldn’t have her, at least he could protect her—from himself. From his own selfishness. From the destruction he would inevitably bring into her life.

This was the only way.

And he would not make the mistake of letting himself believe otherwise. Not again.

He started making excuses to avoid gatherings at Diego’s house. If he knew Lila would be there, he found a reason not to show up. On the rare occasions when her presence was inevitable, he kept his distance. If she entered a room, he left. If she was the only one there, he walked out. He never let himself be alone with her, never allowed even a fleeting moment of direct contact.

And Lila, it seemed, took the hint.

She never tried to approach him, never questioned the sudden chasm he had placed between them. She acted as if his absence didn’t bother her, as if his cold detachment meant nothing at all.

It hurt.

But he understood.

He shouldn’t feel hurt—Lila had never shown any romantic interest in him. She had always kept their relationship strictly platonic, never crossing any lines. Even when Leena had shown interest in him, Lila had played the role of the best wingman. She never said anything suggestive, never made inappropriate remarks about their dynamic, never acted in a way that hinted at something more.

It had always been one-sided.

It was always him.

He was the one who had fallen. The one who longed to be near her, to talk to her, to share quiet walks and stolen moments of peace. Every second they spent together had felt like magic to him, but to Lila, they were nothing more than harmless interactions between friends.

And that night at the masquerade? Whatever it had meant to him—to her, it was just a drunken mistake. A wild night she didn’t even remember.

But he didn’t despise her for it. How could he?

She had been trapped for too long in a domestic hellscape, burdened by responsibilities, suffocated by a life that left no room for freedom or for simply being herself. That night had been her way of lashing out, of breaking free, if only for a fleeting moment.

And if that’s all it was—if she needed to erase it—then he would make sure her actions had no consequences.

He would carry the weight of it alone.

He would keep her secret until the day he died.

She wasn’t meant to chase after him. She wasn’t supposed to care. And maybe she truly didn’t.

Either way, he couldn’t afford any more distractions. Not when he had a plan to see through.

There was too much work to do. Too many things to fix. 

To make sure Lila got the only thing she truly wanted in life, he had to be methodical about it.

Diego needed to get his act together—to understand what it truly meant to be a good husband, a good father. But Diego was a stubborn, impulsive fool. A direct lecture would only push him in the opposite direction. Five had to be smarter than that.

So, little by little, he set his plan into motion.

He became a constant presence in Diego’s life—always showing up at the right time, pulling him back from disaster. He earned his trust, subtly steering his choices, planting ideas about how to understand Lila better—without ever making it obvious.

It was slow work. Frustrating work.

But Five was patient.

Because at the end of the day, if it meant securing her happiness, then every sacrifice was worth it.

Present time

“So, how’s the training going?”

Diego has been at the police academy for three months now. The program is grueling—so much so that he only makes it home on weekends, and even then, not always. Five knows how much this means to him, how badly he wants to prove himself in a role that feels like second nature, something he was practically built for. And every time Diego does make it home, he never fails to call, eager to update Five on his progress.

“It’s good. At first, I had some trouble with the reports and all the courtroom testimony bullshit, but it’s getting easier. The physical training is nothing compared to what old Reggie used to put us through, so that’s no big deal. Honestly? I think I’m one of the best,” Diego fires off, his confidence unmistakable.

“Yeah, good for you,” Five replies dryly. He hesitates for a second before adding, “How’s everything at home?” He’s glad this is just a phone call—at least Diego can’t see the way he’s gripping the receiver.

“It’s all good. Lila’s handling everything fine. She always does, so I don’t really worry about anything.”

That hits a nerve. Diego’s blase attitude toward how much Lila manages is infuriating. It’s been months since he started training, and in that time, her three kids have already been sick—twice. Some nights, she’s been up till morning making sure their fevers didn’t spike. And when Diego comes back on the weekends, the kids are already better, so in his head, everything at home is just fine.

“Gracie and Coco both caught the flu last week, didn’t they?” Five asks quietly, keeping his irritation in check. He knew from Klaus that Lila was completely burnt out for four days straight.

“Oh, yeah. They’re better now. Wasn’t that serious—just kids’ stuff.”

Five clenches his jaw. Diego’s obliviousness grates on him, the way he brushes past things he doesn’t see firsthand. He needs to do something . It’s not the first time Five has had to break through that thick wall of Diego’s insensitivity —he’s done it before, back when Patch died and Diego was spiraling toward blind revenge against Hazel and Cha Cha. 

Just because he wasn’t there to witness something doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Lila wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t say a word about how drained she is. But Diego should know —he should be able to feel her exhaustion, even if she never says it out loud.

Five exhales sharply. “So, you’re happy? You get to chase your dream now?”

“Yeah. I am, Five. I’m not gonna screw this up. Being back in the academy makes me hate that delivery job even more. It was so damn boring. Soul-crushing, honestly.”

“Must be nice.” Five keeps his tone neutral, almost indifferent. “Not everyone gets that luxury”

Diego frowns slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Five shrugs. “Nothing. Just saying—you weren’t the only one forced into an ordinary life.”

Diego exhales. “You mean… Lila?”

Five doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.

Diego runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I know she doesn’t get to be wild and crazy like she used to. I’m sure it’s… different for her now. But she loves the kids, man. I don’t think she’d ever want to be away from them.”

“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want a break or do something else for herself for a change.” Five says it like it’s just an observation.

Diego exhales sharply. “Yeah, I know. I’ll make it up to her when I get back.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not like it’s easy, though. The house is always packed. Even when I try to do something nice for her, there’s no space. No time. It’s just constant noise.”

Five doesn’t respond, just waits. He knows there’s more.

Diego lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Man, I swear, sometimes it feels like we’re just visitors in our own damn home. Between the kids, her parents, and the cousins dropping by every other day, there’s never a moment where it’s just us. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they help out a lot, but—” He sighs. “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss just… being alone with her. Actually talking, actually—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

Five doesn’t react, but he understands—probably better than Diego realizes. The idea of being constantly surrounded, of never having a space to just be , sounds unbearable. Five has spent too many years in isolation for privacy to be anything less than a necessity. The thought of always having to answer to someone, to adjust, to explain himself, is suffocating.

And Diego, for all his bluster, isn’t immune to it either. He’s always been the more social one, sure, but even he wasn’t raised in a typical home. None of them were. The unspoken rules of family life—the courtesies, the compromises, the silent negotiations of personal space—were never things they learned growing up. And now, Diego’s living in a house full of people who expect that kind of normalcy from him. It’s no wonder there are clashes, frustrations, unspoken tensions simmering beneath the surface.

But little does Diego know, Lila may have felt the same way. Yes, in this reset universe, her birth parents are still alive, and she must be overjoyed to have them back after so many years. She’d never say it outright, but Five can see it—the soft smiles she wears, the warmth in her eyes. But deep down, Lila is still that orphan who lost everything when she was four and was molded into something unrecognizable.

She’s not equipped for all these ordinary domesticities, the routines, the expectations. Lila never had the chance to learn how to navigate that—she was trained for survival, for violence, for a life on the edge. And now, she’s expected to take it all in stride, to settle into a life she never imagined.

She made her choice, though. She made her commitment, and Five knows she believes she has to stick to it. She probably thinks she’s in no position to complain. After all, this is what she always wished for: a family, a place to belong. But Five knows better. A life like this—this constant noise, these unspoken obligations—is nothing like she imagined. She might have wanted a family, but she wasn’t prepared for the reality of it. Lila is no more equipped to be a normal daughter or housewife than she is to be an assassin. And this life—this quiet, predictable, domestic existence—is a far cry from the chaos she once thrived in.

Diego sighs again, quieter this time. “I just wish they could live close by instead. Be there when we need them, but not in the house all the time.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not like that’s an option.”

Five doesn’t say anything, but there’s something unreadable in his expression.

Diego exhales. “Anyway. It is what it is.”

Five hums in vague agreement, but the conversation lingers.Five doesn’t say anything, but there’s something unreadable in his expression. The wheels are already turning in his head. He knows exactly what he could do, and it’s not the first time he’s been in a position where action is the only way to fix things. Diego might think it’s impossible, but Five has a way of making things happen.

“So the thing I asked you about around the corner of that street, it’s still there, right?”

“Yes, it’s still there.”

Five presses the phone tighter against his ear, pacing the length of his dimly lit apartment. His mind flickers briefly to the house—he hasn’t made a decision yet, but knowing it’s an option settles something restless in him.

Still, it’s not why he called.

“Is she holding herself up?” he asks, keeping his voice level despite the tightness in his chest.

On the other end, Klaus sighs. “Barely,” he says. “She’s running on fumes, man. Ronny’s got kidney stones, so Anita’s tied up looking after him. Just bad timing overall.”

Five clenches his jaw. Of course. Just when Lila needed support the most, life found a way to pile on more weight.

Klaus continues, his voice softer now. “I tried to help as much as I could, but the twins are especially attached to her. It wasn’t easy to separate them from her sometimes.”

Five exhales through his nose, pressing two fingers to his temple. He can picture it too well—Lila stretching herself thin, carrying more than she should, not letting herself break even when she’s on the edge. She’s stubborn like that.

“She’s not getting much rest, is she?”

A pause. Then: “Nope.”

Something unsettles him. It’s not just exhaustion. There’s a limit to what a person can take before they collapse. And Lila? She’s way past that limit.

He glances at the clock. Saturday. Diego should be home by now, but he isn’t—he mentioned something about mandatory overtime this weekend, another round of extended training. Which means Lila is on her own again.

“Where is she now?” he asks, already reaching for his coat.

“Dunno,” Klaus says. “She put the kids down for a nap and said she needed air. I think she went to the park.”

The park.

Five grips the phone harder. She’s alone. She’s exhausted. And it’s cold.

“I’ll take it from here,” he mutters and hangs up before Klaus can ask questions.

By the time he steps outside, the sky is painted in muted grays, the kind that make everything feel heavier. He shoves his hands into his pockets, moving briskly toward his car, his pulse drumming a little too fast against his ribs.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say to her when he gets there.

He just knows he has to go.

It doesn’t take long for him to spot her after he parks his car and walks toward their usual spot.  

Here she is, in her puffy white jacket, her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head. It’s still her, but a far cry from the drummer Lila he saw two years ago, or the seductress in the golden dress. She’s still beautiful—but now, exhaustion clings to her like a second skin, and it clenches his heart to see her like this.

He knows she’s been hanging on by a thread, waiting for the day Diego would return and share the weight of their life. But today, something is different. She’s more than just tired. There’s something heavier in her posture, in the way she drags her feet forward, each step seemingly harder than the last.

She doesn’t pick up her usual latte. Instead, she walks straight to her favorite spot under the oak tree, right by the water. Five watches as she lowers herself onto the bench, elbows on her thighs, her head sinking into her hands. Defeated.

He can’t see her face clearly from this distance, but he doesn’t need to. He feels it—the crushing weight pressing down on her, the quiet unraveling.

For a long time, she just sits there, unmoving. The air around her thickens, charged with something invisible but suffocating. She doesn’t make a sound, but somehow, it feels as if she’s muffling a silent scream.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

He debates whether he should go to her, break whatever fragile barrier is keeping her from acknowledging the world around her. But before he can move, she lifts her head, her gaze drifting toward the far side of the lake.

The sky is gray, heavy with the threat of rain. The water is dark and cold. A complete contrast from that day—the last time they were here together. Back then, they had lain side by side on the grass, staring up at an impossibly blue sky, the kind so vivid it looked like a painting. That day had been warm, lighthearted, unreal in its brightness. Now? Now, everything is muted. Cold. Distant.

Lila is slipping away. He can feel it. And for some reason, it terrifies him.

He takes a step closer. He has to do something—say something. But just as he moves, Lila stands from the bench. She walks around it, and for a moment, he assumes she’s heading home.

But then he hears a scream.

“AAAHHH, GET OUT!”

The roar rips through the air, high-pitched and frantic, just as the sound of wheels on concrete skids toward them. Five’s heart lurches, adrenaline spiking in his veins as he snaps his attention to the source. His eyes go wide, instinctively calculating the distance, the angle, but it’s too late. The skateboarder is coming fast, too fast for Lila to move. She barely has time to lift her head, eyes wide with surprise, before the skater slams into her.

The impact is jarring, sudden, but not brutal—not at first. But it’s enough. Enough to send Lila stumbling backward, her arms flailing as she struggles to regain her balance. The shock of it—the sheer force, the speed of the collision—sends her reeling, her body unable to right itself in time.

Five watches it in slow motion.

One second, she’s standing. Next, she’s gone.

She hits the water with a splash, and Five’s stomach drops. His heart skips a beat.

“LILAAAAA!” His scream rips from his throat, the word tearing through the air. He breaks into a sprint, heart thundering in his chest, but it’s too late. He’s too far. The distance between them feels like a chasm. He curses himself, curses the loss of his powers. This is when he needs them. Right now.

She should be swimming. She knows how to swim. She’s a great swimmer. But she’s struggling—her arms barely slicing through the water before they slow, weaken. Then she stops altogether.

And starts sinking.

Five runs harder. His pulse slams against his ribs, his breath ragged. People are gathering now, murmuring in shock, but no one moves.

No one jumps in.

He doesn’t hesitate. The moment he reaches the edge, he dives headfirst into the icy water.

The cold is like a knife, cutting through his chest as he plunges into the lake, the murkiness swallowing him whole. His body is a shock of tension, muscles stiff from the cold, the water dark and choking. He can barely see, only the white of her jacket fading into the abyss, tangled in trailing cocoon tail bushes. Panic claws at his throat, his mind screaming. Where is she? His arms stretch out blindly, every second an eternity. No. No, not now.

His heart pounds louder than the water rushing in his ears.

He reaches her in seconds, looping his arm under hers, dragging her up with everything he has. His heart hammers, panic clawing at his chest. Why did she stop swimming? The thought is loud in his head, deafening.

The second they break the surface, he gasps for air, his grip on her tightening. He kicks hard, fighting against the weight of her limp body and the drag of the water.

By the time he hauls her onto the grass, hands reach out to help, but his focus is only on her. Lila is pale, her lips slightly parted, her chest still.

No. No, no, no.

He presses his hands to her chest, starting compressions. “Come on, Lila. Come on.” His voice is tight, desperate.

Nothing.

His hands move faster. He leans down, seals his mouth over hers, breathes for her.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

A cough. A sharp, choking gasp as water spills from her lips. She jerks, coughing hard, and a wave of relief crashes over him so violently he almost collapses next to her.

Cheers erupt from the small crowd, but Five barely hears them. His ears ring as he watches her, his own breath still uneven. Her eyes flutter open, and she grimaces, squinting at the sky before her gaze shifts.

“Five… is it you?” Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard. “Yeah.”

Someone kneels beside him. “Should we call an ambulance?”

Five blinks, remembers himself. “Yeah. My phone’s soaked.”

“I got it.”

Within minutes, the medics arrive, lifting Lila onto a stretcher. Five lingers at her side, hands clenched into fists, the adrenaline still roaring through him.

A paramedic turns to him. “Who are you to her?”

The question catches him off guard. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I—I’m her brother-in-law.” The words taste strange, foreign, but the medic doesn’t question it.

“Do you want to ride with her?”

Before he can answer, Lila’s hand shoots out, weak but firm, her fingers curling around his.

“Five,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. “Stay.”

His breath catches.

There’s no decision to make.

He climbs into the ambulance, settling beside her, his hand never leaving hers the whole ride to the hospital.

The whole time Five waits in the sterile hospital room, his mind is consumed with the memory of what just happened. Lila—drowned. The word keeps repeating in his head, echoing like a drumbeat. The doctor told him she had the flu, that exhaustion was the cause of her collapse in the lake. If he hadn’t been there today, she would be gone. The thought sends a chill through his veins, a gnawing terror that he nearly lost her for good. How did this happen? How could he have let it happen?

She had been pushed to her limits, hadn’t she? Six months of silently carrying the weight of everything—taking care of her kids, managing the house, keeping everything intact while Diego followed his ambitions. And he, he had suggested it. He had been the one who told Diego to chase his goals, underestimating the toll it would take on Lila. He’s the one who pushed her, unknowingly, into this suffocating corner.

Five presses his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the haunting image of Lila sinking into the cold, dark water. It flashes in front of him—her body limp, her face pale, her chest unmoving. He’s never been this scared in his life. Not even when the world was collapsing, when the threat of annihilation was always just around the corner. This fear? It’s unbearable. And the thought of losing her? He can’t even let himself imagine it. He had almost lost her today, when her breath had stopped, and for a split second, the world had gone still. It had been as if his own heart had stopped beating.

How could he have failed her like this? He promised himself that he’d protect her, that he’d keep her safe from afar. But all he’s done is push her closer to the edge. He nearly cost her life. The weight of that truth crushes him.

He shouldn’t have tried to meddle, even with the best of intentions. He should’ve never gotten involved in the first place.

He forces himself to move, to act. His hands feel numb as he reaches for the hospital phone and dials Diego’s number.  Diego’s voice cracks on the other end, nearly shrieking as he demands to come immediately. His panic matches Five’s own, but it doesn’t ease the suffocating guilt in his chest. 

Five looks at Lila—lifeless, pale—and his heart feels like it’s being slowly squeezed. The steady beeping of the heart monitor should be reassuring—it means she’s alive. But to Five, it feels like a countdown. A reminder of how close he came to losing her. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, looking out the hospital window at the cold, indifferent light. It’s as if the very air around him is closing in, suffocating him. He feels like all he’s done is bring harm to her. In the original timeline, he took away her parents, destroyed her childhood, her home. And now, in this timeline, he’s done this—he’s meddled, he’s gotten too close, and he’s pushed her to the brink. What was he thinking? Was he trying to play God? No. He shouldn’t have done anything. He should’ve stayed away, let her live her life without him. She’s better off without him. Her life would have been happier. Easier. Safer.

His thoughts are cut off by the sound of his name.

“Five.”

He turns sharply, instinctively straightening, only to see Diego barreling toward him. His brother’s face is pale, frantic, panic etched into every line of his expression.

“Where is she?” Diego demands, his voice sharp with fear.

Five tilts his head toward the window of Lila’s hospital room. “She’s stable. But she hasn’t woken up yet.”

He barely gets the words out before Diego shoves past him, gripping the door handle and stepping inside. Five takes a step forward, intending to follow—but then he stops.

What is he doing?

He shouldn’t go in.

This is their moment.

He lingers just outside the doorway, staring past the glass at Lila’s still form. Diego is already by her side, grabbing her hand, pressing it against his cheek. His voice drops to something softer than Five has ever heard from him.

“Lila, I’m here. I’m so sorry. Babe, I’m so sorry.”

There’s something raw in Diego’s voice, a sincerity that catches Five off guard. No matter how much of an idiot Diego can be, no matter how many times Five has cursed his obliviousness, there’s no mistaking it—he loves her. He just never knew how to show it the way she needed.

A part of Five wants to scoff, to resent him for realizing it too late. But another part—the part that aches like a wound that won’t close—knows this is what he’s been waiting for. Diego is finally seeing her.

Five should leave. He should turn away. But he doesn’t.

Then Lila stirs.

Five goes still, his breath catching as her fingers twitch in Diego’s grasp. Diego leans in, his voice lighting up with desperate hope.

“Babe? Lila?”

Five’s heart slams against his ribs as she tries to open her eyes, lids fluttering weakly. He watches, unable to move, unable to breathe.

And then—

“Fiv…”

His chest caves in.

But before he can react, Diego squeezes her hand tighter. “I’m here, babe.”

Lila’s eyes finally open fully, blinking up at Diego’s face. “Diego.”

Five sways slightly where he stands, the aftershock of what almost happened—the name that almost left her lips—reverberating through him.

From the corner of the doorway, he watches as Lila glances around the hospital room, taking in her surroundings. Instinctively, he shifts backward, pressing himself against the wall, just enough to stay hidden. 

Why?

Why is he hiding?

Inside, Diego is still talking, his words spilling out in a rush. “Babe, you scared the hell out of me. I was so scared I was gonna lose you.”

Lila exhales shakily, her voice weak but steady. “It’s okay, Diego. It was just an accident. I’m fine now.”

“No, Lila, you almost drowned,” Diego insists, shaking his head. His voice is thick with regret. “I’m so sorry. You were exhausted. And I—I was too caught up in chasing my dream to see it.”

Lila’s lips part, her eyes widening slightly. For the first time, real emotion pools in her gaze, a tear glistening at the corner of her eye. She hadn’t expected this—Five can tell.

It takes a near-death experience for him to finally see that she’s been drowning this whole time.

“It’s been so long, Diego,” she whispers, her voice cracking. Five’s stomach twists violently at the sound. “Sometimes I think you don’t even see me.”

Diego shakes his head, gripping her hand like he’s afraid she’ll slip away. “I see you, Lila. And I’m so sorry I made you feel like I didn’t.” He exhales sharply, his voice shaking. “It’s over. I finished the program. I’m coming home. Things will be different now, I promise. I’ll help out more. I won’t complain. You’ll have time for yourself—to do what you want. We’ll hire someone to help when you need it. Whatever you need, Lila. I swear to you, things will change.”

He looks at her with more sincerity than Five has ever seen from him, his forehead nearly touching hers.

Tears spill down Lila’s cheeks.

She tries to steady her breathing, but her shoulders shake.

“Please trust me,” Diego begs. “I’m not losing you again. I love you, babe. It’s gonna be okay.”

Lila exhales shakily, nodding through her tears. “Okay.”

Five closes his eyes.

And then he turns, quietly slipping away.

With every step down the hospital corridor, his chest hollows out further.

This is how it should be.

This is what he wanted.

As Five approaches the entrance of the hospital, Klaus, Allison, Claire, and Luther are walking in, their expressions immediately shifting to worry as they recognize their younger brother.

“Five?” Klaus calls, quickening his pace. The others fall in step behind him.

Five doesn’t want to deal with them right now, but the encounter is unavoidable.

“How is she?” Klaus asks, his voice tense with concern.

“She’s awake now. Her condition is stable. Diego’s with her,” Five replies, his tone flat, betraying little emotion.

“Oh, thank god,” Allison breathes out, her shoulders relaxing as relief floods her face.

“That’s... scary. How did she fall into the water?” Luther asks, frowning as he looks at Five.

The image of Lila falling into the water resurfaces in Five’s mind, his stomach twisting. He clenches his fist, the memory fresh and raw. His jaw tightens before he answers.

“It was a skateboarding accident,” Five says, his words sharp. “She got knocked out and fell in.”

His siblings wince in unison, an uncomfortable sound rising from them.

“Lucky you were there to save her,” Klaus adds, a flicker of suspicion crosses Allison’s face.

“Yeah, just a coincidence. I happened to be close by,” Five replies quickly, his gaze flickering to Klaus, silently urging him not to reveal the truth—that he’d asked Klaus to look out for Lila over the last six months, that he had called earlier to check on her and Klaus had told him she’d be at the park. Klaus’s bright green eyes widen slightly, an unspoken confusion passing through them. Why does Five feel the need to lie again?

“You leaving now?” Klaus asks, his voice cautious but probing.

Five doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, there’s nothing left for me to do here. She’s on level thirteen, room 508-S4.”

With that, Five turns, eager to escape the conversation, but Klaus’s hand touches his arm, stopping him mid-step. Before he can say anything, something clicks in his mind, and he looks at Five, his eyes widening with realization.

“You’re all wet, Five,” he says, his voice almost tentative.

Five pauses, suddenly aware of the cold, soaking wet clothes clinging to him. The chill from the icy water still lingers on his skin, but he hadn’t even thought to change.

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters, shrugging it off. “I need to go home and change. See you guys around.”

With that, he pulls away from Klaus, walking quickly, desperate to escape before anyone presses further. Only Klaus watches his retreating figure, confusion deepening in his expression. Why is Five in such a hurry to leave?

Klaus stands there for a moment longer, his mind racing, before he joins the others to see Lila.

The air in the dimly lit briefing room is thick with tension, the kind that settles in the lungs and weighs heavy on the chest. The monitors flicker with intel reports—scattered images of men in suits, offshore bank accounts, and grainy surveillance photos of one man in particular—Dmitry Sergeyevich Kuznetsov. A name that sends ripples through the intelligence community, a name tied to weapons manufacturing, Kremlin loyalty, and power that stretches far beyond Russia’s borders.

Five exhales sharply, crossing his arms as he stares at the latest update. "It gets worse than we expected."

Ribbon leans forward, eyes narrowing. "Because of Kuznetsov? The Dmitry Sergeyevich Kuznetsov?"

"Yes," Derek confirms, his voice tight. "Bassam’s been playing the long game, and we never saw it. His connection to Kuznetsov changes everything."

Five processes that quickly, his mind already working through contingencies. A man like Kuznetsov doesn’t just have resources—he is a resource, a direct link to arms supplies, international contracts, and most dangerous of all, the Kremlin itself. If Bassam has an open line to him, this operation is no longer a regional issue. It has global implications.

Ribbon shakes his head. "We need to be super careful. This is going to drag on a lot longer than expected."

Five doesn’t hesitate. "A field operation is essential. I’ll go."

Silence. Both Ribbon and Derek turn to him, measuring his words, the unwavering certainty in them.

"This is not going to be short, Five," Ribbon cautions. "We have no idea how long it’ll take. Could be months. A year. Maybe more."

"I know. And it’s fine." Five’s tone is steady, almost indifferent. Then, as if to justify the ease of his decision, he adds, "It’s not like I have anyone I should worry about when I’m gone, anyway."

There’s no bitterness in his voice, no self-pity. Just a simple fact, resigned and final. Derek looks like he wants to challenge that, to remind Five that there are people who care—his siblings, even the handful of agents who know him. But the look in Five’s eyes is unreadable, an iron wall no one can break through.

Ribbon exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "If you say so. Then we start preparations now. You may have to leave in a few weeks."

Five gives a curt nod. "That’s plenty of time."

The decision is made. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Five is going to Lebanon.

And this time, he has no reason to come back.

"Mr. Five, the candidate you recommended for the Civilian Informant Program—the one for the Children of the Sun cult—has agreed to take it," Derek says, catching up to him.

Five stops mid-step. He turns, giving Derek his full attention.

"That’s good to hear."

"Yeah, she accepted pretty quickly. Honestly, I’m impressed. Hard to believe she’s a mother of three, but it makes for the perfect cover story."

"Yeah." It doesn’t surprise him. Once Derek gets to know her—once anyone does—they’ll see what he already knows. She’s an extraordinary person. 

"Your brother’s a lucky man, huh?"

The offhand remark is sharp, like a needle prick. Small but impossible to ignore. Five doesn’t react, just moves past it with the ease of someone who’s learned to compartmentalize pain.

Instead, he asks, "You didn’t tell her I recommended her, did you?"

Derek raises an eyebrow, just slightly. "No. But that’s an interesting thing to ask. She was already noticing their activity on her own, anyway—sharp as hell."

"Good."

Derek watches him for a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them. He doesn’t press, but Five can tell he’s curious—maybe even suspicious. But Five offers nothing else, just a curt nod before moving on.

When Klaus steps inside Five’s apartment, it feels like stepping into a place that’s already been abandoned. His suitcases are packed neatly on the bed, clothes folded with meticulous care—a quiet testament to the finality of what’s about to happen. The furniture is covered in white cloth, protecting it from dust, but it only adds to the sense of emptiness, the stillness that hangs in the air. Klaus feels it immediately.

“Are you going for a long time?” he asks, his voice soft but unsure.

“Yeah,” Five responds, his hands moving in precise, almost mechanical motions as he folds his clothes. His focus is complete, his eyes never leaving the fabric.

“How long?” Klaus presses, his gaze never leaving his brother.

“I don’t know yet. A year. Maybe longer. After that, I might get transferred to Europe permanently.”

Klaus freezes, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Wait, you’re not coming back?”

Five doesn’t answer, but Klaus knows. The silence says everything. A heavy weight hangs in the room, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks. Klaus feels a pang of something unrecognizable, the quiet sinking deeper. Five finally sighs and continues packing, his movements still precise and restrained.

“Why? Five... because of her?” Klaus can’t help it now; he needs to know. This mystery has been burning inside him for months.

The question lands like a blow. Five’s hands stop. He doesn’t look at Klaus, but his voice cracks with exhaustion. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Klaus isn’t having it. His patience snaps. “Oh, don’t bullshit me, Cinco,” he says, his voice rising. “All the things you’ve done for her over the years—helping Diego, asking me to look after her, jumping into the water to save her—who would do that?”

Five’s back goes rigid. His posture stiffens, his whole body frozen. Klaus sees it. He’s hit the mark.

“You’re in love with her,” Klaus says, the words slipping out almost too easily, like it’s a fact he’s always known. It’s not a question—it’s a quiet realization. “How long?”

Five lets out a deep breath, like he’s been holding it for years. He could keep denying it, keep pretending, but the truth is louder than any lie he’s ever told. “Too long,” he admits bitterly, letting out a humorless chuckle. “Hotel Obsidian, maybe.”

Klaus looks up, startled. “That’s six years ago... all this time?”

Five turns, meeting Klaus’s gaze. “Yes. Apparently, being a fool in love runs in our stupid family.” The smile he offers is cold, distant—empty. “You know, I thought I was the exception. Smarter, more self-controlled. But I’m the biggest fool of all. Falling for someone I should’ve never fallen for.”

Klaus opens his mouth, probably ready to make some offhand joke to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t. He sees Five, really sees him—shattered, vulnerable in a way he’s never seen before. The great, unbreakable Five is broken, cracked wide open.

“Does she know?” Klaus asks quietly, his voice almost afraid to ask.

“No,” Five answers, shaking his head. His voice cracks slightly. “And she never will.” There’s a quiet desperation there, an unspoken plea. He’s begging Klaus not to let this secret slip. Not to her. Not ever.

Before Klaus can respond, the phone rings, and Five’s posture stiffens. He glances at the screen.

“It’s a work call from Derek,” he says quickly, as if he’s been waiting for this distraction. He steps away, walking briskly toward another room, his movements sharp and purposeful, as though he can’t get out of the conversation fast enough.

Klaus is left standing there, his mind reeling. The weight of the secrets suddenly laid bare is almost too much to process. He tries to collect his thoughts, but something catches his eye. A leather-bound journal, half-hidden in the corner of Five’s open suitcase. A piece of white paper slips out from its pages, and Klaus’s curiosity takes over. He glances quickly toward the other room, but Five is completely absorbed in his conversation.

Klaus tiptoes over to the journal, opening it slowly. There are two pieces of paper tucked inside. One is a sketch on a napkin, the other a letter. Klaus, without really thinking, takes out his phone and snaps two pictures—one of the sketch, one of the letter. He doesn’t know why, but something about the sketch feels familiar, like he’s seen it before, though he can’t place it at this moment.

He quickly slides the journal back into place, just as Five walks back into the room.

Klaus quickly masks his curiosity, pretending nothing’s out of the ordinary, as though he never snooped through his brother’s personal things. Five doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on his own task. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys, handing them to Klaus without hesitation.

“Give these to Diego when I’m gone,” he says.

Klaus quirks an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“That’s the key to the house on the corner of his street,” Five replies flatly.

“You bought that house?”

“Yeah.”

“For Diego?”

“His in-laws can move there if they want.”

“What? Five, it’s a freaking house.”

“They need the space, don’t they?” Five replies sharply. “And I don’t need the money,” he adds quickly, as if to justify the whole thing.

Klaus stares at him, incredulous. “You’re really insane, man. All this, and you don’t want her to ever know?”

Five doesn’t meet his gaze, his voice distant. “What’s the point in her knowing about this, Klaus? She has a family, a happy one. She doesn’t need to be burdened by my misguided feelings. It’s pointless and unnecessary.”

Klaus shakes his head, exasperated. “But what can I tell Diego?”

“Make something up. You’re good at that,” Five scoffs. Then, his tone softens, as if asking Klaus for a favor that goes deeper than the request. “Please.”

Klaus sighs, glancing at the keys in his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He slips the keys into his vest pocket, and there’s a beat of silence.

“When are you going?” Klaus asks, his voice quieter now.

“Saturday afternoon,” Five answers quickly.

“But isn’t that Diego’s party?”

“Yes,” Five responds curtly. “I’m not going to be there.” It’s the day Diego celebrates becoming a police officer again. When Diego asked him to come, Five lied, saying he would, even though his flight was already booked for that day. He doesn’t want to drag out his departure. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to his siblings or risk seeing her again. He’s made his decision. There’s nothing left to say.

Klaus groans loudly. “Why do you have to be such an asshole, even to yourself, Five?”

Five doesn’t answer. He’s already too far gone in his thoughts.

The day he flies out, Five makes one last trip to check up on her. A part of him tells him not to do this—that it's pointless, that he's only making it harder for himself—but he ignores that voice. One last time. That’s all he needs.

He still has tracking software installed on Diego’s phone, an old habit he never bothered to break. It tells him they’re still at home, but a quick phone call under the guise of a casual conversation confirms what he needs to know. They’re heading to the supermarket. He knows exactly which one.

It’s a joke, really, how much he knows about them. Their routines, their habits, their lives. This is what it means to be a supporting character in someone else’s story. And he understands better than anyone—the side character never gets the girl. But she has given him something—the most beautiful memories of his 63 years. And for that, he’ll always be grateful.

He parks his car in a secluded corner of the lot, angled just enough to give him a clear view of the supermarket entrance. It’s the same thing he’s been doing for the past two years—watching from a distance, unseen, just to make sure she’s okay. But today is different. Today is the last time.

When she finally steps outside, the sight of her knocks the breath from his lungs.

Lila walks out, pushing the double stroller with Coco and Stan inside, while Gracie skips beside her, chattering away. She looks radiant. The dark circles beneath her eyes are gone, and the exhaustion that once weighed her down has lifted. She looks… happy.

The sight of her is a punch to the gut. His heart flutters despite himself—despite everything. It’s ridiculous how easily she still affects him. How she always will. Five has come to accept it now; this feeling isn’t something that will ever leave him. Not in ten years. Not in twenty. Not even if they never meet again.

His fingers dig into his pant leg, an unconscious attempt to steady himself. He should feel relief—this is what he wanted, isn’t it? To make sure she’s in a good place before he leaves. And yet, staring at her now, he only feels the familiar ache pressing against his ribs, something raw and unbearable that he’s carried for years.

He forces himself to memorize everything. The way her hair catches the sunlight. The way she rolls her eyes when Gracie tugs at her sleeve, only to give in and ruffle the girl’s hair a second later. The way she absently hums as she moves, completely unaware that someone is watching, drinking in every last detail like a dying man savoring his final breath of air.

Then, suddenly, Lila sweeps her gaze across the parking lot, as if searching for something.

Five’s breath catches.

For one agonizing second, it feels like she sees him. Like she knows he’s here. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, pulse hammering in his ears. But no—she doesn’t spot him. She just lingers for a moment longer, then turns back, oblivious to the way his entire world has just shifted in his seat.

A sharp pang of longing grips him, an urge to do something—step out of the car, call her name, say goodbye properly. But before the thought can take root, Diego appears, pushing a full shopping cart toward her.

They exchange words—something light, easy, familiar. Then, Lila laughs.

It’s not just any laugh. It’s one of those deep, unguarded ones, the kind she rarely lets slip, the kind that used to feel like a victory when he was the cause of it.

Diego grins, looping an arm around her waist, pulling her in close before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She swats at him playfully but doesn’t pull away.

Five’s stomach twists.

For a moment, jealousy rises, sharp and searing. But then, he exhales. This is what he came for. She is happy. She is loved. She doesn’t need him.

A memory stirs, unbidden—six years ago, the night he held her hand and spun her beneath the soft glow of the wedding lights. It was the moment he first realized he had fallen for her. If he had known then just how deeply his heart would become entwined with hers, he would have never hesitated. From the very first moment he saw her, he would’ve stepped forward, pursued her with everything he had, making sure Diego never stood a chance. But it’s just wistful thinking now. She’s never looked at him like that. She never would.

A sad smile tugs at his lips as he leans back against the seat, closing his eyes for just a moment.

This is the end of his story. And it’s time to let go.

After leaving the supermarket, Five drives the 30 miles to a sea pier, his mind still tangled with the image of Lila and Diego. The decision to come here feels almost automatic—his body steering him toward this place of solitude, just as he’s done countless times before.
Five steps out of his car, the wind immediately cutting through his coat as he makes his way toward the end of the vacant pier. The sky is a dull, unyielding gray, thick with rolling clouds that stretch endlessly over the horizon. Even on his last day here, it refuses to give him a shred of sunlight.

He huffs a laugh under his breath, the sound vanishing into the empty expanse ahead. It figures. No parting gift. No bright blue sky like that day by the lake.

The sea is restless, the waves churning in chaotic, overlapping rhythms, crashing and collapsing into each other as if they, too, are trying to drown something. The air smells of salt and rain, heavy and uninviting.

From his chest pocket, he pulls out a folded piece of paper, already creased and worn from the number of times he’s opened it. The letter. The one he wrote on a night when the silence was too much, when the ache in his chest had nowhere to go but onto the page. He never intended to send it—he never even intended to read it again. But still, on the nights when the pain was unbearable, this stupid, pathetic letter helped. At least here, on paper, he could say everything he never could out loud.

He smooths it open one last time. His eyes skim the words, but he doesn’t need to read them. They are burned into him. Every confession. Every desperate plea. Every dream of a life that was never his to have.

How many times have I stood in front of you, yearning to reach out, to pull you into my arms and keep you there forever?

I want to whisper in your ear that it doesn’t have to be this way—that you deserve love, happiness, and everything good the world has to offer, if only you would let me. I would love you, treasure you, for exactly who you are. To me, you’re perfect—flaws, imperfections, craziness, stubbornness, and all.

I love you. I love you so much that it feels unbearable, and I want to scream it out at the top of my lungs. Anything would be better than enduring this painful, one-sided love.

Even if it meant destroying my family, severing all ties, and losing the title of the good brother, I wouldn’t care. Even if it meant being exposed as selfish and self-serving, none of it would matter—so long as I could be with you. If you told me, just once, that you wanted to abandon everything and run away, I’d take your hand and never look back.

I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I would burn the world for you—or save it, if that’s what you wanted. I would do anything, anything, just to have you look my way.

I know I’m pathetic. Weak. How did I become this way? How did I turn into the exact opposite of what I thought I was? How did I become this fucking pathetic—at 63 years old?

Lila. Lila, Lila, Lila.

I want to say your name a million times. Every day, every morning when we wake up together, and every night when we go to bed together. I want to kiss and taste every inch of your body, your skin, so you know how much I treasure you. I want to bury my face in your hair and trap your scent in my lungs, in my mind. I want to gaze into your eyes for hours, committing every fleck of amber in your irises to memory. I want to etch every feature of yours into my soul.

I would give anything to play music with you one more time. If the world were to end again, that’s exactly how I’d want to spend it—playing the wildest rock song with you by my side. And when the final note fades, I’d smash the guitar and hold you close until everything else disappears.

But that is just all a dream. A beautiful dream that hurts me so badly when I wake up.

Because I want you so badly it hurts.

Why can’t you see me?

I’m right here.

I’ve always been here, waiting for you.

Forever.

The paper trembles in his grip, caught in the wind’s greedy fingers.

His thumb drags over her name, written over and over like a desperate prayer, like an anchor to a life he will never have.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he tears it in half.

The sound is quiet beneath the wind, a whisper of finality. He keeps going, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, his fingers moving with methodical precision. The scraps catch in the wind before he can even let go, snatched away like they were never his to begin with. He watches them scatter over the water, drifting downward in slow, uneven spirals before the waves swallow them whole.

He waits. As if expecting something to change. As if expecting the weight in his chest to lift.

It doesn’t.

But it’s done.

With one last glance at the horizon, he turns and walks away.

Later that day, he sits in his airplane seat, staring at his phone screen. The tracking software is still there. A single app, a single connection to the life he is leaving behind.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

Then, with one final breath, he presses down.

Uninstall.

Gone.

The airplane lurches forward, the engines roaring as it lifts into the sky. The city below shrinks away, swallowed by the clouds.

And Five finally lets go.

Chapter Text

On the surface, the party at Diego and Lila’s has all the makings of a good time. The food is plentiful, the drinks flow freely, and laughter bounces off the backyard walls. Around 3 or 4 p.m., the sky—which had been stubbornly overcast all morning—suddenly opens up, revealing a soft blue canopy overhead, as if the weather itself decided to match Diego’s exuberant mood. His optimism is infectious, especially as he chats excitedly about finally, officially becoming a cop. He beams with pride, loud and animated, talking about how he’s going to be the best officer the city’s ever seen.

Klaus watches him, smiling faintly. He’s genuinely happy for Diego. He really is.

And yet, a heavy weight has settled in the pit of his stomach—a burden that’s only grown over the past few days. No one seems to notice his unusual quietness, not today. Everyone’s too caught up in Diego’s big moment. And maybe that’s a good thing. Because Klaus can’t stop glancing at the clock on the wall, calculating in silence:

He should be at the airport now.
He’s probably boarding.
He must have left already

In truth, Klaus has never been particularly sentimental about Five. His younger brother has always been the cool-headed one—sharp, proud, always composed, even when the world was crumbling around them. Even when he was shouting in frustration, Five somehow still managed to be the one with a plan, the one thinking five steps ahead. Built differently, that one. Always has been. He’s everything Klaus isn’t—precise, focused, endlessly self-reliant.

But the funny thing about Five is that, for all the ways he pretends not to care—for all the threats, the scathing remarks, the times he says he’d murder them all in their sleep—he’s the most selfless of the bunch. The one who throws himself into danger without hesitation. The one who has saved their lives more times than they’ll ever know.

And though none of the siblings ever says it out loud—because let’s face it, they’re all assholes—Klaus knows they each feel a quiet reverence for him. A buried gratitude. Especially Klaus. Because he, more than anyone, understands what Five has endured. He knows what Five sacrificed to pull this broken family back together.

Still, Five never acts like he needs thanks. Never lets on when the distance between them stings, when the family drifts apart again after everything they’ve survived together—after all the apocalypses, the near-deaths, the second chances. He just shoulders it, like always: with a shrug, a sarcastic quip, and a spine of iron.

Klaus, thanks to his ability to see ghosts, had always felt everyone’s emotions like waves crashing into him. Even without his powers, he still senses those things. That intuition never really left. But he also knows himself well enough to admit he’s always been too selfish to put anyone else first—not intentionally, just instinctively. He needs more space, more time for himself than for his unpleasant siblings, who greet each other with insults on a daily basis.

And yet—he’s changed. Like all of them, Klaus isn’t the same man he used to be. Six years of living a quieter, more grounded life have softened his edges. He’s learned to care more. To show up. Not just because he’s supposed to, but because he finally understands something simple: his siblings, for all their messiness and damage, love him and  have always shown up for him when it matters. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

Helping Allison raise Claire changed him, too. Scrambled something in his brain, in the best way. For the first time, he got it—that weird, quiet joy of being there for someone who actually gives a damn about you. Of climbing out of your own mess just long enough to be solid for someone else. And that? That taught him more about love than any of the chaos he used to chase like a religion.

And maybe that’s why it hits him so hard now—Five’s loneliness.

He sees it. He feels it.

Five has never really had anyone. Not in that intimate, soul-deep kind of way. He’s spent so much time surviving hell after hell, fighting wars no one else could comprehend, that happiness became something abstract. Klaus doesn’t think Five’s ever known what it’s like to be in love—the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs and makes the world feel impossibly bright. The kind that changes you.

The only real relationship Five ever had was, tragically, with himself—a fractured echo conjured from madness, a desperate grasp at connection in the middle of unimaginable loneliness.

While the rest of them have stumbled into moments of real love—however fleeting—Five remained on the sidelines, busy throwing himself into one meaningless mission after another, trying to outrun the hollowness inside.

And Klaus… Klaus just wants him to be happy. He wants his stubborn, infuriating little brother to know what it feels like to be loved. To be chosen. Because if anyone deserves it after everything—after all he’s done for them, for the world—it’s Five. The grandpa deserves it. 

Klaus knows Five. He’s not the kind of man to love halfway. He’s serious. Devoted. The kind of person who would give everything for someone he loved. And whoever that person is would be the luckiest soul in the universe.

So yes—it came as a shock when Klaus finally realized who that person was.

The last person he ever expected.

It’s not because they weren’t a good match. God no—if anything, they were a match made in some chaotic, interdimensional heaven. Equal parts brilliance and madness. Oil and fire. They challenged each other, irritated each other, respected each other—Klaus had seen it. From the very beginning, even when they looked like they wanted to strangle each other, there was a quiet admiration humming just beneath the surface.

It’s not because they didn’t like each other. Klaus had eyes. He saw the way they hovered just a second too long. Heard the way they fought like people who secretly listened.

And it’s not even because they’d burn out too fast, crash and collapse into apocalyptic ruin the moment normal life settled in. Honestly, thinking about it now, Klaus couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t gotten together sooner.

Oh—wait. Right. Five killed her parents and they met when he was still a thirteen-year-old pipsqueak. Time travel really does a number on people’s memories sometimes.

Anyway.

The real reason Klaus was surprised? It’s because Five—dear, brilliant, prickly, emotionally allergic Five—is the last person on earth Klaus ever expected to fall into a messy, all-consuming love. That kind of nonsense was reserved for the rest of them—himself included. But Five? He was above all that. Or so Klaus thought.

Turns out, maybe Five wasn’t above it at all. Maybe he was just better at hiding it.

For two whole years, Klaus had watched him give Lila the cold shoulder—avoiding eye contact, cutting conversations short, always conveniently on the other side of the room. It was weird, sure, but Klaus assumed Five had just... gotten over it. Realized it was a pointless crush and snuffed it out like one of those dangerous little sparks that could burn down your whole life if you weren’t careful.

Because Five was meticulous like that. Strategic. Efficient. He liked eliminating problems before they had a chance to metastasize into a disaster.

But Klaus was wrong. So wrong.

He’d underestimated the sheer depth of his brother’s devotion. That kind of devotion that simmers quietly beneath layers of indifference. The kind that waits. That aches. That loves so much, it chooses silence.

Five had kept it all buried. Perfectly, maddeningly buried. And Klaus only started to piece it together after a few key moments: when Five asked him to look out for her. When he jumped into that freezing water to save her. When he disappeared from the hospital, refusing even a single moment of recognition.

And the letter.

It answered every suspicion Klaus had been wondering about for the last two years. Every flicker of doubt, every gut feeling—confirmed in ink. And the depth of Five’s love for Lila? Christ. It was an abyss. A bottomless pit. Klaus didn’t even know what word could capture it anymore. He’d never seen anyone love another person that much. Not in real life. Not even in their messed-up, trauma-riddled family where love usually meant yelling, running, or bleeding out for someone in the worst possible way.

Sure, people love differently. It’s not a competition. But among the Hargreeves, he had never witnessed a love so selfless. So engulfing.

The rest of them—including himself—always wanted something in return. Comfort. Affection. Passion. Security. Something to feed off, to get drunk on. But Five? That foolish brother of his—ironically the brightest among them—had stayed in the shadows, doing everything he could just to make the girl of his dreams happy. All without asking for a single drop of acknowledgment.

And yeah, Five tried to downplay it in the letter. Said that he was actually selfish and self-serving for wanting her for himself. But Klaus knew better. Deep down, he knew Five wasn’t selfish at all. If he were, he’d have kept Lila close. He wouldn’t have orchestrated a heartbreakingly meticulous plan just to ensure she could have everything she wanted.

When Klaus finally sat down and read the letter properly, a wave of sadness swept over him so fast and so heavy that he didn’t even realize a single tear had slipped down and hit his phone screen. Just one. But enough.

This brother of his was truly pathetic. 

Just like he said.

This letter was like a boulder crashing into Klaus’s lap. Heavy. Immovable. And now he didn’t know what to do with it. Five had given up the most precious thing in his life to ensure Lila’s happiness. He chose to walk away. To bury his feelings so she could live freely, without the weight of his love on her shoulders.

He made his choice. Klaus is supposed to respect that.

And Five was right, wasn’t he? What good would it do if Lila ever found out? He didn’t want to be a homewrecker to his own brother. So he made the best decision—the right one. He left so they could be happy together.

Klaus loves Five. But he loves Diego too. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He can’t choose between them. Can’t risk tipping the balance.
The only way to be loyal to both of his brothers is, tragically, to do exactly what Five asked—keep his mouth shut. Sink the truth like a stone. Lock it away.

Pretend there’s no secret aching inside his chest, begging to be told.

Except… there is. And it won’t shut up.

This gnawing guilt keeps clawing at the back of his mind—won’t let him breathe right ever since he snooped around and stumbled on his brother’s deepest feelings. Serve him right for being a nosy bastard. Now he’s stuck with the fallout.

He didn’t mean to find out. But he did. And now he can’t unknow it.

Worse—he feels it. Every damn word. Five’s desperation. His silent heartbreak. Years of loving someone quietly, fiercely, never expecting a thing in return

Maybe—just maybe—if Lila knew a little bit. If she could acknowledge even a fraction of his feelings, then it might not be so bad. Maybe it’s okay.

Of course, that’s bullshit. Like Five said—it’s all pointless anyway.

And even if Klaus did want to tell her… how the hell would he even go about it?

“Hey, did you know my brother’s madly in love with you? No, not Diego—the other one. The one who dove into icy water to save your life. The one who’s been quietly pulling strings to make sure you’re okay. The one who always pretends to hate your guts but actually loves you more than life itself. So, what do you think? Leave Diego for him? Yeah? No? Cool. Great talk.”

Yeah. That sounds like a fantastic idea—so bad even a high Klaus would think twice, let alone sober Klaus.

Besides, Lila doesn’t need to know. She seems happy with Diego. They’ve had their rough patches, sure, but things are looking up now. And a lot of that? It’s thanks to all the invisible stitches Five sewed into their lives without them even noticing.

Klaus still remembers how Lila nearly fell apart while Diego was away. She never complained—not once. But he saw it. The exhaustion. The loneliness. And still, she held it all together.

The change in her, after becoming a wife and mother, was nothing short of astonishing. She used to be this wild, chaotic force of nature—but now she’s grounded, capable, strong. Still sharp-tongued and hilarious, but there’s something more now. A kind of selflessness that humbles him.

Klaus always liked her, ever since Hotel Obsidian. But watching her become… this? He admires her. Deeply. He gets it now—why both of his brothers are hopelessly in love with her.

She’s always had this strange, magnetic charm. That offbeat way of nailing a conversation with the most absurd, laugh-out-loud comment. But she’s also startlingly observant. Weirdly empathetic.

Like that time he opened up about Dave. She told him, “Somewhere out there—in one of those screwed-up timelines—you’re probably living your best life with him, slow dancing in a bloody field of daisies or whatever. This one? Maybe not. But you found him. You loved him. That’s real. That’s gotta count for something, yeah?”

He didn’t even know why those words stuck with him. But they did—gave him a kind of closure he hadn’t realized he needed. His life may be a mess, but he experienced the most beautiful, soul-splitting love—one that will forever make him feel alive and grateful it happened.

Lila doesn’t talk about emotions much, but she acts on them in small, deliberate ways. That’s her love language. Subtle care. Quiet loyalty. Just like… well, just like Five.

He remembers when he was struggling to stay sober—Lila would pass him a lemon-lime bitters without a word. And when someone tried to hand him a drink, she’d roll her eyes and say, “He’s trying that new 'seeing reality as it is' cleanse. Very exclusive. Just water, ta.”

And on his birthday or Christmas? She’d give him handmade coupon books, stress balls, sweaters and mugs with phrases like, “You look oddly stunning being sober, bitch,” or “Congrats on your hands becoming less twitchy.”

So yeah, even if she wasn’t his sister-in-law, Klaus would still want her in his life. He still wants her to be his friend. That’s why, when Five asked him to help her, he didn’t hesitate. He was just... curious. Why did his emotionally constipated, borderline-reclusive brother still care so much about her? 

Even after nearly two years of cutting all ties with her.

And Lila? Klaus finds himself wondering what she really thinks of Five. She rarely mentions him—acts like he holds no real importance in her life.

So maybe Five’s feelings are truly unrequited.

Except.

Except for that one time—when she handed Klaus her purse to grab her credit card while she was on the phone. He wouldn’t have thought twice about the folded napkin which accidentally fell out of it when he pulled the card out. Not until he saw the exact same one in Five’s journal, pressed between the pages like it was sacred.

Same shop. Same faded logo. Same stupid napkin.

Only difference? The sketches.

Five’s napkin had a black cat caricature—definitely him. Lila’s had a fox—sharp-eyed, mischievous, wild.

Drawn by two different hands. Clearly meant for each other.

And she keeps hers in her purse. Where she can see it every day.

That has to mean something… right?

Maybe she’s hiding something too. Something Klaus hasn’t uncovered yet.

Not yet.

But first, Klaus has a job to do. A hard one. He needs to break the news. Five is gone. Not gone-for-a-week gone. Not “late to dinner” gone.  Really gone.
And he’s not coming back.

There’s also the matter of that house. The one just a few steps away—empty now, waiting for Lila’s parents like Five planned.  But one thing at a time.

So when Diego suddenly glances at the time and says:

“Five’s awfully late today. What’s up with him? This is so not like him,”

Klaus feels his heart plummet to the floor.  Gravity suddenly got personal.

“Yeah,” Luther adds, frowning. “I’ve been wondering too.”

Allison pauses mid-sip, brows furrowed.
“Where is he? Klaus, didn’t you see him last?”

Now, all eyes shift to Klaus—including Lila’s.  She’s nearby, carrying a tray of drinks, mid-step, mid-smile.

Klaus clears his throat. Tries to sound casual. Fails.
“Ah. Yeah. About that…”  His voice softens, almost involuntarily.
“He’s… not coming today.”

“What? But he told me he’d be here.”
Diego’s face falls.
“Is he on a mission or something?”

“Yeah. And… no.” Klaus falters.
“He’s got a mission overseas. I don’t know where. But he flies out today. Well—flew. Past tense.”

The silence that follows is deafening. The kind that settles right after a bomb drops, before the dust has even caught up.

“What??”

Groans ripple across the table. The others start talking over each other.

“When’s he coming back?”
“Why didn’t he tell us?”
“Overseas? For how long?”

Klaus takes a breath.

“He said maybe a year. But... I don’t think he’s coming back,” he blurts, heart racing in his chest. He doesn’t want to hold back anymore. They deserve to know.

His words draw every gaze in the garden—a ripple of silent alarm.

So he drops the rest:

“He mentioned getting permanently transferred to Europe after that.”

And then it happens.

A sharp crack.

The tray Lila was holding slips from her hands. Glasses shatter against the cement. Liquid splashes like blood on the pavement.

Everyone turns.
But Klaus sees her first. Of course he does. He’s the only one who’s been watching closely enough to see her face. Well, all of her.

She’s frozen, staring down at the wreckage—as if the world ended and it was her fault. Her grip had gone white. Her shoulders tremble. Her eyes—God, her eyes.
Klaus doesn’t know what’s more shattered: the glass or the look in them.

“Are you okay, Lila?”
“What happened?”

People move to help.
But Klaus doesn’t. Not yet. He watches.

Concerned voices from the others seem to instantly drag Lila out of her stupor.
She scrambles to hide her overreaction, laughing it off:

“Sorry. Tried to wave off a fly and forgot I was holding a tray full of drinks.”

But the humor doesn’t reach her eyes.

She bends to help, but her fingers shake.
Then—too fast—she turns.

“I need to wash my hands.”

And she’s gone before anyone can follow.

But Klaus does.

She doesn’t head for the kitchen. She goes upstairs. Not fast—just steady. Controlled. Far too controlled. Toward the farthest bathroom. As though she’s hiding from the whole world, just for this moment.

Then her pace quickens. She slips inside and slams the door.

Klaus stops outside. Listens.

The faucet turns on.
But that’s not all.

There’s a sound—jagged, raw—a wound ripping open.
A sob.  Not the soft kind. This is the kind you bury for years. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.

It guts him.

He doesn’t knock. Just opens the door.

Lila’s on the floor. Knees drawn up. Her head is bowed, hair hanging in a dark curtain around her face. Elbows braced against the edge of the tub, hands clenched tightly around the rim—so tight her knuckles have turned white, as if it’s the only thing keeping her from flying apart.

She’s trying to stay quiet, but the sobs break out in bursts—sharp, stifled, agonized. Her whole body trembles with erratic heaves. Breathing has become a battle. Each inhale, an act of survival.

He steps in quietly, worries that any noise might splinter her further.

He kneels beside her. No words. Just presence.

And when she finally shifts—just slightly—he catches a glimpse of her face. Salt-streaked. Raw. Mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes resembled bruises. Her brows are knit so tightly it looks like the crease between them might never smooth out again. She bites her lip, trying to stop the noises from escaping, but Klaus knows it’s futile with each second that passes. The hiccups push and collapse against each other, shaking her small frame. She looks nothing like the Lila from five minutes ago—composed, carefree.

The change startles Klaus.

The mask she’s worn for years hasn’t just slipped—it’s smashed into a million pieces.

Her fingers twitch, torn between punching something or holding on to anything at all —but all she has is porcelain and grief.

And then her mouth opens.

Not words. Just a sound. Guttural. Broken. The kind of pain that doesn’t know language.

Klaus feels it crack through him.

Then, barely audible—the words fall out of him before he can stop himself:

“You’re in love with him.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t move.

Just cries harder, as if the truth tore through the last fragile thread holding her together.

So he says it again. Softer this time. More final.

“You love Five.”

She looks at Klaus with those huge, glassy eyes, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. The edges of her gaze are hollow, fractured—like her soul has splintered into a million shards she’ll never be able to piece back together.

And she doesn’t deny it.
She can’t.

She’s hidden it for too long. But the dam is gone now—burst wide open. The porcelain mask she’s worn for the last two years is in ruins at her feet. Her secret lies bare between them, flooding the room like something toxic and unstoppable. There’s no use pretending anymore.

Lila knows she’s a good actor. Just like Five. But in the end, that’s all it ever was—a performance. And when the show ends, when the lights go out, the makeup wiped clean—what’s left is the truth. Raw. Human.

Because no matter how well she lies, no matter how strong she pretends to be—

She’s still just a goddamn person.
She’s been lying to herself for years. Telling herself it’s going to be okay. That she’s going to be okay.

After all, she has everything she ever wanted—a family, a good husband, beautiful kids, her parents alive and well again. What more could she possibly need?

Her feelings? They shouldn’t matter. Gratitude should be enough.

Wanting more would make her selfish. Awful, even.
Who walks away from a picture-perfect life just to chase after something so fleeting? Some reckless emotion that might burn out in a few years, like everything else?

Love isn’t forever.

She knows that now. She used to love Diego with her whole heart. And look at them now—drained, distant, worn thin by responsibilities and the dull ache of domesticity. The love faded. They faded.

She told herself she didn’t need anything else. She didn’t need him .
Not that kind of love.
Not his.

But she was wrong.
So, so wrong.

Because he isn’t like anyone she’s ever met.

He sees her. Really sees her.

He’s the only person in the world who understands her without asking—who makes her feel more alive just by being in the room.

With him, everything lights up.

It’s effortless. It’s instinctive.

When they’re together, it’s like her soul remembers something the rest of her keeps trying to forget—how happiness can feel like flight. How connection can feel like home.

How right it can be when two broken people find the one shape that fits.

And now she knows.
She made a terrible mistake.

When he shut her out of his life—cut her off and walked away after uncovering her pathetic little trap—she’d been devastated. But somewhere in that crushing despair, she also believed it was for the best. She couldn’t give him what he needed. What he deserved.

Holding on would only destroy them both. Worse—it would ruin everything and everyone around them.

So she slipped her mask back on. Pretended it meant nothing. Pretended it never happened.

They couldn’t be together—fine.
But at least he was still around.

She could still see him—from a distance. Catch glimpses of him from the corner of her eye. Feel his presence in the room. They never looked at each other directly anymore—couldn’t. But he was still there.

And somehow, that had been enough.

Until now.
Until this.

He’s not just avoiding her.
He’s gone. For good.

Did he really hate her that much? Was she so unbearable, so vile to him, that the only way forward was to disappear from her life completely?

Klaus’s confirmation hits her like a knife to the chest—deep, unrelenting, merciless.

She breaks. Completely.

Her sobs turn violent. Klaus pulls her into his arms, holding her tight as she shakes.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. You need to let it out.”

“Why?” she gasps between hiccups. “Why didn’t he… even say goodbye?”

“You know him, Lila. This is classic Five.”

“I… I…”
The words don’t come. They die in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Klaus soothes, patting her back with a steady rhythm. “Why didn’t you ever tell him?”

“I can’t… I can’t,” she chokes. “He hates me, Klaus. He hates me. I’m a horrible, horrible bitch.”

“Lila,” Klaus whispers, voice low and breaking. “What are you talking about?”

And then he says it. The thing she’s most afraid to believe.

“Five doesn’t hate you. He loves you.”

A beat. A breath.

“He loves you more than anything, Lila.”

Lila turns sharply, staring into Klaus’s eyes, as if searching for a flicker of pity behind his words. But she finds none—only honesty. He says it like he knows for certain.

“He might’ve used to be…” she murmurs, still clinging to denial.

“No, Lila. He’s always loved you,” Klaus insists.

“He told you he hated me at the twins’ birthday, didn’t he?” Lila chokes out, another wave of pain crashing over her face.

She’d overheard Five that day—caught his voice while she drifted through the party, weaving between guests, doing her best to play the perfect host. Whether it was subconscious or not, she didn’t know—but her feet always seemed to carry her closer to where he stood. She hadn’t seen him in so long. She just wanted to be near him again, even if only at a distance. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough to feel him.

Even if he never looked at her. Even if he acted like she didn’t exist.

And then she heard it—that sharp, brutal sentence: I do hate her.

It hit like a blade to the chest—hard and deep and devastating. It had been two years since he’d shut her out completely, but hearing it said aloud still gutted her.

She'd masked the hurt quickly—hiding behind the sudden anger she felt when she found out Diego wanted to join the police academy and hadn’t told her. The timing was convenient, and the fury was real enough to cover the heartbreak. Neither Five nor Klaus noticed the real reason she stormed off. They thought it was about Diego.

But it wasn’t.

She doesn’t see the way Klaus stiffens. Doesn’t hear the shift in his breath or the weight behind his silence. But he feels it—every jagged piece of her grief, like a mirror fracturing in real time.

Watching her fall apart hurts more than he ever expected.

“You know how he is,” Klaus says quietly, voice softening around the edges. “If he’s not drowning in denial… he’s not Five.”

He hesitates, then digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. There’s no point in keeping this secret anymore.

These two broken souls—these two absolute idiots. Watching them suffer in silence is unbearable.

Maybe nothing will change.
Maybe it’ll still all fall apart.

But Lila deserves to know the truth. And if there’s even the slightest chance it’ll ease her pain—just a little—then it’s worth it.

So, against his better judgment, he hands her the phone.

“I know I shouldn’t do this. Five told me not to say anything. He didn’t know I saw this—let alone took a photo. But here it is.”

Lila’s eyes land on the screen—and widen. Her breath catches.

A napkin sketch. Her sketch.

Klaus watches realization strike her like lightning.

“I found it sandwiched in his journal,” he says quietly. “He took it with him overseas.”

Another tear rolls down Lila’s already-drenched cheek as she swipes to the next photo: a letter.

As her eyes scan the words—his handwriting, sharp and careful—her fingers tremble. The sentences sink into her, each one spoken in his voice—the sound that’s haunted her mind for far too long.

And now it all comes rushing back.

Every moment.
Every look.
Every silence.
Every goddamn second she spent trying not to feel it.

Chapter Text

She felt his eyes on her the moment she walked into the coffee shop. His presence always sent a jolt down her spine—one she tried, and failed, to ignore. She sensed him before she even saw him.

Before the reset, that had been her superpower—feeling abilities as they came into range. But now, stripped of that gift, she was just ordinary.

And yet, somehow, she could still feel him. Only him.

None of the other Hargreeves had that effect. Not even Diego.

And when he looked at her with those impossibly green eyes—that steady, unflinching gaze that seemed to see through every wall she’d ever built—her insides softened. Melted.

She didn’t know when these feelings had begun. Only that once they did, they swept her away like a rising tide, pulling loose the anchors she’d carefully laid down.

She was supposed to hate him. To resent him for the rest of her life—for what he’d done. Killing her birth parents. Destroying her childhood. Leaving her a fractured soul, chasing a dream she could never have: a happy, whole family.

But no.

Instead, she fell for him. And it was this love—quiet, forbidden, impossible—that tortured her more than anything else ever had.

Because loving him was so easy.
So natural.
So inevitable—
It hurt.

He was the last person on earth she should love.
He was her brother-in-law.

That title alone should’ve been enough to make her turn away. But her heart had other plans.

It all started as a simple favor—a few hangouts here and there to help him re-establish himself in this strange new world. But then they started spending more time together. They became friends.

And somewhere along the way, he began helping her through each of her pregnancies—steadfast, loyal, quietly caring. The most dependable friend she’d ever known. And slowly, she began to look at him differently.

There was a calm, unshakable reliability in Five. Something solid. Grounding. When he said he’d show up, he did. Always early. Always present.

Even though he still looked like a scrawny teenager beside his six-foot-plus siblings, he was somehow more dependable than any of them. She felt like she could come to him with anything—count on him without question.

His sense of masculinity didn’t come from bravado or testosterone-fueled energy—it came from quiet confidence. From the kind of maturity that can only come from having lived through hell and made it back.

He was technically an old man in a young body—so maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Still, there was something about him that Diego lacked. Something she noticed more and more the longer she lived with her husband. Five faced problems head-on. He didn’t stall. He didn’t whine. He simply dealt—with clarity, with speed, with no unnecessary mess.

He became her first real friend in this new universe.

At first, she only thought of him as that— 

A friend she loved hanging out with because they could talk shit about anything—and anyone.
A friend who brought joy, laughter, and a rare sense of weightlessness into her chaotic life.
A friend she looked forward to seeing, because with him, she had a safe space to vent, to joke, to complain—without fear of judgment.
A friend who could turn a coffee shop, a supermarket, a quiet park into an oasis. A place to breathe.

And when they talked, he gave her his full attention—like every word she spoke mattered. He never flinched at her rants, never rolled his eyes at her spirals. Yes, they clashed—often, loudly—but it never left a bruise. Their arguments sparked like flint against steel, igniting more fire than fallout.

She lived for the moments she could make him laugh.

Because when he laughed, his prasiolite eyes caught the light like cut glass—brighter, freer, completely unguarded. Five didn’t smile easily. He wore his cynicism like armor. But when that laugh escaped him—light and boyish, like wind chimes stirred by a breeze—it disarmed her entirely.

It made her feel hilarious. Magnetic. Seen.

And that—that was the problem.

She liked who she was around him.

With Five, she wasn’t a weary wife or a frazzled mother juggling diapers, lunchboxes, and endless laundry. She was Lila again—sharp-tongued and quick-witted, a woman who could spar and shine beside a mind like his. A woman with fire in her blood and thoughts that stretched far beyond the domestic grind.

He reminded her of the version of herself she thought she’d lost.
The version she didn’t know still existed—until he looked at her like she did.

She could never pinpoint the exact moment she started seeing him as more than just a friend.

Maybe it happened gradually—an accumulation of glances, conversations, and those quiet little acts of care that kept slipping through the cracks. But whenever those soft, sticky feelings threatened to rise to the surface, she shoved them down fast. Buried them under layers of chaos and charm. She amped up the buddy routine—more vulgar, more weird, more carefree—hoping the noise would drown out the truth. Hoping he wouldn’t notice what simmered beneath the surface.

Maybe it worked.

Five never said anything. Never hinted that he saw past the mask.

But then… Lila began to notice something else. Something that startled her. Terrified her, even.

Five might’ve felt the same way.

Not platonically. Not just in a “we’ve-been-through-hell-together” kind of way.

Romantically.

And that shook her to her core.

Because Lila wasn’t an idiot—not really. She might play the loud, unfiltered muppet around others, but she’d always been razor-sharp when it came to reading people. She could dissect a lie with a glance, detect an agenda before it left someone’s lips.

Everyone but him.

Five had always been the exception. Tactical. Paranoid. Impossibly closed-off. A fellow Commission-trained assassin who suspected everyone and trusted no one. He’d seen through her from the moment they met—called her out, warned Diego not to trust her. She hated how quickly he’d read her. Hated how little she could read him in return.

It took being stranded together in the Hotel Obsidian—teaming up to tackle the Kugelblitz—for her to start peeling back the layers. Still, even then, he was snarky, guarded, insufferably cocky. A smug little bastard who acted like the world was beneath him.

They tolerated each other not because they liked each other, but because they thought the same way. They knew how to prioritize.
So they put aside the hostility and got the job done. But back then, she never thought twice about the small things he let her do—things he never let anyone else get away with.

How he let her invade his space without ever bristling. She was the only one he didn’t flinch from—the only one who could sling an arm over his shoulder, ruffle his hair, grab his hand and drag him somewhere ridiculous. The only one he danced with, alone, at Luther’s wedding. The only one whose hand he held, twirling her beneath flickering lights while the world outside ceased to exist.

But when they landed in this new life—this odd, broken version of domestic peace—after they became friends—she saw him.

Truly saw him.

Not the bratty, arrogant prodigy. Not the hardened killer. But the man underneath all that—the one who was gentle in ways he’d never admit. The one who was protective, patient, quietly giving.

She saw it in the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—soft, uncertain, like she was a mystery he longed to solve but didn’t dare to touch.

She felt it in the small things.

When she was heavily pregnant, he never let her lift a finger if he was around. He’d quietly carry every grocery bag, steer the trolley, open every door. She mocked him for his old-fashioned chivalry, called him sexist, dramatic—but he’d just smirk and mutter something about “not letting her give birth in aisle six.”

Every time they had coffee on his university campus, he’d show up early, already holding her exact order. Never got it wrong. Ever.

He even told her about his work—his lectures, his research—as if her opinion mattered more than anyone else's. And it did. He was actually excited to share those parts of his life with her, even in his restrained, smug way.

But the biggest giveaway?

He listened to her.

Really listened.

Where Diego would challenge or ignore her input, Five absorbed it—considered it. Even though he was a 58-year-old genius with the ego to match, he never made her feel small. Never talked down to her.

He respected her.

So when he actually joined a rock band because she teased him about needing a hobby… she was stunned. Not just because he did it—but because he did it for her .

The first time he stepped on stage, she was there—hidden in the dim corner of a small local bar near his university campus, tucked away in the shadows like a secret. She didn’t know what possessed her to go. When he texted her the time and place, she’d played it cool, pretending it meant nothing. Just a curt, “Yeah, good luck,” and nothing more.

But the moment his fingers touched the strings, she felt it—the pull, the ache. He was good—God, he was so good. It almost hurt to watch him, to listen. Of course he would be. That impossible, brilliant Number Five—always ahead, always exceptional. He could’ve gone pro if he wanted. Somehow, between surviving the end of the world and becoming a physics professor, he’d still found time to play. To let the music shape what the apocalypse hadn’t broken.

Most people broke in the apocalypse. Lost themselves. But not him. He’d walked through hell, gone a little mad maybe, but held onto something—something soft. A quiet flame still burning inside him: music, tenderness, maybe even love.

And sitting there in the dark, watching him pour his soul into every note, she hated how much she felt it—how much she felt him. That infuriating man made it so hard to look away, so hard to keep the distance she’d worked so hard to build. And no matter how she fought it, that soft, aching warmth kept blooming in her chest every time her eyes found him.

She was spellbound by his hands—so clever, fluid, achingly graceful. Like he was strumming the surface of water, each flick sending ripples that echoed through the deepest corners of her soul. In that moment, there was only him. Only his music. With his fringe falling over one eye, and his expression so focused, so intense, he looked heartbreakingly beautiful—lost in the sound, giving himself to every note.

And she also knew, the moment he struck the first chord—coming here had been a mistake. A colossal mistake. It breathed life into the feelings she’d tried to bury. Stirred something deep inside that had no right to exist. A throb. A hunger. That foolish, treacherous urge to reach for him. To touch what she shouldn’t want.

And God, he wasn’t even dressed like himself. That made it worse. The band tee and jeans clung to him like borrowed skin, his usual sharp edges softened just enough to make him seem reachable. His arms—usually hidden—were bare now, lean muscle beneath skin. And his fingers, those impossibly long, elegant fingers, moved across the strings like they were born to sing. The heat rose again, flooding her chest like a tide she’d drowned in more times than she could count.

She’d extinguished it before. She thought she could do it again.

But that was before.

Lila had never, not for a single moment, seen him as a thirteen-year-old boy. How could she? She knew him. Had known him long before that blasted time jump left him stranded in a younger shell. She’d studied the photo of the older Five long enough that when she saw him in this cursed teenage form, she recognized him immediately. He hadn’t changed—not really. The cynicism, the bite, the staggering brilliance—it was all still there. Just dressed in skin too young to carry it.

Still, no matter how much she reminded herself of who he truly was, there was something deeply, viscerally wrong about the way her body responded to that boyish frame. And maybe that wrongness was what had helped her shove down her feelings for so long. When he looked thirteen, it was easy to pretend there was nothing there. But once he hit fifteen—once his features sharpened, his baby fat faded, the stubble darkened along his jaw, and his voice dropped into something low and rough—pretending became a lot harder.

He probably hadn’t noticed how she flinched now before touching him—how she kept her hands to herself like they were weapons. Once, she would’ve grabbed his wrist without hesitation, dragged him wherever she pleased with all the reckless intimacy of friendship. But now?

Now her hands hovered. Hesitated.

Because what if she slipped? What if her fingers lingered too long? What if she let herself feel the warmth of his skin bleeding into hers—and wanted more?
And worse—
What if he pulled away?

What if she made it weird ?

No, it was better not to touch him at all. Better to stay on the edge of something almost real than risk destroying it completely.

So she kept up the act. Pretended she didn’t care about his music. That she never went to his shows. That the idea of watching him play hadn’t clawed its way under her skin like a splinter she couldn't reach. It was easier that way. Safer.

On nights when she fought with Diego—when the weight of domesticity pressed against her ribs like a vice—she would slip away into the dark, nameless corners of a bar, a student concert hall, or whatever venue they’d been invited to play, and let Five’s music drown out the sound of her own choices.

She came often enough that she knew the names and rhythms of his bandmates. Their patterns. Their flaws. She watched them from the sidelines, like a shadow of her former self, remembering what it felt like to play reckless music in dirty Berlin bars—free, wild, and so full of fire she thought it would never burn out. Sometimes, she dreamed of playing again. With him . Of sharing the stage and letting the storm between them become a song.

But dreams like that didn’t belong to people like her anymore.

She’d traded spark for stability, chaos for a clean kitchen and baby cribs. The wild girl she’d once been—the one who laughed too loud and chased what she wanted—was gone. Or at least, buried deep beneath the compromise.

This secret little corner—Five and his music and everything unspoken between them—was a refuge. A quiet, forbidden oasis she visited only when the thirst became unbearable. A place to remember who she used to be. Who she might have been.

And then, always, she went back.

Back to the life she had chosen—the reality born from her decision to stay with a man she married because of an unplanned pregnancy, not because they truly understood each other or were ever truly compatible.

Five was, in all actuality, just a mirage in the desert. And deep down, Lila had always known she was never meant to have it all. It was foolish—insane, even—to think she could ever have everything she wanted. Her life had always been a series of trade-offs, and rarely fair ones.

She was born different, gifted with a power that marked her from the start. Because of that power, her parents were taken from her in the most brutal way imaginable. She was raised by the enemy—trained by the most ruthless organization to become a top-tier assassin. But in the process, her soul was fractured. She became a liar, a manipulator, a weapon sharpened by the Handler’s hands. Love, to her, had always been conditional, transactional—just another tool in the game.

She didn’t understand what real love was until she gave birth to Grace. And then the twins.

Only then did she understand what it meant to move mountains. What it meant to suffer and fight and break, all for the sake of someone else's well-being. She would endure anything if it meant keeping them safe, healthy, and loved. And they loved her back, with the purest kind of devotion. The way they looked at her—as if she held all the answers in the universe. The way their eyes lit up when she entered the room. That kind of love… it melted something inside her every time.

Their existence was her greatest happiness, the only thing in her life that felt truly hers. And she would never, ever do anything to ruin that.

So yes, the trade-off made sense to her now. She’d been used to the imbalance from the start. Her life was never meant to be perfect. If having three incredible children came with the price of a crumbling marriage, then so be it. She could live with that. She could endure it. Because for once, the trade-off was worth it.

And to be honest, Diego wasn’t a terrible husband—not by a long shot. He was clumsy, oblivious, and painfully insensitive at times, but he did care. He loved their family. He loved her . He loved their kids. And he was loyal, always loyal. It was exhausting having to constantly remind him what needed to be done, like carrying the entire mental load of the household on her own shoulders. But still—she saw him trying. Stumbling, yes, but still trying to do the right things, even if he rarely hit the mark.

They were stuck, both of them, in this weary loop of domestic routine—caught in a life neither of them had been built for. She was bored, aching for something she couldn’t name, and he was slowly becoming disillusioned by a world that had never really made room for him. But they stayed. Day after day, they tried. And they had made three beautiful children together—wasn’t that supposed to mean something ?

And before that incident two years ago, she’d truly believed she had everything under control. For the longest time, she had convinced herself that she could keep Five at arm’s length. That they could exist in the safety of platonic space. That they could lie—to each other, to themselves—and keep pretending they were professionals at suppressing what they felt. Pretending they didn’t notice how much they were unraveling in each other’s presence.

The only issue was time and again, she misjudged the depth of her feelings for him—like someone wandering toward the shoreline on a blistering summer day, foolishly thinking she could just skim her toes across the surface, unaffected. Maybe once or twice, she managed to retreat. But desire remembers. And eventually, the tide pulls you in—quietly, insistently—until resistance feels like starvation.

That first plunge is a kind of surrender: the cool rush against overheated skin, the way the burn of denial is extinguished in an instant. It steals your breath and gives it back softer, steadier. With Five, it was just like that—shocking at first, but impossibly right. His nearness stirred something low and electric in her, a hunger she tried to ignore but never quite escaped. Being near him was like slipping beneath the surface and realizing, for the first time, that you’ve been parched all along.

But the trouble with water is, once it knows your name, it keeps calling. Even when she tried to step back, to dry off and pretend she hadn’t waded in too far, something in her always ached for the weightless quiet of being submerged beside him. The world above—her reality with Diego, the life she’d chosen—felt heavier, duller, like gravity pressing down too hard.

She told herself she could forget the feeling—that it was a momentary lapse. But memory is a stubborn undertow. No matter how far she dragged herself from that shore, the taste of salt still lingered on her lips.

The truth was, she hadn’t just dipped into something forbidden. She had let herself drift.

And Five—he never reached for her, never asked her to stay. But he never turned away either. He was the ocean: vast, steady, impossible to escape. And she? She was already waterlogged with want.

That was the kind of love Five gave her. Unexpectedly soft. Gentle in ways that undid her. For all his gruffness and sharp-tongued snark, Five's love was steady, unspoken, and deeply tender.

He was always there—watching over her, never asking for anything in return. And when they were together, the air felt different—fluffier, cozier, like they were floating inside some invisible pink bubble where nothing else could touch them.

Inside that space, she didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to fix or parent or soothe. She just was. And so was he.

But that bubble—like all beautiful, impossible things—was fragile.

It became harder and harder to look away from the way his gaze pierced through her, from the flicker of sadness in his sea-green eyes when she had to end their rendezvous early and return to the life waiting for her elsewhere. Each time she left, something in her stayed behind.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, she let herself stray.

She kept the sketch he made of her tucked inside her wallet, pulling it out whenever she missed him—an ungiven gift, a tangible artifact from their secret, wordless bond. She started inventing reasons to see him. Another coffee break. Another errand. Anything to carve out one more moment after long, thankless days of housework and emotional labor.

And before she even realized it, Five had become the highlight of her week—the one bright day circled quietly in the calendar of her mind.

But it was fine. It was still fine. Because Five, ever the martyr, kept his distance. Kept things safe.

Until Leena showed up.

At first, she told herself she was cool about it. That if Five had finally found someone—someone sharp enough to keep up with him, someone who didn’t flinch at the walls he’d built—then she’d be happy for him. Truly. He deserved happiness more than anyone she knew.

So she played it off. Laughed at his cluelessness about the girl’s obvious crush. Tried to be his wingwoman.

But then he actually started dating Leena.

And that was when it happened—when something dark and violent ignited in her chest, and for the first time in her life, Lila Pitts knew exactly what jealousy felt like.

She remembered that night with agonizing clarity—the way she had snuck into the back seat of the hall, hoodie pulled low over her head, just another face in the crowd. Leena had come too, effortlessly radiant, chatting with her friend in the front row like she belonged there.

And after the band’s performance, Lila had watched her walk right up to him—no hesitation, no fear—smiling as she poured compliments into his hands like water. And Five, for once, smiled back. That rare, fleeting, devastating smile he almost never gave anyone.

But he gave it to Leena.

And Lila—

Lila stood in the dark like a coward. Like a mistake not meant to be remembered.

She hadn’t meant to feel anything. She was just checking in, she told herself. Just watching from afar.

But as she saw Leena brush a hand against his arm, heard the soft lilt of her laughter mingling with his, something inside Lila fractured. She wanted to scream. To rip through the distance and drag him back to her—to the mess and wreckage they never dared speak of.

She didn’t move.

Because she knew.

She knew that if she got too close, she’d ruin him all over again.

And yet—

As she stood there, breath shallow, fingers clenched inside her hoodie pocket, something else bloomed beneath the grief. A cruel, inconvenient heat.

Watching him being close to Leena, watching the way his shirt clung to his back with sweat after the performance, how his forearms flexed when he adjusted his guitar strap—she felt it, low in her belly.

Desire.

It hit her like a wave—unexpected and shameful.

She wanted him. Not in the abstract. Not as some distant ache. But here. Now. With a desperation that bordered on hunger.

And it terrified her.

Because it wasn’t just love anymore. It was grief tangled in lust, affection warped by repression—years of near-touches and unspoken longing threatening to combust.

She wanted to be the one in his arms tonight. To feel the weight of his hands on her body, the rasp of his voice when he said her name.

But she wasn’t.

She never would be.

Later, in the stillness of her bedroom, the ache turned suffocating. Diego snored beside her, oblivious, while she lay flat on her back, watching the ceiling splinter in shadow and light. She couldn’t stop thinking about that moment—about the softness in Five’s eyes as he looked at Leena. The quiet gratitude in his expression.

He had looked… free.

And why wouldn’t he be? Leena was beautiful, brilliant, and uncomplicated.

She didn’t come with a trail of broken glass behind her. Didn’t wake up gasping from nightmares. Didn’t lash out at the people who loved her out of fear they’d leave.

She wasn’t Lila.

And the worst part—the most unbearable part—was that Lila was the one who told him to go.

She had smiled through her teeth and told him to live a little. To try something normal. To find someone.

And he had.

He’d taken her advice.

He’d chosen someone good.

And she—

She had no right to feel the bitterness. No right to ache for his touch or dream of a world that could never be.

Five deserved better. Someone whole. Someone who could love him fully, without hesitation.

Not someone like her—pulled in too many directions, stretched thin by duty and guilt, trying to be everything for everyone… while he was left waiting on the sidelines.

So she told herself to pull back. Five had finished his PhD, and now he’d been recruited by the CIA—another chapter in his life unfolding without her. Their coffee breaks grew fewer and farther between. Maybe it was time to give him space. Time to let him live his own life. She had a family, after all. A husband. She should be trying harder to work things out with Diego. That was the right thing to do.

So she tried. She redrew the line between herself and Five, tried to fall back into the familiar rhythm of being his easygoing friend—the version of her that was always laughing, teasing, harmless. She buried her feelings under layers of routine and motherhood, of laundry and meal prep and mending bruised egos. Anything to give herself less time to think about him. Less time for her mind to wander to the darker corners, where her repressed feelings tumbled like storm-blown leaves.

But no matter how tightly she held the leash, her desire slipped through.

Especially when he left for one of his covert missions. In his absence, the ache grew sharp, taut. When he returned, she'd text him casually— Wanna go for a walk? Just to catch up. He always said yes. And every time, her relief was palpable, ridiculous, immediate.

He never spoke much about Leena, but Lila could tell. She knew the moment they’d finally hooked up. It was in the way he avoided her eyes, the hesitation in his smile. Her stomach cinched, sudden and unforgiving.

She thought of it as closure—an end to her feelings for Five. And in some ways, it did make her more determined to fix things with Diego. To be a good partner, a good mother, someone worthy of the life she’d chosen.

But intimacy with Diego had been a quiet war for years, and the cracks were starting to show. Lila had always loved sex—she was keenly aware of her own appetite—but ever since the twins, her libido had withered. And not from trauma. She adored her children. She didn’t resent them for a second. But when it came to Diego... the spark had dulled.

He was always racing to the finish line, never understanding the course. She needed coaxing, tension, foreplay. He gave her impatience, fumbling hands, and bad timing. When she wasn’t in the mood, he was insistent. When she finally was in the mood, he was either asleep or too wrapped up in his football matches to notice.

Still, she tried. She wanted it to work. So even on the nights when her body felt unresponsive, when Diego’s grunts and thrusts felt like background noise to a scene she wasn’t in, she kept going. She closed her eyes. Tried to summon something— anything —to push herself over the edge.

That’s when her body betrayed her.

Her mind, unbidden, conjured him. Five. Those impossibly long, elegant fingers—so precise, so dangerous—drifting over guitar strings like they were made to coax the most intimate, lingering notes from her skin. The razor-sharp cut of his jaw, sharp enough to draw blood. Storm-cloud eyes that captured her in their depths, seeing everything, knowing all her secrets without a word. His dimples—those faint, wicked marks—flashing when he wasn’t hiding behind his walls. His mouth, a devilish thing, lips so perfect they seemed to beg for her touch. The way his tongue slid out slowly, tasting his coffee as if he were savoring something much sweeter, much more forbidden. And that long, lean neck—exquisitely sculpted, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every quiet swallow—so maddeningly elegant she wanted to run her lips along the line of it. And the way he looked at her—like he could strip away her defenses with just a glance, as if she were the only thing in the world worth unraveling.

The image was so vivid, so charged, that she came almost instantly.

And when it was over, when Diego rolled off her and reached for his phone, she lay there in the dark, hollowed out and humming with guilt. Because no matter how hard she tried to bury it, that hunger— that part of her—belonged to someone else.

Someone she was never supposed to want.

She had tried to laugh it off at first. Tried to tell herself it was just a stray fantasy, just a hormonal glitch, a random misfire in her brain. It didn’t mean anything. People thought about all kinds of things during sex, didn’t they?

But it hadn’t been random. It had been deliberate . Desperate. Instinctive.

She had screamed his name in her head—loud, furious, forbidden. And she had climaxed, biting her tongue so hard it bled.

When Diego kissed her goodbye the next morning, she tilted her face up like a marionette, let his lips brush her cheek. She even smiled, because that’s what she was supposed to do.

The moment the door clicked shut, her smile collapsed.

She dropped into a chair and ran her hands through her hair, tugging at the roots as if she could wrench the thoughts out of her skull by force. It was supposed to be over—this thing with Five. She had promised herself that. Drawn lines. Erased them. Redrew them in thicker ink . He had his own life now. She had Diego. The children. A family.

But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. And worse, neither had her heart.

It was always Five. In the silence between texts. In the shape of a shadow on the street. In the pause before she answered Diego’s questions.

Always him .

Later that week, when Five finally messaged her back—a single line: “Still alive. You up for coffee?” —she stared at it for a long time.

She typed, deleted, typed again.

Her thumb hovered over the send button.

She could say no. She should.

But she didn’t.

“Sure,” she typed—and sent it.

If it had been just a one-time mistake, Lila might’ve been able to shove it into a dark corner of her mind and pretend it never happened. But it wasn’t. It happened again. And again. Every time Diego touched her, every time intimacy brushed close, she’d shut her eyes—and there he was. Five. The ghost in her bloodstream. The ache in her thoughts. The name she didn’t dare whisper.

She couldn’t lie to herself anymore.

Her body, her mind—everything burned for Five. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t smother the flame. Years spent crushing her feelings into silence had come undone in a single, unguarded moment. One moment where her heart slipped past her strongest defenses and said the truth aloud: She wanted him. Desperately. Stupidly. Tragically.

She had to put an end to it. Had to find a way to stop the storm building inside her. Because if she didn’t, sooner or later, it would break everything. Every encounter with him chipped away at her will.

And Diego? He didn’t deserve this. He never had. It would destroy him if he ever found out his wife had been emotionally cheating on him for years—and with his own brother, no less. A brother he respected, even if he’d never say it out loud. Diego was the one who brought her into this family, who gave her a place to belong when she had none.She should’ve been grateful—eternally so.

But instead, she fell for the wrong brother. The one who had once tried to kill her. The one who never promised her anything, never offered her a future, and yet still managed to own every piece of her heart.

What a cruel, cosmic joke.

She didn’t ask for this. Didn’t plan it. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like betrayal, like guilt laced into every heartbeat. But it did. And no matter how hard she tried to steer herself back to safety, she kept drifting toward him—helplessly, foolishly.

She could have stopped this by cutting him out of her life completely—but that was the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to do.

Because he was the only light left. The only thing she still looked forward to. Without him, the world would lose its color. The thought of never seeing him again—it would be like learning to breathe without oxygen. Like dying in slow, aching increments.

And then came the day by the lake.

He told her he was leaving the band for good. That his CIA work couldn’t coexist with this life anymore. He invited her to his final show, never knowing that she’d already been to more concerts than he could count—always hidden, always watching from the shadows.

That day… it was one of the rare, untainted joys of her life. Just the two of them beneath the clearest blue sky, the lake gleaming like glass.

They talked about music— really talked—debating My Chemical Romance versus The White Stripes with the kind of fervor usually reserved for religion or war. Five had strong opinions: MCR had heart and evolution, The White Stripes were repetitive, Green Day predictable but nostalgic, and Linkin Park? Genius. Raw, fearless, genre-bending. And of course, his hill to die on—The Beatles were the greatest band of all time. Lila had laughed at the contradiction of it all—emo kid and Beatles purist—but that was what made it them . He wasn't just sharp, he was passionate , argumentative in the most thrilling way. Their conversations had rhythm, fire, and honesty. She could never have that with Diego, not really. With Five, her brain lit up. She could banter, challenge, learn. Even when they disagreed, she loved it. He made her feel like her mind mattered, not just her body or her ability to handle chaos.

Even the water fight had been different. Silly, ridiculous—and yet, unforgettable. Five would never let anyone humiliate him like that. Never. But he let her. Only her. And in that moment, drenched and laughing, when she splashed him and he actually splashed back, she saw it. The truth in his eyes. The silent confession:

He loved her.
He just couldn’t say it.

He looked heartbreakingly beautiful—wet hair clinging to his forehead, his white shirt soaked through, outlining the lithe strength of his body. And when she peeled off her cardigan, feeling her damp dress cling to every curve, she saw the way he tried not to look.
Tried.
And god, for a few shameless seconds, she wished he would look. Stare. Devour.

But Five was always Five. Composed. Controlled. Distant even when he was near.

Later, when they lay side by side on the grass, something inside her felt eerily calm. As if her soul had been fighting for air and finally found a moment to breathe.

She’d asked herself a thousand times if she’d made the right decision—choosing Diego, lying to herself, locking her heart away. And maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t. But Five never acted on his feelings either. Even though she knew he harbored something for her—something deep, quiet, and long-standing—he never crossed the line. That had to mean he thought this was wrong too.

They were both pragmatic, both realists. They knew what it would cost to fall. The destruction it would leave in its wake. The betrayal. The shattering of what little family they had left.

So they lived with the ache. Pretended it didn’t exist.

And maybe—for him—it was just a passing crush. Something he’d forget in time. Maybe she was only holding on to this strange, forbidden companionship for as long as it lasted, knowing one day, inevitably, it would fade.

But oh, how she wished it wouldn’t.

All week, Lila couldn’t stop thinking about the concert and the masquerade ball—and what she was going to wear. She’d pulled out a few things she’d thrifted ages ago but never had the occasion to use: a vintage band tee almost identical to the one she’d worn in Berlin in the previous timeline, a pair of ripped black jeans, and a gold sequin mini dress with a plunging neckline.

She stood in front of the mirror and studied herself. The dark circles under her eyes had become permanent fixtures. Her skin looked dull, slack, tired. Normally, Lila wasn’t the type to obsess over her appearance. She’d always known she was attractive—relatively speaking—and as much as she hated to admit it, the Handler had drilled confidence into her from a young age. Taught her how to weaponize beauty. How to use charm and cunningness to disarm targets before taking them out. She’d played the seductress more times than she could count.

But now? She barely recognized that woman.

Still, she wanted to look good. For him. For his last concert. It was a night meant to create a memory—one final moment to burn into her brain—and she didn’t want to look like a ghost of herself. So she dug out the curling iron and makeup kit she hadn’t touched in years and gave herself a small makeover. Not to seduce, not to kill—just to feel alive again. Just to feel seen.

Somewhere deep inside, she had the sense that something big was about to happen. She didn’t know what exactly, but it thrummed in her chest like distant thunder—anxious and expectant all at once.

When the day finally came, she told Diego she had another book club meeting. Her parents were happy to watch the kids. She did her hair, put on her makeup, pulled on the vintage band T-shirt—which slipped off one shoulder—and her ripped black jeans. The gold sequin dress, she folded carefully into her bag. That was for later, for the masquerade. She threw on a big hoodie and oversized sunglasses to hide the transformation. No one needed to see it yet. Not until it mattered.

She arrived an hour before the concert started and spotted Jake, the band’s vocalist, pacing outside the venue, shouting into his phone.

“What the hell, man? Why does this always happen?”
“You know this is his last show, right?”
“Yeah, I know. God, this is a nightmare.”
“Okay, just make sure he gets better. I’ve gotta tell the others. A rock concert without a drummer? Seriously?”
“I can’t believe this is even happening.”

Lila’s heart skipped. No drummer? That wasn’t good.

Or maybe... it was fate.

She waited a few more minutes, then casually strolled in, playing it cool—pretending she’d just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Their accidental savior. She’d watched them rehearse so many times, memorized every rhythm, every transition. Syncing in with the band was effortless. And shocking Five? Exhilarating.

The concert went off without a single hitch.

It was, without question, one of the most magical performances of her life.

Being onstage with him—it felt surreal. Like a dream she didn’t even know she’d had until it came true. She hadn’t felt this alive in years. And the way he looked at her under the stage lights—intense, charged, utterly spellbound—sent shivers down her spine. It was as if the crowd disappeared, as if the whole world had collapsed into just the two of them. Like she was the only person who existed in his universe.

And for that moment, maybe she was.

When the concert ended and the cheers faded into backstage chaos, Lila’s body still vibrated with adrenaline. Her hands were sore from the drums, her heart still pounding—not just from the music, but from the way Five had looked at her all night. Like she was the only person on stage. Like the crowd didn’t exist. Like nothing else mattered but her.

As they slipped offstage, she couldn’t help shouting over the noise, “Not bad, Fiveyyy!” She hurled one of the drumsticks at him, fast and hard.

He caught it mid-air without even blinking.

She waited for the usual snarky quip. Some clever insult. Anything.

But instead, he just stared at her—dumbfounded.

Not the usual sharp, calculating stare. No. This gaze was soft. Reverent. Like he was seeing something divine. Like he was seeing her for the very first time. And it was the same look he gave her by the lake. That fleeting, painful moment when his walls cracked and everything he felt bled through his eyes.

Her breath hitched.

She knew that look.

There was no pretending now. No room for lies or sarcasm. Her heart screamed in her chest, tight and wild, and she knew it mirrored the storm inside his.

Then, finally, he gave a small smirk and said, “You’re full of surprises.”

She stepped closer, still breathless, electricity dancing between them. “You have no idea,” she whispered with a cheeky grin.

For one dizzying second, everything held its breath.

He did too.

His shoulder shifted—like he was about to reach for her. As if, finally, the space between them was going to vanish. Her skin buzzed with the anticipation of touch, of a confession, of something inevitable.

And then—

“Five!”

Leena’s voice - the unmistakable southern accent.

Lila barely turned before the brunette appeared, arms flung around him in a hug that landed far too easily. As if she’d done it a hundred times before.

The spell shattered.

The hum of connection between Lila and Five was severed like a live wire cut at the source.

Lila’s heart twisted violently.

She’d just had one of the best nights of her life—no, their lives. A night so surreal, so sacred it felt like fate had carved out a little space just for the two of them. Music. Laughter. That look. And now?

Now she was watching someone else touch him in a way she never could.

They had known each other for four years. Survived two apocalypses. Betrayals. Regrets. Shared silence that sometimes said more than words ever could. But never—not once—had they let themselves touch like that. Not even a real hug. Always afraid. Always holding back.

And Leena… Leena could just take him like it was easy.

Lila’s gut twisted as she watched Five stand stiffly in the embrace, his eyes—still locked on Lila—telling a very different story than his body. But it didn’t matter. The image was burned in her mind now.

So she smiled. Just enough to make it look effortless. Not too bright. Not too strained. Just enough to survive.
She even managed to thank Leena for the compliment, her voice smooth despite the storm brewing under her skin. But when Leena turned to Five and looped her arm through his, something in Lila splintered quietly beneath the surface. The crack wasn’t visible—not yet—but she felt it. Deep and sharp.

And before it could spread any further, she said, “I’ll need to go now. It’s getting late, and we’ve got plans tomorrow too,” her voice light but decisive.
Then she turned, heels clicking a little too fast against the floor as she walked away—before either of them could see the heat rising behind her eyes, or the way her throat clenched around the unspoken.

The gold dress in her bag didn’t matter anymore. The masquerade ball was just a silly after-party. She didn’t need to parade around pretending to be someone else—not for him. Not anymore.

She kept walking, head down, slipping past the crowd and toward the bus stop. Her reflection flickered in the glass of the shelter—band tee slipping off her shoulder, eye makeup already smudging. Her lips were tight, her stomach a knot of humiliation and longing.

Then she saw them. The students. Dozens of them, laughing, glittering under the streetlamps. Cloaks, masks, gowns. Anonymity swirling around them like magic. The great hall was glowing in the distance, alive with music and mystery.

And something inside her shifted.

Screw it.

This was a masquerade.

She could disappear into that crowd. Become no one. Or someone else—just for one night.

She could have a few drinks, be someone else for a few hours, and hopefully dull the pain thumping in her chest with a copious amount of alcohol. Free alcohol.

She turned, fast, slipping into the line of masked students with practiced ease. Inside, she found a bathroom, locked the stall, and pulled out the gold dress. The sequins shimmered under the fluorescent lights. She changed quickly, applied a touch of lipstick, and slid the gold mask over her face—one that covered her fully, leaving only her eyes visible. The dark cloak lent by the party organizer came on last, covering her body from head to toe.

When she stepped back out into the crowd, no one looked twice.

Perfect.

She was just another stranger now.

The ballroom throbbed with desire—velvet shadows, deep reds, and pulsing lights casting secrets across every masked face. Lila moved among them, a gold phantom beneath a black cloak. 

But then she saw him.

Five.

Leaning against the bar, glass in hand. He wore a black mask that left his lips exposed, his black hood covering most of his band outfit. But she knew that lean frame instantly, the careful tension in the way he held himself—always coiled, always aware. That sharp jaw. That mouth she’d dreamed about.

Her heart stuttered. It had been too long since his sheer presence had that immediate effect on her.

Her breath caught when he saw her and walked straight toward her, and the world around them dissolved into silence.

Does he know it’s me? she thought, heart thudding painfully in her chest. She swore his eyes flickered with recognition—but then he flirted with her about her gold dress, and her stomach dropped. He didn’t know.

Still, she didn’t stop.

She didn’t know why she slipped into that Southern drawl. Why she let herself become someone else. Why she fed him lies with a smile. Maybe it was just an extension of what she'd been doing all along—masking what she really felt, denying what she really wanted.

It was easier to be a stranger. Easier to give in when she didn’t have to be herself.

And God, she wanted him. Wanted him so badly she could barely breathe. Wanted to feel him lose control. Wanted him rough and raw and buried deep inside her. Just once. Just once.

“Trying to blind people with that dress?” he said, voice low, amused.

She tilted her head, saying nothing. Just drained her glass and let him look. Let him wonder.

“It’s saved for a special night… and a special someone,” she said finally, her voice silk behind the mask.

He played along, not knowing she’d already made up her mind about tonight.

Their banter twisted into something darker. Charged. Old wounds bleeding into new temptation. He called himself abandoned. She said the same. Lies, both of them. She’d never left. Not really. And he’d never stopped haunting her.

A drink passed. She dipped a finger in the cherry-laced liquor, lifted it between them.

“Have you tasted this one yet?”

He sucked her finger into his mouth, slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. The rest of her followed.

She grabbed his hand without another word and led him toward the first aid room.

Tonight, she didn’t want the truth. Didn’t want promises or regrets.

She just wanted him. One night. One slip. After all these years, she couldn’t stop herself anymore.

And he would never know it was her.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the flicker of hallway light—and with it, reality. Darkness swallowed everything but the sound of their breathing—ragged, rising—and the pulse of bass that thudded through the walls like a second heartbeat. In here, the world collapsed into heat and instinct.

When their mouths finally met, it wasn’t gentle. It was feral. Starved.

Lila had never imagined her first kiss with Five would feel like this—like being devoured alive. Their lips crashed together with brutal urgency, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a fevered battle. He kissed like he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. And God, she wanted to be ruined.

Their mouths opened wider, messier, hungrier, until she could taste his breath in the back of her throat. She moaned into him, clutching his collar like it might anchor her to earth.

His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, grinding her against him so she could feel the hard, hot shape of him through their clothes. Every nerve ending in her body screamed to be touched, taken, filled.

She broke the kiss only to drag in a ragged breath—then bit his bottom lip, tugged it between her teeth, and kissed him again, even harder.

She didn’t care who she was pretending to be. For now, he was hers. And she was going to let him wreck her.

Her hands tore at his shirt, fingers yanking buttons, pushing it off his shoulders. She needed to feel him—his skin, his chest, the sharp ridges of his body that haunted her memory.

He was solid. Hot. Real.

When he reached behind her and yanked the zipper of her gold dress down, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.

It fell to her feet, pooling at her ankles. No bra. She hadn't worn one deliberately. Some reckless part of her wanted to be taken like this. Exposed. Wanted to be devoured.

And he did.

His hands cupped her breasts greedily, thumbs grazing her nipples until they pebbled. Then his mouth descended—rough, hungry, starved—closing over one nipple and sucking hard enough to make her cry out.

She arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he flicked his tongue and bit down, just enough to hurt. It made her clench. Made her thighs tremble.

She shoved her body against his, and in her head, she screamed: Please, just… fuck me. But she bit her tongue, afraid her real voice would give her away.

He switched to her other breast, giving it the same ravenous attention while his hand slid lower, skimming her waist, her hips—pulling her against the hard length of him.

God, he was so hard.

She ground against him shamelessly, letting him feel how wet she was, how ready.

He lifted her like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Even through the lace of her panties, she could feel the heat of his cock, pulsing against her core.

His mouth was at her throat now, biting down, groaning against her skin like he was unraveling by the second.

Then—he tore her panties off in one savage tug.

She gasped, fingers fumbling with his belt, yanking down his zipper until his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking in her hand.

“Fuck,” she whispered, wrapping her hand around him just to feel the weight, the heat, the desperate throb.

He grunted, pushed her against the nearest wall—and in one brutal, glorious thrust, he was inside her. Deep.

Her body seized around him.

Every nerve lit up as he filled her completely, dragging a cry from her throat that echoed off the walls. She clung to him, back arching, legs locked around his hips as he started to move.

Slow, at first. Deep, teasing strokes that made her see stars. Then faster. Rougher.

Each thrust hit that spot inside her that made her eyes roll back, her mouth fall open in a silent scream.

She didn’t hold back—she impatiently rocked against him, swallowing his cock deeper with her sleek depth. Her nails raked down his back, urging him harder. Faster.

She was going to cum so quickly.

And she did.

Her body locked up, trembling around him as her orgasm tore through her—violent and messy.

She felt him groan, deep in his chest, before he followed with a shudder and a low, broken curse, spilling inside her.

But they didn’t stop.

Minutes later, he spun her around, bent her over a desk, and slammed into her from behind.

She screamed, head falling forward, palms flat against the cool surface as he pounded into her.

His hands found her breasts again—squeezing, pinching, holding her up as her legs buckled.

The second orgasm ripped through her fast—too fast—and she sobbed through it, raw and exposed.

He followed, slamming deep, jerking as he emptied himself again, his breath hot on her neck.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

The third time, she pushed him down onto the bed, climbed on top of him, and took him deep in one slick, gliding motion.

She rocked her hips—slow and cruel at first—then faster, rougher, riding him until he shook beneath her.

His hands clutched her hips, fingers bruising. She leaned forward, lips at his neck, and bit him—hard.

He groaned. “Fuck.”

She fucked him like she hated him. Like she loved him. Like she wanted to destroy them both.

His hands roamed hungrily—gliding up her back, her ribs, her breasts—every inch of her aching and exposed under his touch.

When his fingers brushed the inside of her arm, she twitched. That spot—soft, delicate—made her breath catch.

He must’ve felt it.

Because suddenly, he caught her wrist and lifted it between them. She barely had time to react before his mouth closed over that fragile skin—and he sucked. Hard.

“Fuck—” she gasped, her entire body locking up. The heat of his mouth there, the sting of his teeth—it branded her.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her hips jerking wildly as a sharp tremor tore through her.

She felt her pulse against his tongue—erratic, exposed. She didn’t stop him.

She wanted that mark.

And when he gripped her hips again and slammed her down with brutal precision, she cried out—overwhelmed, unraveling in pieces.

That bruise on her wrist bloomed dark and deep. A secret kiss. A silent scream. Proof of everything they weren’t supposed to be.

They came again—wild, feral, exhausted.

But he still wasn’t done.

He laid her on the bed, her legs trembling, her body slick and spent.

And then—without warning—he dropped to his knees between her thighs.

“Wait—” she breathed, still using the fake accent, half-pleading.

But he just spread her open and buried his mouth in her.

She cried out, legs jerking.

His tongue was relentless—broad strokes up her slit, then tight flicks over her clit that made her squirm. He sucked it into his mouth, growling like a man possessed.

Her hands flew to his hair, yanking.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right—but before she could come again, he pulled out and sheathed into her instead.

Her back arched off the bed, a ragged scream ripping from her lungs as she came again—tears springing to her eyes.

She was shaking. Drenched.

She felt him jet into her one more time.

Still. Not. Done.

He bent down and kissed her neck. “Still with me?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

She nodded, breathless.

“Good.”

He flipped her one last time, pinned her wrists above her head, and fucked her like he was trying to memorize her from the inside out.

Every thrust hit something primal.

He fucked her slow and deep. Then fast and filthy.

His breath was ragged against her cheek. His voice nothing but curses and gasps.

She came so hard the fifth time felt like an out-of-body experience.

So did he—shuddering against her, groaning filthy words into her neck as he spilled inside her for the fifth time. She could feel the slick heat of it dripping from her, her cunt overflowing with his release. She had never felt so thoroughly wrecked, so utterly satisfied.

They’d fucked five times.

As she lay next to him, both of them trying to catch their breaths in the dark, she turned to face him, but she still couldn’t see anything. She could only feel him beside her—the rise and fall of his chest beneath the stillness. A thought flickered through her mind: “It’s me, Five. It’s me, Lila.”

But the words never left her lips.

After a few minutes, she pushed herself up on shaky legs and fumbled for her clothes in the dark. Thankfully, they were all near the door, and she slipped them on with surprising ease. She cracked the door open and glanced back at him one last time. He was still lying on the bed, but his gaze drifted toward her, illuminated only by the dim light. She closed the door quietly and made her way out of the room, grabbing her bag from the lockers.

Her body felt strangely sensitive, her folds still wet, dripping with the aftermath of what had just transpired. The bus ride home was a blur. She couldn’t make sense of what had happened. It was as if every emotion she should’ve been feeling—guilt, grief, or pain—had been suspended, left in a state of uneasy stillness. Instead, there was only a faint, unexpected sense of euphoria.

She finally had him—just one night—but it was the best sex she’d ever had. He knew exactly how to touch her, how to attune his body to hers and push her to the edge again and again until she was unraveling beneath him. Real Five obliterated every fantasy she’d ever conjured. He didn’t just exceed her expectations—he ruined her for anyone else. She’d never felt this well-fucked in her entire life. The thought terrified her.

Would anything ever compare again?

But then the doubt crept in, jagged and merciless. Was he always like this with others? Was he this good with Leena? Had he been so passionate because he thought she was someone else? The memory of them together, of what she knew—or thought she knew—hit her like a punch. Did Leena also get this version of him? The man who kissed like he meant it, who held her like he couldn’t let go?

A wave of sorrow swept through her. She couldn’t bear the idea that this had been a fluke, a one-time accident. She wanted more—so much more. She wanted to make love to him, not just once, but again and again. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth, his arms wrapped around her in the quiet after. And only her. Not Leena. Not anyone else.

That thought cracked something open inside her.

Her lips began to tremble, her breath catching in short bursts as a sharp ache clawed its way up from the pit of her stomach to the back of her throat. She tried to hold it in, to swallow it back, but it was too much. The realization was unbearable: they were perfect together, but it had happened under the worst possible circumstances. This was all wrong—timing, identity, everything. And yet, it felt more right than anything had in years.

The bus gave a sharp “dink” as the light blinked on.

Her stop.

She bolted out before anyone could see the storm rising behind her eyes. Her boots hit the pavement hard. As the doors shut behind her and the bus pulled away, she finally let go. The tears came fast and hot, streaking down her cheeks as sobs wracked her chest. She stumbled into the shadows near a streetlamp, clutching her bag to her chest like it could anchor her. Her knees buckled slightly, and she had to brace herself against a wall to stay upright. Her body was still humming from the sex, but her heart felt like it had been torn open.

She buried her face in her hands and cried—quiet, raw, and alone.

By the time she reached the front door, her tears had dried but her face was still tight and raw from crying. Her limbs moved on autopilot, each step heavier than the last as the weight of what she’d done finally began to settle in. She slipped the key into the lock as quietly as possible, the familiar click echoing in the silence.

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. The kids were sleeping. Diego had left the hallway light on for her, like he always did. That small act—so mundane, so kind—hit her square in the gut.

She shut the door and leaned against it, pressing her forehead to the wood. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her whole body ached, not from the sex, but from the contradiction tearing her apart. She had just betrayed the man who trusted her. Who loved her.

And for what?

She padded down the hall, her steps muffled by the carpet. When she reached the bedroom, she saw him—Diego—curled on his side, sound asleep. Peaceful. Oblivious. One arm draped over her side of the bed as if he’d been waiting.

She stood there, frozen in the doorway, her breath caught in her throat.

Guilt bloomed like acid in her chest.

She should have felt it earlier. On the bus. At the party. Hell, even during. But it only hit her now, looking at him—at this flawed, loving man who had given her a home, a future, stability. He wasn’t perfect, and sometimes he infuriated her, but he was real. And he trusted her.

She felt sick.

She tiptoed to the bathroom and shut the door behind her, hands trembling as she turned on the faucet. Cold water rushed out. She splashed her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Mascara smeared under her eyes. Lips still swollen from Five’s kisses. No marks on her neck but the one on her wrist - dark bruise in stark contrast with her caramel skin. Her own body betrayed her.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she whispered, barely able to meet her own eyes.

Eventually, she peeled her clothes off slowly, like her skin itself hurt. When she stepped under the stream of hot water, it scalded at first, but she didn’t move. She stood there, eyes closed, letting it pour over her, waiting for it to wash him away.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t want it to.

Her hands trembled as she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging tightly like she could trap what little warmth remained. She could still feel him on her. The ghost of his touch, the pressure of his body against hers. She could still smell him—faint traces of cologne, sweat, and sex clinging to her skin.

And God help her, she didn’t want to let it go.

She wanted to smell him. She wanted his scent to linger. She wanted the shameful trace of him still inside her, the rawness between her legs that made her ache in ways she’d never felt before. She wanted all of it. Every last reminder that for one night, he had been hers.

And she had been his.

Her knees buckled as grief took over again, and she slid down the tiled wall to the floor of the shower, arms still wrapped around herself. Water streamed down her face, mingling with silent tears.

She hated herself for what she’d done.

She hated how much she didn’t regret it.

Because underneath the guilt, beneath the ache of betrayal and the fear of what it all meant—was love. Undeniable, unwanted, unstoppable.

She loved Five.

And no amount of water could ever wash that away.

After the long shower, she crept into bed beside Diego, and lay there stiffly, facing the opposite wall.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t sleep.

The morning light bled in too soon.

Lila hadn’t slept. Not really. She dozed in fragments—ten minutes here, five there—adrift in a haze of memory, regret, and want. Her body still ached in all the places Five had touched her. Her lips were still sensitive. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the heat of him again, the weight of his hands, the way he’d groaned against her neck like he’d needed her.

And yet now, sunlight cut across the bed like a spotlight on a lie.

She lay still, listening to Diego’s breathing beside her. Steady. Familiar. Safe.

At some point during the night, he’d turned toward her, his arm now draped across her waist. She flinched at the contact—an involuntary shudder in her gut—as if her skin couldn’t lie the way she could. She felt like a traitor. Worse, she felt like she deserved to feel like one.

He murmured something in his sleep. Her name. His lips brushed the back of her shoulder. A soft kiss. It used to make her smile.

Now it made her want to cry again.

Carefully, she slid out from under his arm and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. She gripped the edge of the mattress with both hands, knuckles white. The guilt was no longer abstract. It was solid, breathing, lying just inches behind her.

She reached for the shirt she’d worn to bed and pulled it over her head, then stood up and made her way to the kitchen like a ghost. The silence of the house was deafening. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like judgment.

She put the kettle on. Not because she wanted tea—she couldn’t stomach anything—but because she didn’t know what else to do. Her hands needed to move. Her mind needed to not think.

But it did.

She saw Five’s face in her mind again—not clearly, never clearly in that dark room—but she remembered the way his breath caught when he was inside her. The way he held her like she meant something. Not just a warm body. Not just a mistake.

And that was the part that gutted her most of all.

Because a part of her wanted him to know that it was her. 

And he still wanted her anyway.

She turned the kettle off before it finished boiling. She couldn’t stand the sound.

Then she pressed her forehead to the cool surface of the fridge, eyes shut, heart pounding.

“What has she done?”

Chapter Text

She knew they were expected at Allison’s housewarming party today. The thought alone felt like a stone in her chest, dragging her down with its weight. It was too soon—far too soon—to see him again. Especially when every cell in her body still ached for him. His scent clung to her, his warmth lingered like a phantom—how was she supposed to face him like that? Her body still pulsed with the echo of his touch—raw, insistent, damning. The ache between her legs remained, undeniable evidence of what they’d done, of how completely he’d unraveled her—again and again.

He didn’t know. That was the only mercy. She’d pretended to be someone else last night, someone faceless and bold, and he hadn’t seen through the mask. That lie had protected her then. Now, she had to live in it.

She’d jumped headfirst into the void she’d circled for years. And yes, for a few breathtaking hours, it felt euphoric—like flying. But now, in the quiet aftermath, she had crashed hard against the ground. Guilt hit her like a freight train. She'd imagined, vaguely, what it might feel like to leave Diego. To chase the flame she’d tried so long to ignore. But yesterday turned that idle thought into something terrifyingly real. And she realized—she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to torch her entire life. To bring her family to ruin.

They didn’t know. None of them had the faintest clue about the fire she’d been suffocating in for years. To them, this family was whole—loving, normal. Just like any other. Sure, she and Diego argued, but never enough to raise alarm. And with Lila’s ability to fake a smile, to swallow the truth—how could they have seen it? They were blissfully ignorant. And she had clung to that ignorance, protected it like a secret she couldn’t afford to lose. She couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting them. Especially not Diego. And never the kids.

But last night… last night she’d shattered everything. She’d let herself fall—no, leap —into something reckless and cruel and so stupidly, achingly selfish. She hadn’t thought. Hadn’t cared . Not in that moment.

And now? Now it was too real. Too vivid. Too sharp to ignore. And far, far too late to undo.

When Diego woke and found her sitting in the kitchen, bleary-eyed with guilt and fatigue, he’d asked when she got back. She told him the girls from the book club had gone out for a few drinks afterward—one of them was having a hard time with her husband. She claimed she drank too much, that everything after a certain point was a blur. It was a clumsy excuse. But Lila’d been lying her whole life. She knew how to sell a story, even a sloppy one—especially when someone wanted to believe her.

He didn’t press. He just rubbed her back gently and told her to get some rest. She winced at the kindness, then pretended she had a pounding hangover so she could head back upstairs. She said she could use some rest before they left for Allison’s house.

In truth, she was stalling because the thought of seeing Five again so soon made her chest cave in—yet somewhere deep inside, a desperate part of her yearned for it. This vicious loop of contradiction was tearing her apart. She wanted him, craved him, but she couldn’t have him. She longed to see his face, just once more—but the idea of facing him now, after what they'd done, made her stomach twist with dread.

On her way to the stairs, Lila froze.

Grace stood at the top step, hair a tangled halo, bunny clutched to her chest. She rubbed her eyes, still thick with sleep.

“Mummy, you’re home.”

Lila’s breath caught. Grace padded down the steps—quiet, determined—and wrapped her small arms around her mother’s neck. Usually, that warmth lit something tender in her chest. But this morning, the guilt spread like frost across her ribs. Cold. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“Yes, I am,” Lila whispered, hugging her tightly. Her throat was tight. “Why are you up so early, baby? It’s Sunday—you can sleep a bit longer.”

“I wanted to see you. Last night, no one read me a book. It was hard to sleep.”

The words struck like a slap—small, soft, and impossible to defend against. Lila had promised she’d be home. One story. That was all. But instead, she’d been somewhere else. Doing something she still couldn’t say aloud—not even to herself.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, her voice thinner than she liked. “Mummy was… busy last night. I’ll read to you today, alright?”

Grace nodded, satisfied. “Coco and Stan and I made something with Nan. But you were very late, so she said we had to go to bed.”

Each word was a stone, dropped straight into the hollow of Lila’s chest. She followed Grace into the living room, where the remnants of last night’s craft session lay across the coffee table in colorful chaos.

Grace proudly held up a green card. On it was a paper cut-out of Lila wearing a red cape, arms outstretched in front of three smaller children. A purple and yellow monster stood in front of them, breathing fire.

“This is you,” Grace beamed. “You protect us from all the scary monsters.”

Lila stared at it. The cape, the children, the monster. Something in her cracked. She didn’t deserve to be depicted like this—like some kind of hero. Not after what she’d done. Not when the scariest monster last night had been her, slipping out into the dark, pretending she wasn’t a mother for a few reckless hours.

She forced her eyes wide to hold back the tears. Grace would panic if she saw her cry.

“Thank you,” Lila whispered, her voice sounded hollow in her own ears. She bent down and kissed Grace’s head, breathing in the scent of sleep and peach shampoo. She held on longer than necessary.

Because if she let go too quickly, she might fall apart.

Lila was still kneeling on the rug, holding Grace close, when footsteps creaked from the hallway. She didn’t need to look up to know it was Diego.

“Morning, troublemaker,” he said with a gentle smile, ruffling Grace’s hair as he passed by. “You giving Mum a hard time already?”

“She read me no book last night,” Grace announced matter-of-factly.

Diego chuckled, then looked at Lila. His smile softened into something more concerned. “Mummy’s just got a headache this morning, yeah? She needs a bit of rest.”

Lila blinked at him. He wasn’t scolding, wasn’t suspicious—just covering for her. Diego hadn’t always been like this, but there were moments when he truly cared. The weight of that made her chest feel tight.

“I’ll get breakfast started,” Diego continued, already heading toward the kitchen. “Grace, why don’t you grab your card and come show me what you and Nan made last night?”

Grace scooped up the card with excitement and dashed after him.

Lila stayed on her knees a moment longer, staring at the empty space where her daughter had been. The living room buzzed faintly with the sounds of Diego in the kitchen—cabinets opening, eggs cracking, the low hum of a man blissfully unaware of the storm quietly tearing through his wife.

Finally, she stood up and dragged herself upstairs. 

She needed to come up with something—anything—to make sure no one found out about last night. Surely Five didn’t know it was her. But she had to stop him from saying they were at the concert together. Maybe if she mentioned her “book club” plans first, he’d take the hint.

She just had to act normal. Pretend nothing happened.

Five was always perceptive—he’d get it. He’d know to keep quiet.

They could talk about it later.

Just… not today.

When they finally arrived at Allison’s, Lila’s mind fractured into a thousand worst-case scenarios. Her heart pounded like she was stepping into an ambush. One glimpse of him, and everything could unravel. Still, she masked it perfectly—expression neutral, voice light. She kept repeating the lie in her head: Nothing’s happened yet. Just act normal. Give nothing away.

All the years of Commission training, starting when she was four years old, had to count for something. She just had to survive a party.

Allison greeted them at the door, the kids already sprinting inside with excitement. Lila told herself it was showtime. She smiled wide, gushed about the house, and handed over a basket of party gifts with a joke about running late. Every move was calculated—natural, effortless, convincing.

But the second she stepped over the threshold, awareness hit her like a slap of cold air.

He was here.

She didn’t see him, but she knew it—her nerves lit up like a flare. As she followed Allison and Diego toward the kitchen, she dialed up the volume—laughing too loudly, tossing casual jokes. She needed cover. She needed armor.

Then she saw him.

Five. Leaning casually near the island, drink in hand, Klaus at his side.

And just like that, her breath hitched.

He looked just as he had onstage the night before—handsome, composed, but with those stormy eyes that could say everything with a single glance. The images of him under the lights, guitar in hand, mask hiding half his face, slammed into her like a fist. Her skin prickled. Her pulse thudded in her throat.

She forced a bright wave in their direction, masking the bolt of electricity that zipped down her spine. He didn’t wave back—just stared. And when their eyes finally met, Lila felt it, sharp and unmistakable: recognition.

Every inch of her burned. Her body was betraying her—remembering everything. His hands, his mouth, his weight pressed into hers. It all replayed in vicious detail, taunting her like muscle memory.

She didn’t know if he felt it too, but something in his body language was off—tense, guarded. He wasn’t saying much, not that he was ever overly talkative, but now it was different. He kept looking at her. Quick glances. Longer ones. He was trying to figure it out. She could see it in his eyes.

No one else seemed to notice.

Meanwhile, Lila felt like she was split down the middle. One version of her was here—chatting, pouring juice, juggling three kids. The other was pacing frantically inside her skull, sweating bullets and whispering, He knows. He knows.

Then Luther brought up some joke about not drinking while on duty—something about how it’d mess with his dance moves. Lila seized the moment, slipping into her cover story like it was armor.

“I was completely blacked out last night,” she said, breezily waving a hand. “Don’t remember a thing. I really need to stop drinking.”

Before she could add her book club lie, Diego jumped in.

“Yeah, babe, you really should. That book club’s a bad influence.”

His tone grated, but for once, she could’ve kissed him. The timing was perfect. She saw it—Five’s head snapped slightly, his attention locking fully onto her.

And so she leaned into the role.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t have a few hours of fun now and then?” she snapped at Diego, rolling her eyes.

It was the perfect deflection. Snappy wife, annoyed at her husband. She knew Five was watching. She wanted him to believe it too.

Everything depended on him staying quiet.

The moment Stanley’s hand knocked over the spoon and splashed soup all over her sleeve, Lila felt it—an almost grateful flash of distraction. A minor catastrophe to hide behind.

She inhaled through her nose, slow and steady, pretending the fight with Diego hadn’t clawed under her skin. Pretending she wasn’t fraying at the edges. Pretending, pretending, pretending.

“Stanley, come on,” she said softly, brushing at the bright orange smear spreading across her sleeve. “Please, just eat your soup.”

Her voice sounded even, almost maternal. Normal. That was the goal. Normal. Invisible. Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t dragged Five into a dark room last night.

Like she hadn’t wrapped her legs around him and begged for more.

“Ugh.” She stood up quickly, the movement too sharp, too eager. “I need to clean this up.”

She heard Diego push back his chair, his voice low, coaxing. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Let me help.”

But no. God, no.

“No, no, I’ve got it.” She gave him a small smile—tight, tired. “You sit with Stanley. I’ll clean it up. It’s no big deal.”

And then she left, fleeing to the kitchen with the soup stain as her excuse, her shield.

Inside, the silence was deafening. She turned the tap on and stared at the water like it could drown the memory, erase it from her bones. The way he’d touched her. The way she’d let him. The way she’d wanted him.

She hadn’t seen his face. Not clearly. Not then.

But she knew now.

She had known the second she saw him at the table, sitting across from her like a ghost with a heartbeat.

Her chest caved in. And yet, she’d said it anyway— I blacked out —because the only thing more terrifying than the truth was acknowledging it .

She couldn’t afford to. Not with Diego sitting next to her. Not with Allison, Luther, Klaus and Claire watching her every move. Not with Five looking like he was going to break apart at the seams.

She scrubbed at her sleeve, knuckles white, until she heard footsteps behind her.

She didn’t turn.

She didn’t have to.

He was there.

His presence always hit like static—like the air around him charged differently. Like something dangerous was just out of view.

Lila kept her eyes on the stain.

And then—his breath hitched.

Her body stiffened.
Shit.
He saw it.

She glanced at her wrist. The faint bruise. The ghost of his mouth on her skin. She’d fucking completely forgotten about it.

Her breath caught for half a second, but she didn’t move to cover it. She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she said nothing. Pretended not to notice him noticing.

Because if she acknowledged it—if she met his eyes—everything would fall apart.

She didn’t hear him step forward, but she could feel the space shrink between them.

Her skin prickled with awareness, her heart in her throat.

She saw his hands grip the edge of the sink, as if trying to hold himself together, as if trying not to collapse. He looked pale and terrified—so unlike him—and it clenched her chest, seeing him like that.

But she needed to keep the act on. The camera was still rolling. She still had to play her part.

“Are you okay, Five?”

It came out too gentle. Too real.

She hated herself for it.

He stared at her like he was drowning, and she was the wave that pulled him under.

“I’m… am,” he stammered.

“You didn’t go home last night?” he asked.

The question hit her like a slap, but she didn’t let it show.

She’d rehearsed this.

She had to make it sound effortless.
Like she truly didn’t remember.
Like last night was nothing.

So she shrugged—easy, light.
“Dunno, really,” she said, forcing a small, sheepish smile.
“Was on my way to the bus station, saw a line outside the masquerade. I remembered you going on about the free booze, so I thought, sod it—why not?”

She paused, like she was trying to piece it together.

“Went in, had a few shots. After that? Bit of a blur, to be honest.”

She couldn’t breathe.

But she smiled anyway.

It was killing her—the lie, the way he looked at her, the silence that screamed between them.
But this was the only way to protect it all.
To keep the world from exploding.

Five’s face twisted—just slightly. Barely perceptible. But to her, it was a scream. She knew what she was doing to him. And God, she wanted to reach for him, to say : I remember. Of course I fucking remember. I wasn’t even drunk. I didn’t drink that much at all.

But Diego stepped in.

Just like that, the spell broke.

“Hey, you alright, babe?” he asked gently, lifting her arm, thumb brushing over the bruise—over Five’s bruise.

“I’m okay. No big deal,” she said, her voice steady, breezy. “Just a stain. It can be washed out.”

She didn’t look at Five.

She couldn’t.

Because if she did, the whole house would burn.

“Hey, sorry about earlier,” Diego added, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay, Diego.”

It wasn’t. Nothing was.

But she was tired of fighting.

She was tired of feeling .

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Five’s stillness. The way he didn’t move. Like he’d turned to stone.

She wanted to dismiss Diego, grab Five’s hands, and scream, Let me explain. Let me tell you what happened.

But before she could move, he walked away.

Pulled out his phone, murmured some excuse, and vanished.

She didn’t watch him go. But it felt like he’d taken the oxygen with him.

The rest of the evening at Allison’s house was excruciating. That she managed to stay composed at all was a surprise even to herself. She could still feel the exact moment her insides crumbled to dust: when Five turned on his heel and walked away, just minutes after she told him she didn’t remember.

She knew it would hurt him. Of course she did. But she hadn’t been prepared for that look. Shocked. Shattered. Betrayed. It pierced something deep in her chest, and it hadn’t stopped bleeding since.

She wanted to chase after him. To grab him by the sleeve, spin him around, and tell him everything. That she remembered. Every second. Every breathless kiss. Every frantic, shaking touch in that darkened room. That she hadn’t been drunk. Not even close.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Not with Diego and the kids only feet away. Not with his siblings watching. Not with the life she’d spent years trying to hold together balanced so precariously on a lie.

Everything was still going according to plan. No one suspected a thing. They all assumed Five had left because of some last-minute work emergency—nothing out of the ordinary. He’d vanished before. He’d vanish again.

So the party carried on. Laughing. Drinking. Joking.

And Lila stood in the middle of it all, smiling with her mouth and dying behind her eyes.

Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?

Not going after him. Not telling him he wasn’t some drunken mistake she needed to forget.

Not admitting she loved him too—and had, quietly, achingly, for longer than she could bear to name. That she wanted him. Desperately.

Did she do the right thing?

Later that night, after the kids had finally fallen asleep—lulled by her quiet, cracking voice reading The Little Mermaid —and with Diego dozing peacefully beside her, Lila slipped out of bed. The phone was already in her hand.

The house was still, hushed in the thick quiet of night. Only the low hum of the refrigerator filled the silence as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. She didn’t bother turning on the light. Instead, she walked into the living room and sank onto the couch near the window, the pale curtain glowing softly with moonlight.

She stared at the phone screen.
No new messages.
No missed calls.

He hadn’t reached out.

Should she text him? Say something? Anything?

Her thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed.
What could she even say?
“Sorry I pretended to forget the best night of my life?”
“Sorry I stood there. Lied. Watched you break and did nothing.”

No. There was no message that could fix this.

That moment in the kitchen haunted her—

how close she had come to blowing the whole thing wide open.

If she had followed Five, the entire curtain she’d spent years stitching together would’ve unraveled in seconds.
Secrets. Betrayals. Truths too ugly to speak—
all of it would come spilling out.

She’d thought she’d played her part well enough that even he believed her.
That maybe he truly thought it was just some blackout.
That she didn’t remember.

Texting him now might raise suspicion.
She had written the script, directed the whole damn act— and now she just had to keep the show running.

No room for a last-minute rewrite.
No room for damning herself with a single stupid act.

But then—

That look.
That look of utter desperation in his eyes—
it flashed through her mind like a blade.

She’d hurt him.
So badly.
And she was still here. Calculating. Manipulating.

The thought clawed at her chest—
sharp, merciless.

Self-loathing hit like a wave, violent and cold.

She had lied.
Blatantly.
Looked him in the eye and said words that weren’t true.

And she couldn’t stop replaying it—
the way his jaw had clenched,
the way his breath caught in his throat,
right before he turned away.

She was disgusting.
Selfish.
A goddamn coward.

She’d dug her own grave the moment she gave in—
the second she pulled him into that dark room
and let herself fall, just once,
into the only place that had ever felt like home.

Now she was scrambling to cover the evidence,
bury the truth before anyone else could dig it up.

She had betrayed the one person who had seen through her bravado,
who had understood her—
loved her—
in all her sharp, broken pieces.

She made it seem like he was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
Like he had been a mistake.

And maybe he hated her for it now.
Maybe he saw her as nothing more than a manipulative bitch
who tricked him into betraying his own brother—
who lured him into a moment of weakness
and then denied it ever happened.

How could I do that to him?

Lila’s lips trembled. Her breath hitched deep in her chest.
She pressed a hand over her mouth to stop the sobs rising in her throat,
but it was no use.

The dam broke.

The tears came hot and relentless,
pouring down her cheeks
and soaking the palm that tried to silence them.

Her shoulders shook under the weight of what she’d done.

She doubled over, quiet and broken,
whispering into the dark:

“I’m so sorry, Five…”

A sob cracked her voice.

“I’m so sorry…”

The next few days dragged on like a wounded animal crawling through a storm of fire, desperate for shelter and finding none.

Uneasiness crept into Lila’s mind like she’d committed a serious crime, and the police were already filing the paperwork to arrest her. It lingered, slow and cruel, as though it knew what she had done.

Still no word from Five.

His silence rattled her more than anything she’d ever known. It took her back to the time she’d hidden in a closet, obeying her mum’s whispered instructions to stay quiet… and waited for her to come back.

But she never came.

The one who opened the door was the Handler.

Even at four, Lila remembered that silence—heavy, endless, terrifying.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Both times, Five was the reason for the silence.

He must be livid. So furious he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Why wouldn’t he? What she’d done was unforgivable. She shattered their bond—just like that. Destroyed the most beautiful, meaningful friendship she’d ever had, just to have him for one night.

Her recklessness had finally come to collect.

Five had every right to hate her.

He was a man of many things, but one trait stood above the rest—his loyalty to his family. Forty-five years of hell, just to make it back to his siblings. He loved them fiercely, without question, without limits.

And she made him betray them.

She made him lie. Made him the cheater. Turned him into the kind of man he never wanted to be.

How would he ever look Diego in the eye again?

Could they even be a family after this?

She wished she could rewind time. Stop herself from taking that one goddamn turn toward the masquerade. She should’ve gotten on that bus and never looked back. Should’ve run like hell instead of walking straight into her own destruction.

But deep down, she was lying to herself again.

Because no matter how much guilt crushed her—no matter how it pressed into her ribs like a vice—she didn’t regret it.

Not one second of that night.

How could you regret one of the best nights of your life?

On the fourth day, Lila finally broke. She sent Five a quick message:
“Hey, what’s with the silence? Wanna catch up for a cuppa?”
She tried to sound normal.

He didn’t reply.

She checked her phone every fifteen minutes. Still nothing.
Not even the pulsing three dots.
Just… silence.

The invisible fear she’d kept buried clawed its way to the surface.
Was he really cutting her off?

She texted again:
“Are you still alive?”
“Mad at me or something?”

Still nothing.
Her heart cracked a little more.

“Five.”
She typed again.
“Five.”
And again.
“Five.”
And again.
“Five.”

Every word vanished into silence.
Like shouting into the dark and getting nothing back—not even an echo.
Just empty space.

It felt like sending a signal from a dying world, hoping someone, somewhere, might hear her.

But the universe stayed quiet.
Indifferent.
No reply.
No sign.
Only the soundless weight of being ignored.

And in that silence, only one thing answered:
Desperation.
Cold.
Ruthless.

Her fingers trembled. Her shoulders shook.  The phone blurred beneath the shimmer of unshed tears.

She knew what this was.

Frantic now, she rushed to her laptop and fired off a quick email.
It bounced back.
She tried again.
Same result.

He’d blocked her.

Phone. Email. Everything.

The realization stabbed through her chest—
then twisted.

He didn’t just want space.
He didn’t want her.

He despised her.

No.
No, this couldn’t be it. 

This couldn’t be how it ended.

There had to be something she could do.

On Saturday morning, she climbed into her car and drove to his apartment after mumbling some excuse to Diego about picking up books. Her hands shook on the wheel. Her throat burned.

She took the elevator up to his floor.

Knocked on the brown hardwood door.

Silence.

Maybe he’d gone out for coffee—he did that sometimes.

So she waited.

Fifteen minutes. Thirty. An hour.

Still nothing.

She stood in that hallway with her back against the wall, cold and hollow.

Eventually, she had to go. Her excuse was running out of time.

But part of her stayed behind, aching at that closed door, waiting for a miracle that wouldn’t come.

When she got home, she waited until Diego was in the shower before quietly checking his phone. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the messages, dread prickling down her spine.

There it was.
Sent two days ago:

“I have to go overseas for a mission. Not sure when I’ll be back. Maybe a few months. Take care.”

She stared at the message, the words blurring as her vision burned. It looked like the same message he probably sent to all his siblings. But not to her—not for her. 

When Five left for missions in the past, he always messaged her separately. Always gave her an estimate, even if vague— “Three weeks, max,” “Back by next full moon,” “You’ll barely miss me.”
Always made sure she knew.
But not this time.

This time, he had cut the cord clean.

She was the only one he wanted out of his life.

And that realization settled like lead in her stomach.

She had ended them.

Saying it hurt didn’t even scratch the surface. Pain was something you could cry through, shout through, bleed through. This was different—this was a quiet implosion. This was a grief with no funeral, a heartbreak with no closure. It hollowed her out. Left her gasping.

Every memory of him returned with violent clarity: the glint of his smirk, the warmth in his eyes, the exact way his fingers brushed her wrist when no one was watching. His voice. His laugh. His goddamn dimples.

Gone. All of it—slipped through her fingers like water, like sand she didn’t know she was holding until it was too late.

She had miscalculated everything.
She thought Five might at least let her talk, let her explain what happened.
Considering the connection they’d built over all these years.
Considering all the moments he made her feel like the one—like she was special to him. Like she mattered .

She had a thousand explanations clawing up her throat.
She was ready to tell him everything.
But he never gave her the chance.

It seemed that once he found out who she really was—
The cheater. The liar.
The kind of woman who could lose herself in the dark with a stranger—
He didn’t just shut her out.
He was disappointed. Maybe even disgusted.

He couldn’t stand to be near her anymore.
He just wanted her gone.

And maybe that was the worst part—
Not the silence.
Not the distance.
But the unbearable truth:
That she meant so little.

And still, she deserved it.
Every cruel silence.
Every step he took away from her—
She had earned them all.

The next four months were a quiet kind of hell. Not a single word from him. Each morning she woke to a world that felt dimmer, smaller—like the colors had been drained from everything she loved.

She threw herself into housework, caring for her kids, tending to her parents. She took on more tasks than ever to ease Diego’s load. She owed him that much. After what she’d done, guilt dug its claws deep, sinking into her skin, and she worked, smiled, and stayed on her feet as if sheer will could hold her together.

But at night, when her body finally begged for rest, her mind twisted alive with torment. It raged through her with thousands of restless thoughts, regrets, and shame. And creeping back like a cold shadow—grief, raw and unyielding.

When her body and mind finally surrendered to exhaustion, nightmares pounced like predators.

She’d jerk awake gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. In the darkness, his broken eyes haunted her—empty, hollow, full of finality. She saw him turning away with cold decisiveness. The ground beneath them ripped open into a bottomless pit. She reached for him, desperate—but he was gone. He never looked back.

She shoved her face into her pillow, biting her arm raw just to drown out the sobs tearing through her. No sound escaped.

No one could ever know.

She had cut off her own heart to make this life work.

Now she just had to survive it.

The only issue was, she was in such a bad place she didn’t even notice how often she and Diego started to fight. His messiness grated on her nerves more than it ever used to. She tried to stay calm—tried to be patient—but the outbursts came fast and sharp, like something inside her snapping without warning.

And she couldn’t bring herself to be intimate with him anymore. Not without thinking about Five.

Because no matter how many nights passed, she couldn’t forget the way Five had marked her—without even trying.

His hands. His mouth. His breath in her ear.

It lingered like a phantom, seared into her skin.

And she hated herself for badly craving it.

Sometimes, she tried. She’d close her eyes, let Diego hold her, and pretend it was someone else. But the scent was wrong. Five’s scent—his warmth, his quiet intensity—it was nothing like Diego’s. The illusion broke before it even had a chance to form. And then she’d lie there, still and cold, unable to fake her way through it.

Diego started to notice. He grew more irritable, more reckless. One night, he got into a bar fight trying to protect a stranger.

The fight was worse than she thought. Diego had charged headfirst into a brawl with seven men—reckless, bleeding, and stupidly brave. By the time the ambulance arrived, his arm was snapped clean through, and the doctors said he’d need surgery and weeks in the hospital to recover.

Lila barely had time to breathe.

The house was even more chaotic without him. Three kids, school runs, grocery shopping, bills, cooking, checking in on him in the hospital—it all came crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She didn’t sleep. She didn’t eat properly. She just kept going—because someone had to.

And all the while, the guilt sat inside her like a blade buried too deep to remove.

She kept telling herself she deserved it. That this—every exhausting hour, every aching limb—was penance. For what she did to Diego. For how she let Five touch her. For how she let herself fall apart.

Four months after that night, Five finally came back from overseas.

She heard it before she saw it—a faint sound in the hospital corridor as she helped Diego brush his teeth.
The click of polished shoes.
Footsteps she would know anywhere—precise, deliberate, too careful.
Her breath hitched.

The toothbrush slipped from Diego’s hand and clattered into the sink, but Lila didn’t move.

Five was here.

She turned toward the door instinctively—
But it stayed closed.
No knock.
No voice.
Nothing.

Her shoulders felt heavy.
The back of her neck prickled, like someone was watching her but refusing to be seen.

She wanted to go to the door.
To open it.
To pretend everything was normal, just so she could talk to him. Look at him. Greet him. Be near him.

But his silence held her in place.
His resistance pinned her there.

Then she heard his footsteps retreat. Each one slicing deeper than the last.
Her heart gave a painful shudder.

Later, when she returned from grabbing coffee, she stopped short outside the room.
She heard Diego laughing quietly at something.

And there it was—
That faint trace of him still lingering in the air.
Warm and metallic, like ozone after a storm.
The window was slightly ajar.

He had waited for her to leave.
He had come.
But not for her.

He still wanted nothing to do with her.
And it shattered her all over again.

Relief hit first—he was alive, he was safe.
But pain followed like a second heartbeat.
Crushing.
Merciless.

Because even after four months—
Even after the silence that nearly broke her—
Five still couldn’t look her in the eye.
Still couldn’t forgive her.
Still refused to speak her name.

She watched from the doorway for a second too long before turning away.
He had made it clear. Whatever they’d been—whatever they’d done—was dead and buried. She wasn’t even worth a greeting.

And yet, she couldn’t stop looking for him.
Couldn’t stop hurting every time he avoided her at gatherings.

If she entered a room, he walked out.
If she passed him in a hallway, his eyes never met hers.
If she laughed too loud, he went quiet.

He used to melt when she teased him.
Now he turned to stone.

The only time she still saw the man she once knew was in the way he treated Diego.
He watched over him with silent vigilance—pulled him out of bad situations, covered for him when needed, protected him like a brother.

Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe Five thought this was the way to make it right.

And Lila… she let him.

She let him pretend she didn’t exist, if it meant Diego was safe.
If it meant Five could live with himself.

So, for the next two years, she buried everything.
Every smile, every memory, every echo of their friendship and their unspoken affection.
And she carried that love—silent, sharp, and unforgiving—like a wound that would never close.

Two years shouldn’t have felt so long. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. For someone like her—a time-traveling hitwoman who used to leap through centuries at the Commission’s whim—two years was nothing. A blink. A breath. She’d spent longer stretches in other lives, completing missions with no purpose beyond survival.

But this was different.

These two years crawled by like a slow, unending punishment.

She had never imagined her life could become this hollow—this lonely—all because of one man. All because he refused to speak to her. All because he had gone back to treating her the way he did when they first met: like a stranger he had no time for.

She had hoped—honestly believed—that time would dull the pain. That one day she’d look at him and not feel her heart twist. That eventually, the ache would fade. That she would be fine again.

But it didn’t happen.

Every time he spared her a glance, however brief, her stomach betrayed her. The butterflies stirred like they hadn’t gone anywhere. If he spoke to her—usually out of obligation, like tonight, when he brought Diego home as part of his loyal big-brother routine—her ears rang with a kind of foolish giddiness. Even if his tone was clipped, colder now. Even if every word was wrapped in detachment.

It didn’t matter. He spoke. He saw her. He couldn’t quite ignore her, no matter how hard he tried.

And sometimes, those tiny scraps of attention were all she had. All she needed to keep going.

When Diego invited him to the twins’ birthday party, something in her leapt. She joked—lighthearted, offhand—told him he should come too. The reluctance on his face was obvious. But he didn’t say no.

That was enough.

At least, this time, she could be near him without him fleeing the room.

She feared he’d make some excuse not to show. But the moment he stepped into the kitchen, a flush of happiness bloomed in her chest, warm and startling. She masked it with a small, private smile as she busied herself packing gift bags for the twins’ friends, pretending not to notice him.

Throughout the party, she moved around him with quiet care. She played the role of attentive host so well that no one suspected how her whole body was tuned to his presence—how much she cherished just being close to him again, even without words.

And then she heard it.

Overheard, really.

He was talking to Klaus—low voice, casual, probably thinking she wasn’t listening.

He said he hated her.

The words pierced straight through her.

The pain came roaring back, raw and total, even drowning out the next blow—Diego had applied to join the police again without telling her.

None of it compared to the sound of Five saying those five quiet words.

“Maybe I do hate her.”

Lila’s fists clenched at her sides, the aftermath of the argument with Diego still fizzing under her skin. She wanted to scream—or cry—or both. But she couldn’t. Not with the kids running around just a few rooms away, balloons popping and sweets being passed around like nothing had cracked inside her.

So she stayed frozen in the hallway, throat thick, jaw tight. She knew Diego meant well in his own backwards way, but how could he spring something like this on her? Six months. Alone with the kids. Juggling work and everything else—again.

A part of her wanted to storm off. The other part, heavier and sadder, didn’t even have the strength to move.

And then the bathroom door creaked open, and she looked up.

Five.

God, it was him.

Her whole body eased, just for a moment. Just seeing him there—hands still damp, sleeves pushed up, expression unreadable—was enough to slice through the haze in her chest. Of course he’d heard everything. Of course he knew. He always did.

“You heard everything,” she muttered, voice barely above a breath.

“Yeah.”

“You’re helping him get back into the Academy?”

“Sort of.”

His voice was calm, practical—unbothered by the mess of her feelings, but not indifferent either. That was always the difference with Five. He wasn’t warm, exactly, but he noticed everything. And sometimes that felt warmer than anything else.

She asked her questions, made her jabs, tried to keep her guard up—but it was hard. Too hard. Especially when he cracked that line about Diego whining like a little bitch.

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it. An actual laugh, loud and bright and startled. Like it had been hiding inside her for years. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d missed this—him—until that moment. The way he teased with such precision. The way he challenged her, matched her. No eggshells between them. No fake niceties.

Just Five.

It felt like slipping into an old, familiar rhythm—one she hadn’t touched in two years. Since that night.

God. That night.

The memory rushed in like a tide—his hot mouth on her throat, the way his hands had trembled just slightly as they explored her, how his voice had rasped when he whispered dirty words into her ears. How he’d unravelled her over and over again. 

And now here he was again. Close. Real. Talking to her like he used to. She would’ve let him keep going forever if it meant holding onto that feeling just a little longer.

He said he’d try to help with the money. Reggie’s trust fund. Something Diego would never touch, but Five might be able to persuade him. Lila couldn’t even begin to respond. She could only nod, lips parted, watching him like he was a lifeline tossed into a sea she hadn’t realized she was drowning in.

“Thank you,” she said at last, not just for the money, or for Diego. For talking to her. For seeing her.

And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—she tripped.

One second she was turning away, the next she was weightless. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as her ankle wobbled and her balance disappeared—but she didn’t fall. Strong arms caught her. His arms.

For a moment, everything went still.

Her hands gripped his sleeves without thinking. His palm pressed against her spine. Her face tilted up and found his gaze already locked on her. His pupils were blown wide, his mouth parted slightly. And that scent—clean soap and something deeper, something that made her dizzy—wrapped around her like a net.

Every nerve in her body woke up.

She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to blink. Her breath hitched, chest brushing his. Her body felt submerged in him, like stepping into a memory she hadn’t dared revisit.

God, kiss me, she thought wildly. Please kiss me.

Her lips were barely apart. His eyes flicked to them. And for a fraction of a second, she could almost feel it—the weight of his mouth, the heat of his breath. The kiss they didn’t have to name. The one that had been waiting, festering, ever since that night.

“Five,” she whispered, not knowing what she was asking, just that she didn’t want to lose him again.

But then—

“Mummy! Can we do the piñata now?”

The voice shattered the moment. A child’s cry, bright and innocent.

Five flinched like he’d been burned. His hands fell away. Her body mourned the loss immediately, that ache snapping back into place as he stepped back with all the cold efficiency of a man retreating into armor.

“I— I should go too,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

The hallway felt too quiet without him. Too cold. She stood there for a moment, heart pounding, skin still buzzing from where he touched her, from where he almost—almost—kissed her.

And then she turned, forcing herself to walk toward the sound of laughter and balloons and a child screaming joyfully about candy.

But inside, something hollowed out. Something raw.

She hadn’t wanted to cry before.

Now, she did.

Later that night, she replayed the moment again and again.
Two years, and her body still betrayed her the second he touched her.
Still flushed hot at the smell of his skin, the feel of his hands on her waist.
Still ached for him to throw caution to the wind and kiss her— right there in her own home,
during her kids’ birthday party.

God.
She was still that woman.
Shameless.
Desperate.
Pathetic.

No wonder he ran. Again.
He didn’t look back—just like he didn’t in Allison’s kitchen two years ago.

She let out a bitter, strangled laugh, too hoarse to echo.
Tears slid down her cheeks without permission.

“It’s okay, Lila. It’s gonna be okay,” she choked, wrapping her arms around herself like a tourniquet.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she whispered, rocking slightly.
The same mantra she’d used every night for the past two years.
“It’s gonna stop. One day it’ll…stop. It’ll…stop. It’ll….s…top”

But she didn’t believe it.

Not really.

The next six months were a different kind of hell.

Flu season hit like a freight train, and the kids went down one after another, like dominoes. Just when one started to recover, another spiked a fever. Lila barely had time to breathe between doses of Panadol, lukewarm baths, and midnight coughing fits.

To make things worse, her usual backup—her parents—were both sick themselves. Ronny, bless his soul, had kidney stones and was in and out of the hospital. Her mother was too frail to lift much more than a teacup. Lila was running on fumes, held together by caffeine, stress, and sheer maternal instinct.

And Diego?

Diego was at the Academy almost every weekday, crashing at headquarters and only coming home on the occasional weekend. When he did walk through the door, he was all grins and swagger, bursting to share stories about his training gains and tactical breakthroughs—completely oblivious to the wreckage at home.

Miraculously, the kids always seemed to be at their best on the weekends, their temperatures dropped, their moods lifted. Diego, unaware of the wreck Lila was in for the rest of the week, assumed everything was fine. Easy, even.

“It’s like they just needed their dad back,” he’d say with a wink, kissing her forehead.

And Lila would smile. Because what else could she do? Scream? Cry? Demand he spend one night holding a vomit bowl?

He didn’t see the chaos. Not really. And he never stayed long enough to feel it.

But then, unexpectedly, came a small reprieve.

Klaus.

He showed up one rainy Tuesday, coat dripping, arms full of groceries, and said, “Thought I’d make you some soup. Looked like you needed a win.”

At first, Lila had stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Klaus? Helpful?

As much as she loved Klaus—as a friend, as a brother-in-law, as one of the few souls who could still make her laugh—he wasn’t exactly known for consistency. Even now, sober and steadier than he’d ever been, Klaus still floated through life like a balloon on a breeze. His loyalty was real, but unpredictable. His help? Often more chaotic than not.

So when he started showing up more regularly—folding laundry without being asked, cooking dinner, picking up the kids from school—Lila knew something was off.

Klaus was helping.

Which could only mean one thing: he was hiding something.

Someone must have asked him to look after her.

At first, she thought it was Diego. It made sense. He was away for police academy training, and he worried. But then, on one of the rare weekends he came home, he casually asked if Five had checked in on her lately. She said no, and mentioned that Klaus had been the one helping out.

And just like that, it clicked.

Diego had asked Five to keep an eye on her. And Five—of course—had asked Klaus to do it instead. Probably even paid him for the job. Classic Five. Always the strategist, always at a distance. Close enough to help. Never close enough to touch.

Lila didn’t know what to feel.

It should have been nothing. Just another practical move from a man who once calculated time travel formulas like breathing. But the truth tangled deeper than that. Five was supposed to hate her. Or at least resent her. After what she did more than two years ago, that would have been fair.

But then he showed up at the twins’ birthday. He could have walked away again, like he did in Allison’s kitchen. But he didn’t. He stayed. He talked to her. He looked at her. He convinced her—like only Five could—that he’d get Diego to use Reginald’s hush fund to carry them through the next six months.

And when she slipped on the slick wooden floor, he could’ve let her fall—but he didn’t. His hands shot out in a blink, lightning-fast, like it was second nature. Both arms braced firmly around her shoulder blades, shielding her from the impact, holding her like something precious.

And for just one second, she saw it in his eyes again—that look.

That impossible tenderness.

The same way he used to look at her all those years ago.

You don’t look at someone you hate like that... do you?

It had hurt like hell when he left again. But then Diego came home with a check larger than anything they’d ever seen. And she knew. She knew who had pulled the strings. Five always delivered when he made a promise.

Maybe it was all for Diego. It was possible. But part of her—some deep, aching part of her—believed it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just loyalty to his brother. He’d looked at her like she still mattered.

Was it foolish to hope?

She’d spent the last two years trying to smother hope in every corner of herself. Telling herself he didn’t think about her. That he was disgusted by her. That whatever had existed between them had been buried and burned.

But the thought refused to die. It flickered stubbornly, like a candle flame in a locked room she couldn’t quite abandon. And that was the real danger—because if she hoped, and it wasn’t true, the crash would kill her.

So she pressed it down again. Slammed the door. Locked it. Double-locked it. Threw away the key. Like she always did.

She didn’t have time for it anyway.

There were bills. The kids. Her sick father. Her worried mother.  Diego was barely around. And now this—this strange new distraction creeping into her periphery.

A cult.
They called themselves The Children of the Sun.
And they were starting to catch her eye for all the wrong reasons.

Chapter Text

One afternoon, while picking up Grace from school, Lila noticed one of the fathers arriving earlier than usual. She wouldn’t have looked twice at him—if Grace hadn’t mentioned something a few weeks back.

Grace had told her about her best friend Maya. How she’d been unusually quiet, withdrawn. How her dad had been acting strange—disappearing to late-night “meetings,” muttering things about how the government had failed them, how change needed to come, and how nothing would ever get better until it did. There had been shouting at home, her mother and older brother constantly on edge. Grace said Maya cried during recess now. Her dad, as Lila knew, was a war vet from Iraq.

So when that man—Maya’s father, Hank—showed up early and yanked Maya into his car with a roughness that made her flinch, Lila’s alarm bells went off.

It wasn’t Tanya who usually picked Maya up.

Acting on instinct, Lila shoved her kids into the car, gave them snacks and instructions to stay quiet, then began trailing Hank from a safe distance.

He drove fast. Jittery. Erratic. The kind of driving someone did when they were either paranoid—or already being watched.

Eventually, he pulled into a forgotten pocket of the city—a neighborhood where the windows were either barred or shattered, and nothing good ever happened in daylight, let alone dusk.

Lila killed her lights and coasted into a side street. She watched as Hank got out and pulled Maya with him, gripping her wrist like she was a stray dog. The girl looked terrified but didn’t make a sound.

They were met by a few others outside the building—men and women who looked painfully ordinary. No leather jackets. No facial tattoos. Just crisp polos, conservative dresses, and hollowed-out eyes.

They checked the street twice, scanning for tails.

But Lila had been doing this for years—before the kids, before Diego, before the years started catching up with her. She knew how to disappear in plain sight. Knew how to become just another shadow.

She stayed low, watching as Hank led Maya into the building.

Lila glanced at the backseat—Grace and the twins were dozing off under their blankets, oblivious.

She wanted so badly to act. If only she could borrow his power again. To kick in the door and drag Maya out. Back in the day, she’d have blinked through the walls, broken a nose or two, and been gone before anyone blinked. Hell, Five would’ve cleared the whole damn building in thirty seconds flat.

But those days were behind them. Even Five had traded teleporting for bullets and bruises.

And she had her kids with her now. She couldn’t risk it. Not tonight. So she waited. Thirty long minutes.

When Hank reappeared, he looked less frantic, though the deep scowl between his brows remained. Maya followed a few steps behind—red-faced and trembling. Her head stayed bowed, shoulders hunched inward, as if she were trying to disappear entirely.

Whatever happened in that building, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fatherly. It wasn’t safe.

Some kind of indoctrination. Some ritual. Some cult nonsense.

Lila gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles went white.

She didn’t have all the answers yet, but one thing was crystal clear:
She needed to talk to Tanya.
And soon.

Maya’s mum—Tanya—was in her mid-forties. Once, she must have turned heads. Lila could still see traces of that in her sharp cheekbones and striking eyes, but life had worn her down. Not in an obvious, tragic way—but in the quiet, invisible way it wears down women who are always holding everyone else up.

They met through their daughters—Grace and Maya—who became fast friends on the soccer field. But it was Tanya and Lila who bonded at the sidelines. While the other mums fussed over organic snacks and Pinterest-perfect birthday parties, Tanya sat back with a flask of lukewarm coffee and a don't-give-a-shit attitude that Lila respected immediately. She had a dry wit, too, the kind that made Lila laugh out loud in ways she hadn’t in years.

They never talked too much about their marriages, but they didn’t need to. There was a quiet understanding between them—shared fatigue, the subtle glances during practice pickup, the mutual eye-rolls when husbands were mentioned.

Sometimes, when practice ran late and the sun dipped low over the field—painting the sky in streaks of rust and gold—Lila and Tanya slipped around the side of the building for a vape. It wasn’t much. A half-used cartridge, a stolen moment. But it felt like rebellion. Like breathing for themselves, if only for a minute.

The smoke curled from Lila’s lips in slow spirals. She leaned back against the concrete wall, eyes half-lidded, letting the silence settle comfortably between them before breaking it.

“It’ll have to get easier eventually, yeah?” she murmured, not looking over. The words came out soft, more like wishful thinking than conviction.

Tanya let out a dry laugh and shook her head. Her eyes—always a little too tired—flicked toward the empty soccer field.

“Or,” she said, taking a long drag, “you just find the courage to walk away and never look back.”

Lila turned, studying her face. Her jaw was tight, her mouth drawn in that familiar way—like she was trying to say something brave that still tasted like heartbreak.

“Not when the kids are still small,” Lila said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

She looked down at her shoes, ash falling near the toes. “The kids’ll always be small in some way,” she said, her voice rough now. Then she glanced back up, a flicker of defiance softening into something fiercely protective. “But they’re also the reason. The line I don’t let anyone cross.”

Their eyes met—just for a moment—and something passed between them. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just a quiet, weathered understanding.

Lila nodded, exhaling another thin trail of vapor. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to.

From those fragments, Lila pieced the picture together. Hank—Tanya’s husband—hadn’t always been the unstable man he was now. Before Iraq, he’d been warm, idealistic, full of fire for something bigger than himself. But the war had hollowed him out. Left him bitter. Suspicious. Angry. He ranted about betrayal, about lies, about children he'd seen wide-eyed and screaming after the raids.

“There was no fucking nuclear weapon anywhere.”
“I still remember the kids’ eyes. Wide. Screaming. It never stops at night.”

She’d said those words to Lila once during a rain delay at the field. She didn’t cry. Just stared into a puddle like it might give her the answer.

He’d tried everything—therapy, pills, meditation, even church—but nothing stuck. The demons clung tighter each year. And Tanya—strong, sharp, self-aware—was wearing down beneath the weight of keeping the family upright when the foundation had already cracked.

But when Lila told her what she’d seen—Hank bringing Maya to some underground group meeting, the girl coming back pale and shaken—she didn’t flinch. No excuses. No hesitation.

“Then I’m done,” she said.

They both knew the traditional route—lawyers, custody hearings, restraining orders—would be too slow. Hank hadn’t laid a hand on them, and without visible harm, the system wouldn’t move fast enough. By the time the courts caught up, Maya could be lost to whatever the Children of the Sun were doing.

They needed a clean exit. Fast. Untraceable.

And Lila? She knew how to disappear.

So for three weeks, between mothering Grace and the twins, fighting off exhaustion, and shouldering her own chaos, Lila built the escape plan—precise, watertight, ruthless. No loose ends.

But she was also playing a longer game. If she could stay embedded in the cult—on the fringe, harmless-looking—she might learn more. Figure out who else they were targeting. What they really wanted.

She got herself into two early-stage gatherings, posing as a disillusioned mother searching for meaning. The group didn’t accept outsiders easily. You had to be vouched for by an inner member. So Lila played her part flawlessly: open, uncertain, vulnerable. She coached Tanya to do the same.

Together, they convinced Hank that Tanya was warming to the cause. That maybe—maybe—this strange collective was the last chance to heal their marriage.

He believed it.

He brought her in, proud to finally see her “wake up.” And through her, Lila kept access. Quiet, observant, always peripheral.

The cult’s doctrine was half political paranoia, half mysticism. Anti-capitalist, anti-state, with a belief in an interdimensional being who would “cleanse” the world once summoned through ritual. Children—especially those deemed “innocents”—were being trained to act as conduits, taught encrypted prayers in secret.

It was madness. But it was dangerous madness.

Lila studied Hank’s pattern from within. Together with Tanya, they picked a night when he’d be deep into a ritual—hours long, emotionally draining, enough to distract the group.

She left the kids with Klaus that evening, telling him she had “unfinished business.” Hours earlier, she’d spiked Hank’s drink with a subtle sedative—strong enough to knock him out, gentle enough not to raise alarm.

During the prayer circle, Hank slumped forward. No one noticed. They thought he was transcending.

As the chants rose around her, Lila slipped away and texted the signal.

Tanya didn’t pause. She’d packed light: the kids, two bags, a burner phone, and an old car with unregistered plates. She left a folded note on the dresser—three lines, no explanation.

They met briefly outside the city, headlights casting long shadows over an empty road. The hug was tight, quiet. Tanya smelled like peppermint and tiredness.

“Whatever guilt you’re carrying, Lila… let it go. You did right. Start living for yourself now, yeah? Stop punishing yourself for… whatever it was.”

Lila couldn’t answer. She just nodded.

Then the car pulled away, disappearing into the night with its fragile cargo and one woman’s reclaimed future.

Lila went back to the commune house, propped Hank up on a couch, and vanished from sight. When he woke hours later—groggy, enraged—his family was gone.

He never suspected her. No one did.

She stayed in the game.

Somewhere deep inside, she wanted answers. Needed them. Helping Tanya had reawakened a fire she thought had burned out long ago. The thrill. The danger. The purpose. A leopard didn’t change its spots, and even if motherhood had softened her, Lila knew what she was—what she’d always been.

An assassin. A tactician. A ghost in the machine.

And she was good at it. Maybe too good to stop.

Maybe she could help more people like Tanya and Maya.

But the mission wrecked her. Three weeks of planning, pretending, and mothering had drained every reserve. Her body gave in the next morning—feverish, aching, cold sweat pooling along her spine. She blamed the cult basement’s floor. Blamed one of the twins' colds. But part of her knew better.

She'd run herself into the ground.

And worse—Tanya’s words refused to stay buried. They kept circling back like smoke.

Stop punishing yourself for whatever it was.

Lila turned her face toward the ceiling and let the fever take her.

She wasn’t sure if she deserved the rest. But she was too tired to argue.

She kept telling herself it was almost over.
Diego would be back from training in a few days. Then she’d have help. Then she could sleep. Then maybe she could think straight.

Just a few more days.
That had become her mantra—empty and echoing.

But she was completely, utterly exhausted.

This wasn’t the kind of tiredness sleep could cure. It wasn’t the usual end-of-day fatigue she’d grown used to. This was deeper. Heavier. A bone-deep exhaustion that clawed at her insides and hollowed her out from the ribs down.

Every breath felt like a weight.
Every step, an act of will.

Maybe she was coming down with something.
Or maybe—she was finally breaking.

She needed to get out. To breathe. Even if it was just for a few hours. So she asked Klaus to watch the kids and slipped away before she shattered in front of them.

Her feet carried her—heavy, dragging, like she was wading through mud—to the lake near her house. Halfway there, she already regretted it. Her stamina was gone. The sky looked ready to break. She should’ve stayed in bed. But it was too late to turn back now.

She kept going until she reached her favorite spot.

As she sank onto the bench, her muscles gave out—her body melting into the wood like it had finally found something solid to collapse into.

The sky above mirrored the lake below—dull and gray. Murky. Suspended. Just like her.

She stared at the water, her mind heavy with truths she didn’t want to face.

Why had she stayed with Diego?
Yes, he was nowhere near as horrible as Hank, but his ignorance of her struggle grated on her nerves.

She blamed herself for everything—for betraying him.
But why had she fallen for someone else?
Why had she fallen for Five?

What made him different from Diego?

Why had she tried so hard to make it work—forcing herself to believe stability meant happiness, that loyalty meant love?
And why, after everything, did her heart still ache for someone else?

She should’ve confronted Five. Told him the truth. Demanded answers—before it all became too tangled. This cold silence between them had been killing her for years. And she didn’t know how much longer she could carry it alone.

Maybe she was done pretending.
Maybe next time—if he came—she wouldn’t run.

She sat there, motionless. The weight of the air thickened around her, pressing into her lungs, her ribs, her skull. She didn’t make a sound—but inside, she was screaming. Screaming at herself for not walking away sooner. For not chasing after him. For settling.

Two and a half years.
Two fucking years spent in a life that never quite fit.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about Diego—she did. But somewhere along the line, they had turned stagnant. Something she stayed in out of guilt. Out of fear. Out of the hopeless wish that maybe, if Five stayed gone long enough, her feelings would fade.

They never did.

She looked at the lake. The ripples spread slow and merciless across the surface. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and regret.

This place used to mean something.

She remembered the last time she’d come here with Five—how light everything had felt. How easily he made her laugh. How close she’d come to telling him the truth.

Almost.

Her throat tightened.

Why didn’t I just tell him?

Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t feel this wrung out—this hollow.
This wasn’t tiredness anymore.
It was grief.
Grief worn down to the bone.

She hadn’t just lost herself in motherhood, or in the rhythms of domestic life.
She’d buried something vital the day she let him walk away.
The day she convinced herself that wanting more—wanting him—was selfish.

But there was no undoing it now.

She gazed at the horizon. The clouds had thickened—the sky about to burst. It was time to go—before the rain came, before the kids needed her, before dinner burned and Diego came home, oblivious to everything unraveling inside her.

She tried to stand— But dizziness struck like a whip.

Her knees buckled. Her vision swam.

Just a minute, she told herself.

Just a moment to breathe.

Then—the scream. A crash. A blur of motion.

A sharp jolt tore through her side as a skateboard clipped her hip. She stumbled, winded. The world tilted—fast, sharp, unforgiving.

And then—the water.

She surfaced once, thrashing. Limbs cutting through the icy lake. Her mind screamed swim .
And for a few seconds—she did.

Strong kicks.
Gasping.
Fighting.

But her body betrayed her.
Her arms slowed.
Her muscles cracked from fatigue.
Her lungs burned as water pushed in—relentless.

She wasn’t giving up.

She was trying.

But exhaustion was heavier than water.

The surface slipped away.

Her eyes fluttered shut. The faces of her children flashed through her mind. Then—his.

Then—nothing.

Distantly, she felt movement. Arms. A grip. Something dragging her back.

Cold air slapped her lungs. Someone was shouting her name—like it meant everything. She was laid on the grass.

Then—compressions. Her ribs jolted. His voice. Her name.

And then—His mouth on hers.

Breath.

Lips.

Then— She choked. Water surged from her throat. She coughed, gasped, clawed for air like it was life itself. Her lungs seized. Her eyes stung.

But she was alive.

And the first thing she saw was the sky—gray and swimming.

Then him.

Five.

Soaked. Pale. Eyes wild with panic he couldn’t hide.

She turned her head, her voice a thread of breath. “Five… is it you?”

It came out like a hallucination.

“Yeah.”

Just that. And somehow, it made everything worse.

Because now she could feel him—his presence, his hands, his fear. And everything she’d buried came clawing back up.

Why did he still come for her?

Why hadn’t she fought for this?

Why had she spent two years with someone else—pretending Five didn’t live inside her ribs?

But he was here.

He dove in for her.

Not Diego. Not anyone else.

Him.

Even now, when she was half-conscious and soaked in shame and regret, she didn’t want to let go. She reached for his hand—weak, trembling, deliberate.

“Five,” she whispered. “Stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just sat beside her in the ambulance, soaked to the bone, jaw clenched like it hurt to breathe.

Her fingers curled tighter around his.

She wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. To ask him why he ever left. Why he didn’t fight harder. Why he couldn’t see what her true feelings were.

But all she could do was hold on.

And for the first time in years—

Someone held on back.

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—but it was the kind of rest she hadn’t felt in years. Dreamless. Peaceful. A stillness so deep it felt like being wrapped in warmth after a long winter.

That warmth, she sensed, came from the hand holding hers. Large. Steady. Familiar. A hand that had haunted her for two and a half years.

Five.

He had come for her again. Pulled her back from the edge. Saved her—for the second time. When no one else saw her. When no one else cared. He did.

Five, there’s so much I want to tell you. I love you. Please don’t go. Please stay.

She called to him in her mind, the words swelling louder as consciousness stirred. Her body was heavy, but she could still feel his hand—anchoring her.

She had to wake up. She had to say it. Before it was too late.

Lila forced her eyes open—only to flinch, blinded by sterile light. Pain bloomed behind her eyes, her limbs aching like stone. Still, she groaned softly, cracked her lids open again, and turned her head toward the warmth, toward the hand holding hers.

“Fiv…” she whispered.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Diego.

He squeezed her hand, voice thick. “I’m here, babe.”

Her breath caught. “Diego,” she whispered, startled. Her gaze darted around the room. Where is Five?

Then, just beyond the door, a shadow retreated—quick and quiet, slipping behind the frame.

It was him.

Why wouldn’t he come in? Why was he hiding?

Her chest twisted. He had just saved her life. Why wouldn’t he face her?

His name nearly left her lips—but Diego spoke first.

“Babe, you scared the hell out of me. I thought I was gonna lose you.”

The look on his face stopped her. He was pale, shaken. And for the first time in years, he looked at her like she was everything.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It was just an accident. I’m fine now.”

Once, she would have welcomed Diego’s attention—soaked in it like sunlight. But not now. Not when he hadn’t been there when it truly mattered. All she wanted was to move past him—fast—so she could reach the one person who had been there. The one standing just outside that door.

Diego shook his head, eyes glossy. “No, Lila. You almost drowned.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. You were exhausted. And I—I was too caught up in chasing my dream to see it.”

Diego’s words really caught her off guard this time. It wasn’t lip service. He was admitting something that she never thought he would do. She could feel it—his fear, his regret. He was gutted. After everything, he still loved her. Maybe he always had. But it took this for him to finally see her.

For years, she had been drowning in the quiet weight of motherhood and domestic life, slowly disappearing. And he hadn’t noticed.

Would it have been different if he had?

Would she still have fallen for someone else with her whole heart?

“It’s been so long,” she whispered, tears brimming. “Sometimes I think you don’t even see me anymore.”

Maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe she had stopped opening up. She didn’t even remember when it happened—that slow silence creeping in between them.

Maybe she had just gotten used to the way Five saw her without needing words. The way he met her fire and fatigue with steadiness instead of expectation.

She had wanted Diego to be the same. But they were two very different men.

Was it too late now?

Diego gripped her hand tighter, like he was scared she’d vanish. “I see you, Lila. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t.” His voice trembled. “It’s over. I finished the program. I’m coming home. Things will be different now, I promise. I’ll help out more. I won’t complain. You’ll have time for yourself—to do what you want. We’ll hire someone to help when you need it. Whatever you need, Lila. I swear to you, things will change.”

His words poured out like rain after a drought. Honest. Raw. She sensed it—the shift in him. He meant it.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

But still, part of her ached—because Five had always seen her. Even in silence. He had known she was slipping—and he came for her.

“Please trust me,” Diego whispered. “I’m not losing you again. I love you, babe.” His tone begging: “It’s gonna be okay.”

Lila nodded, trembling. “Okay.”

Maybe he deserved one more chance.

But then—footsteps.

Soft. Receding. Leather soles echoing down the hallway, growing fainter with each step.

Five.

Come back. Please. Come back.

But her silent plea was met with nothing.

Only the sound of him walking away.

Five never came back after that day.

For the next three days in the hospital, Lila waited—silent, still—hoping he’d return. Just once. Just long enough to talk. To explain. But he never came.

There was a time she could look into his eyes and understand everything. Every thought, every flicker of emotion—spoken or not. Now? He was almost a stranger wrapped in a familiar face. She no longer knew what lived inside that guarded man.

He’d shut her out. Nearly completely. Treated her like she meant nothing.

And yet… he still looked after her.

He’d asked Klaus to keep an eye on her. He’d followed her to the park—she knew it now. And he’d saved her life.

That wasn’t a coincidence. Not with Five. Nothing he did was ever left to chance.

He was always ten steps ahead. Always calculating. Always in control.

And on the twins’ birthday, that look—when he caught her from the fall—it was the same look he used to give her. Before it all fell apart. Before the distance. Before the silence.

That look didn’t come from indifference. It came from something deeper. She felt it in her chest, in her bones.

The way he looked at her after pulling her from the water—he was wrecked. Shaken. She’d never seen him like that. Not even when they faced death side by side. Not when he lost his arm. Not when the world burned around them.

That was fear in his eyes.

Real, raw fear.

Fear of losing her.

That wasn’t hate. It couldn’t be.

He still cared.

So then—why save her only to disappear? Why care in silence and punish her with distance? Why walk away like none of it mattered?

He still had her blocked. Still hadn’t messaged. Still hadn’t reached out.

Why?

Why?

Why, Five?

Her mind spiraled with a thousand unanswered questions, looping endlessly.

If only he’d walk through that door.

If only he’d say something—anything.

Was it all just a coincidence?

Was she just someone who happened to collapse in front of him?

Would he have done it for anyone?

Had he saved her because it was the right thing to do… not because it was her ?

And once it was over—was that it?

A job done. A debt paid.

Return to silence. Return to pretending she didn’t exist.

Was that all she was to him now?

Her throat tightened.

No answers came—only the echo of his footsteps, fading endlessly in her mind.

No. This wasn’t it.

This time, things would be different.

She promised herself—once she got out of the hospital, she would find him. Confront him. She wouldn’t let him walk away this time.

No more hiding. No more silence. No more living in limbo.

She had lived too long frozen between heartbreak and hope, unsure of where they stood. That had to end.

They needed to talk—truly talk—for the first time since everything shattered.

She had to know what he really thought of her.

What they were.

What they had been.

If it had ever meant anything to him.

If it still did.

And she would tell him everything.

No more fear. No more burying the truth beneath guilt and silence. She would tell him what happened that night. She would give him the apology she owed—and the explanation he deserved.

Not because she expected anything in return. But because she couldn’t carry the weight of it any longer.

She owed that to him.

And she owed it to herself, too.

Maybe, if she hadn’t fallen into the lake—if her lungs hadn’t filled with water and the darkness hadn’t closed in—she might’ve kept pretending. Kept hiding. Hoped that, with time, the pain would dull.

But not now.

Not after it was his hands that brought her back to life.

Not when, in the moments before she blacked out, her biggest regret rose like a scream inside her.

It was him.

Five.

Not Diego. Not anyone else.

Him.

She should’ve told him the truth. That she loved him.

That she had always loved him.

That no matter what she tried to build with Diego, it had always been him.

But life didn’t pause just because her world had.

The moment she left the hospital, Lila was swept back into family life—loud, demanding, relentless.

Every time she thought she’d found a moment to slip away, something interrupted her.

Diego had changed. For real, this time. He’d looked after her while she was in the hospital, making sure she didn’t lift a finger. When she came home, he insisted she rest. No chores. No stress. He handled the kids as much as he could, hovering around like a man determined to make up for lost time. Her parents, too, had stepped in more than ever before. It was as if they all suddenly saw how underwater she had been for the last few years—and now, no one would let her stand alone.

There was no quiet moment. No excuse she could invent that wouldn’t feel like betrayal. She couldn’t just jump in the car and drive to Five. So she waited. A few more days.

And to her own surprise, Lila felt something like guilt creeping in.
Because Diego was trying. Really trying. And she saw it. Felt it. The softness in his eyes when he brought her tea. The way he rubbed her back while she rested. The quiet apologies in every gesture. Maybe he didn’t always understand her—but he loved her. That much was clear.

Still, she knew she needed answers. She needed to face Five. To speak the truth, finally. Whatever came of that conversation, it would define everything. And she owed it to herself to know, once and for all, what they had been—what they still were.

So, in the meantime, she allowed herself to rest. To enjoy the warmth of her family just a little longer.

She also suggested Diego throw a party—to celebrate getting back into the police force. At first, he protested, saying it was too soon, that her health mattered more. But Lila insisted. She knew how much he had worked for this. How hard he’d fought to reclaim that part of himself. He deserved to be celebrated. And maybe, just maybe, it would give her a chance to see Five again. To talk to him in private. He wouldn’t be able to avoid her forever—not if she cornered him.

So the party was planned. And when Diego told her, beaming, that all of his siblings had accepted the invitation, Lila smiled too.
Because one of them would be Five.
And this time, she’d make sure he didn’t disappear before she got her chance.

A few days later, Lila received an unexpected phone call from a man who introduced himself simply as Derek. Said he worked for the CIA. Said he wanted to set up a meeting immediately.

But instead of giving her an address, he told her to check her mailbox for further instructions.

The next morning, she found a plain white envelope tucked inside. No return address. No name. Just a single folded sheet of paper with a cryptic message scrawled in blocky, impersonal text.

It took her five minutes to crack it.

Honestly, it was child’s play. Lila had deciphered more convoluted puzzles while brushing her teeth during her time at the Commission.

The message pointed to a quiet little coffee shop tucked near her daughter’s school—a place so ordinary it bordered on forgettable. But that made sense. That’s what the CIA did best: blend in.

She spotted him the moment she stepped inside.

Blond hair. Dark-rimmed glasses. Crisp blue button-down. Looked more like a mid-level executive assistant than a federal agent. He sat alone at the back table with a single espresso and a manila folder resting untouched in front of him.

Lila slid into the seat across from him without a word.

“Impressive,” he said after a pause, as if still recalibrating his expectations. “Most people wouldn’t have cracked that code.”

She tilted her head, eyes cool. “Cute code. Bit obvious, though. You might want to step it up next time if you're trying to impress someone who does cryptics for fun.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Right. Well. Let’s get to it, then.”

Derek got straight to the point: Children of the Sun—a rapidly growing extremist cult the CIA suspected was backed by a hostile foreign power. His questions were clipped but pointed. What did she know about their structure? Their funding? What were her impressions from the inside?

Lila answered without hesitation, her voice cool and measured. She told him everything she had observed: the manipulative recruitment methods, the coded ideology, the survivalist slant, the hints of military-grade weapons. The way they quietly amplified paranoia under the guise of “freedom.”

She also told him what she suspected but couldn’t yet prove: someone was helping them from the outside. Someone organized. Someone powerful.

Derek tried to school his expression, but she could read him like a book. He was impressed. Not just by what she knew—but how she presented it. Sharp. Precise. Unflinching.

Finally, he leaned forward, voice low.

“How would you feel about working with us? As an informant.”

Lila didn’t blink. “Gladly.”

Lila couldn’t shake the suspicion: there was a reason Derek had approached her—of all people—for a CIA role. There had to be. And as far as she knew, only one person in her life had a direct link to the agency.
Five.
It had to be him. He must’ve recommended her.

The thought pulled her back—years back—to that quiet coffee shop near his campus. The day he told her, practically buzzing with energy, that he’d been accepted into the CIA. The way he’d looked at her then, full of certainty, telling her she could ace the entrance exams too if she ever tried.

That same belief still lingered. Even now. Even after everything.

The realization warmed her heart—but it also chilled her.

Because beneath the flicker of gratitude, a familiar fear began to unfurl.

Something about this moment felt too familiar. Too much like the days before the concert. The days before it all fell apart. That eerie quiet before the world collapsed. Her instincts had screamed at her then, and she’d ignored them. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Five still hadn’t contacted her. He hadn’t unblocked her. Hadn’t said a word since the hospital. And yet… he’d done this. He’d thought it through. A flexible job she could manage between motherhood and the mess of her life. He knew her well enough to know what she could handle.

So he was at it again—doing things for her from the shadows. Quiet. Distant. Always in secret.

Even after saving her life, he’d vanished without a word.

She was done with that.

It was time to pull him out of the dark and into the light.
Time to face the truth—once and for all.

On the morning of the party, the sky was the color of wet cement—low, heavy clouds pressing down with quiet menace, like something was about to break.

That was when Diego’s phone rang.

As soon as he answered, Lila felt it. She didn’t hear the name, didn’t need to. The subtle shift in Diego’s voice was enough—she knew it was Five.

Diego chuckled into the phone, telling him they’d swing by the supermarket to grab more drinks and snacks. “Luther’s gonna plow through half the table before anyone else arrives,” he joked.

The timing was strange. Oddly specific. But Lila didn’t think much of it—at least not yet.

Later that morning, she wheeled Coco and Stanley in their pram toward the entrance of the supermarket. That was when it hit her—a sudden, sharp feeling. Like eyes on her. Like a presence just out of sight.

She paused, scanning the rows of cars stretched across the lot, searching for something—someone. But there was nothing. No shadow lingering. No figure standing too still. Just the usual weekend chaos.

Before she could investigate further, Diego reappeared, pushing a trolley overflowing with chips, soft drinks, and streamers. He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. Affectionate. Almost tender.

He’d been like that lately—softer, more present. It had taken her a while to adjust. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But she played along. It was easier that way.

And just like that, the feeling of being watched vanished.

Whoever had been watching was gone.

By the time the party began, the sky had opened up—sunlight pouring over the backyard like a spotlight on a stage, mirroring Diego’s bright enthusiasm. A jarring contrast to the heavy gray clouds that had loomed that morning. One by one, the Hargreeves siblings arrived—laughing, talking, drinking.

All except one.

He was late. Unfashionably so. And that was never like him.

Lila tried not to overthink it. Maybe he was just being dramatic. But then there was Klaus—pacing, glancing at the wall clock every few minutes, nervously sipping a drink he barely touched. His usual chaos was muted. Controlled. Off.

Lila noticed. Mostly because she couldn’t stop checking the front door herself. Every creak, every rustle of movement sent her heart into a sprint. Every unopened door filled her with rising dread.

An hour passed. Then another.

Still no sign of Five.

The anxiety coiled tighter in her stomach with each tick of the clock.

Finally, Diego asked the question everyone was dancing around— “Five’s awfully late today. What’s up with him? This is so not like him,”

Allison turned toward Klaus. “Where is he? Klaus, didn’t you see him last?”

Klaus hesitated. The air shifted.

Then came the bomb.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Klaus said quietly. “He mentioned being permanently transferred to Europe after this.”

For a moment, Lila forgot how to breathe.

Her body turned to stone. The tray in her hands slipped, shattering on the concrete with a crack that sounded miles away.

But her mind had already gone quiet—deafeningly so. All she could hear, echoing like a bell tolling in her skull:

He’s gone.

He left.

And he’s not coming back.

The pain hit all at once. Like a hammer to the chest. Her throat seized, her lungs burned. The grief wasn’t just emotional—it was physical. Vicious. Crushing. She could feel it tearing through her like shrapnel.

Everyone rushed toward her—voices rising, hands reaching for the broken glass—but Lila barely registered them. She forced her limbs to move, her face to stay blank, even as her body screamed. She had to get away. Had to disappear before the spiral pulled her under.

She slipped inside the house, walked blindly down the hallway. Each step was agony.

By the time she reached the bathroom, her chest felt like it had been carved open—her heart bleeding, raw and exposed, stabbed by a thousand invisible daggers.

“He left. For real. Forever.”

The tears blurred her vision. Her hands clutched her ribs, as if she could hold the pain in, as if pressure could stop the bleeding.

“What the fuck, Five?”
“What are you doing?”
“You hate me that much?”
“You really resent me that much after everything?”

Each thought twisted the knife deeper.

The bathroom door shut behind her.

And then her knees buckled.

She crumpled to the floor, grabbing onto the edge of the bathtub like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world. The sobs broke loose in ragged waves—violent, gut-wrenching, relentless.

She didn’t even try to stop them.

Lila didn’t even register when Klaus slipped into the bathroom.

All her senses had shut down, swallowed whole by the pain. It was consuming her—total and absolute. A black hole in her chest, pulling in every flicker of light, every thought, every breath.

Even when he sat beside her, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away. She had no strength left to pretend.

It was too late for that.

So when Klaus finally spoke—softly, but without hesitation—

“You love him. You’re in love with Five.”

She didn’t deny it. She couldn’t.

Because the truth had already broken through her—loud, brutal, and undeniable.

And there was no point in lying anymore.

Lila stared at the screen, unmoving.

The photo was grainy, crooked—Klaus had snapped it quickly, like he knew he wasn’t supposed to. A letter never meant for her eyes. Not truly.

But now… it was burned into her.

Her lips parted, breath shallow, as her eyes traced the lines again. Her fingers hovered above the screen—trembling, hesitant to scroll, to even blink. Her pulse pounded against her ribs—violent, relentless—as if her body was finally reacting to what her heart had known all along.

It was him.

It had always been him.

“Lila. Lila, Lila, Lila…”

A shaky breath escaped. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if it could hold back the sob rising in her throat. But it broke loose—raw, ragged, unfamiliar even to her own ears.

God, the things he wrote.
The things he felt.

How had he hidden this from her?

All this time—while she’d been drowning in silence, hating herself for still loving him, punishing herself for the lie she’d told—he had been loving her in secret. Silently. Desperately. Devotedly.

She squeezed her eyes shut, too shattered to keep reading even for a second. Her fingers clenched the phone so hard it hurt.

He would’ve destroyed everything for her.
He would’ve run away with her.
He would’ve burned the world for her.

A choked laugh escaped—bitter, broken.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “You absolute idiot.”

Tears slid freely down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them.

He had wanted to say her name every day. Wanted to memorize her. Wanted to play music with her when the world ended.

She’d thought he hated her. Thought he’d moved on. Thought she was alone in her grief. In her longing.

But he’d been there.
Loving her the whole time.

She loosened her grip on the phone, hands soft and careful as if cradling a live wire. Her thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the words she could barely see through the blur.

Why can’t you see me? I’m right here. I’ve always been here, waiting for you. Forever.

When the last word hit her, Lila’s heart didn’t just break—it shattered.

It splintered into jagged shards, slicing through her veins like glass. She could barely feel anything except the pain.

God, the pain.

It clawed at her ribcage, shredded her from the inside out. It wasn’t poetic. It was brutal.

“This stupid, infuriating man,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he buried all of this—locked it in a letter never meant to be read?

Things could have been different.
If he had spoken.
If she had.

But hadn’t she done the same?
Lied.
Hid.
Bit her tongue every time her heart reached for him.

They were mirrors of each other.
Two peas in a cursed, fucked-up pod.
The world’s most tragic pair of cowards.

If she’d known... would she have chosen differently?

Maybe.
Maybe not.

But at least she wouldn’t be sitting here now, clutching Klaus’s phone like it was the only thing tethering her to what could have been.

She had forgotten Klaus was even in the room—until he shifted behind her and cleared his throat. His voice was unusually quiet.

“I’ve got something else,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and fishing out a set of old brass keys. “He asked me to give these to Diego. Told me to make up some bullshit excuse.”

Lila turned slowly, her red-rimmed eyes narrowing at the keys like they might explode.

Klaus sighed. “Number 28.”

Her heart stuttered. “Wait. The one at the start of the street?”

He nodded. “Yeah. He bought it. Said your parents could move in. Said he didn’t need the house or the money—but you guys do.”

Lila’s mouth opened, then closed. Her whole face crumpled, and suddenly, a laugh broke out of her, messy and breathless and soaked in tears.

“Fucking hell,” she sobbed, half-laughing, half-choking. “What an asshole.”

Klaus gave her a faint smile, quieter than usual. “Yup. Total dickhead. Always has been.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, still trembling. “Why would he do that? Why would he leave and do this, all at once?”

“Because he’s Five,” Klaus said gently. “The only guy I know who’d disappear and still somehow try to fix everything before he goes.”

Lila let her head fall back against the wall. “So what do I do now?”

Klaus hesitated, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

Her breath hitched again. “It’s too late, isn’t it?”

Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.

“He’s off on some CIA mission. They won’t tell us where. You know how this works. And you know him—once Five decides something, he won’t stop. Not until he’s finished it. The only way for us to find out is if he actively contacts us again.”

Klaus didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. They both knew.

“So you’re just gonna let this go?” he asked, softer now.

“I don’t know, Klaus.” Her shoulders sagged, voice trembling. “I really don’t fucking know.”

Later that day, when she finally scraped together the strength to clean her face and rejoin the party, she paused on the back porch.

The sky stretched above her, cloudless and sharp—a shade of blue so wide it made her chest ache.

She tilted her head up, thinking to herself:

“Will there ever be a day I can look at this sky… with you by my side?”

6 years, 5 months, 2 days later.

The situation room was tense. A low hum of voices, clipped orders, and cold urgency.

“Agent Hargreeves,” someone called - “We have an emergency. Please come to meeting room 305 immediately” 

“We’ve completely lost contact with Black Cat.”

Another voice followed, deeper and graver. “We need to assess everything. Situation is unstable.”

“This is a global security threat,” someone else added. “Highest level. Top priority.”

The screen blinked. Static. Then nothing.

“Black Cat—gone off the grid.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1O

When I was a child, I saw the moon drowned in the lake—perfect, silent, untouchable. It hung there like a promise, trembling on the surface, too beautiful to be real. I reached for it, foolish and eager. My fingers brushed the water—and the moon was gone, swallowed by the ripples I made.

That was the first time I understood: some things are not meant to be held. Not by me. Not by anyone. The moment I touch beauty, it dies.

Twenty billion dollars—gone—evaporated from his net worth in a single fucking day. Nothing has ever hit harder. Nothing has ever boiled his blood more. The pain and humiliation are unbearable.
And Dmitry Sergeyevich Kuznetsov has never wanted to kill someone more.

All because of one bastard—the ghost who has toyed with him for seven years, ever since appearing in Lebanon.

Kuznetsov had nearly seized control of the Beqaa Valley and the lucrative arms deal supplying Tanzim al-Qiyama, the terrorist group led by Bassam Rahmani. He’d backed Rahmani for years, fueled by his hatred for the U.S. and the greed of war.

Then Black Cat arrived—and in mere months, assassinated Rahmani and tore his network apart.

Since then, that ghost has haunted every one of Kuznetsov’s plans, every move he makes.

But even in his worst nightmares, Kuznetsov never imagined Black Cat would kill Alexei Volchkov—the sole founder of Volchtek, his sworn brother, the genius who’d made him billions.

Now Volchkov is dead. And with him, twenty billion dollars have vanished.

A fresh spike of rage tears through Kuznetsov’s chest. He snatches a bronze crane statue and hurls it at an ancient Chinese vase, shattering it into a thousand shards. The last thing in his room left unbroken.

His bodyguards and assistants stand frozen in the corners, silent as shadows. No one dares to breathe.

In the center of the room lies a corpse, sprawled in a spreading pool of blood. A gunshot wound in the head—the unlucky man who delivered the news of Volchkov’s death. In his blind fury, Kuznetsov shot him.

“Use every fucking resource you have to find and capture Black Cat. I don’t care how—you get him within one week. I want to enjoy breaking every bone in his body while he begs for mercy.”

From the shadows stepped a man with wild, tangled hair, hunched back, a forest of unkempt beard hiding half his face, his dark-rimmed glasses gleaming under the harsh light. Adjusting the name tag pinned crookedly to his chest—Artem Pyanovey, Lead Scientist—he spoke, his voice cold and clinical.

As he stepped forward, his fingers tapped lightly against his thigh—a rhythmic, erratic drumming, barely audible beneath his words.

“Before you tear him apart,” he said, voice low and crackling with barely-contained glee, “we extract the code from him. He must’ve taken it from Volchkov—yes, yes, it has to be. We claw back what’s ours. Then we uses him to flush out every last American rodent burrowed in our systems. Maybe… maybe even a skeleton key. Into the CIA’s brainstem. Their entire communication lattice—wide open.”

Kuznetsov scoffs. “You think he’ll talk?”

Pyanovey’s eyes flickered behind the foggy lenses of his glasses. The tapping didn’t stop—index and middle finger, now shifting to his other hand, tapping out a pattern against his wrist. Tap. Pause. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

A slow, cruel smirk spread across his lips. “I have methods. Tools you’ll like.”

He scratched absentmindedly at the side of his neck, then resumed the tapping—this time against the side of his coat pocket, as if unaware he was doing it at all.

Kuznetsov’s own smile widened, dark and cold.

“You know I always like your ideas, Artem.”

CIA Debriefing Room, Langley. 14 Days Since Black Cat Vanished.

The room is cold, humming faintly with fluorescent light. Tension buzzes beneath the surface, thick as static.

Ribbon stands at the head of the table—a man built like a tank in a three-piece suit, his dark skin gleaming under the harsh overheads. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp as a scalpel. “So Black Cat has been off-grid for fourteen days,” he says slowly, voice gravelled and low. “And you’re telling me the pill isn’t taken because the signal never went off?”

“Yes,” Derek replies, adjusting his glasses with a grim expression. “No transmission. No emergency beacon.”

“They’ve gone dark before,” Ribbon counters. “Longer than this.”

“Not like this.” Derek’s voice dips, his gaze flickering. “They always send the safety code after three days. Always.”

Ribbon says nothing. Derek hesitates, then adds, quieter, “We get confirmation from another field agent. Kuznetsov has him. After Volchkov’s death, he goes ballistic. Mobilizes every asset he has. If Black Cat tries to lay low before triggering the safe code… it might’ve been too late.”

Ribbon exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. “I told them not to kill Volchkov. That move is reckless. They're getting sloppy. Or desperate.”

“Black Cat always plays the long game,” comes Agent Hargreeves’ voice, cool and composed, cutting through the air like wire. Lila sits upright, arms folded, unreadable. “And more often than not, they’re right.”

“And wrong,” Ribbon snaps, turning to her with a flicker of fire in his eyes. “Especially when it comes to Dr. Pyanovey. Did you forget what happened six months ago?”

“If it weren’t for Black Cat, we wouldn’t even know Pyanovey exists,” Lila shoots back, steel in her voice. Her expression is controlled, but her eyes are flint. “He’s been the lynchpin in half our wins against the GRU. You know that. Black Cat’s done more for this agency than anyone in the last six and a half years.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of her chair.

Ribbon’s silence lingers too long.

“I think we should wait a few more days. Then initiate extraction,” she adds, tone lower but no less firm.

Ribbon narrows his eyes. “Agent Hargreeves, I understand where you're coming from, but—”

“If it has to be done, I’ll go to Russia myself,” Lila cuts in, already rising.

Ribbon’s jaw clenches. “This is not the time to get emotional.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” she says tightly, meeting his gaze head-on, “I never mix personal affairs with work. Especially not when national security is at stake.”

He studies her. Long enough for the air to shift, to curdle with unease. “I usually trust your judgment,” he says finally. “But if Black Cat talks—if they turn—we’ll never recover from the fallout.”

“I understand, sir. But I trust them. They won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because Pyanovey hasn’t made a move yet,” she says instantly. “He hasn’t extracted anything. And we both know—he’s not the patient type.”

That silences the room.

Ribbon’s lips thin. He doesn’t want to admit she has a point. But the truth hangs heavy between them. If Pyanovey has broken Black Cat, they’d already be dealing with consequences.

“Seventy-two hours,” he says at last, his voice low and final. “Then we deploy extraction. Dismissed.”

Lila nods once, sharp and precise, then turns on her heel and walks out. Derek follows her into the corridor, glancing over his shoulder before leaning in.

“I don’t think he’ll break,” he murmurs. “Knowing him… he’s probably already got a backup plan.”

“I know Ribbon’s patience is wearing thin,” Lila says quietly. “Black Cat’s been playing by his own rules too long.”

“You can’t blame him,” Derek says. “Ribbon’s under pressure. From the top.”

“I know,” she replies.

They stop near the elevator.

“But I trust Black Cat. Always will,” Lila says firmly.

Then, after a beat, she turns to Derek. “Did he leave us anything before he vanished?”

Derek shifts the files in his arms, nodding slightly. “There is something. The last message has a strange symbol at the end — not part of the intel. Looks like a brown rectangle, marked with the letters ‘IS.’ We still don’t know what it means.”

He pulls the file free and hands it to her. Lila catches it in one hand, eyes narrowing as she scans the page.

“He’s done that before,” Derek adds. “Ends the transmission with something that makes no sense. Out-of-place numbers, shapes. Could be misdirection.”

“Or not,” Lila murmurs, tucking the file into her coat.

She steps into the elevator and presses the button for the lunchroom floor.

“I’ll look at it again.”

The doors slide shut.

The CIA lunchroom isn’t particularly busy — just a handful of agents, huddled in twos and threes. Conversations are hushed, even when they’re about something as harmless as the weather or their kids' piano recitals. Whispering has become the unofficial agency tone — habit, paranoia, or both.

The clink of cutlery against porcelain echoes faintly off the sterile white tiles. From the wall-mounted television, a global news broadcast rolls in muted urgency, a constant backdrop to daily life at Langley.

Lila Hargreeves walks in with the same quiet precision she brings to every mission. Unbothered, unreadable. She makes a direct line to the tea station and pours herself a cup of English Breakfast. As she stirs it — slow, methodical — a sharp trill of breaking news music slices through the murmur.

“Breaking news out of Altraca Federal Prison — Ethan D. Beguile, former cult leader of 'Children of the Sun,' has been found dead in his cell early this morning. Officials are calling it suicide. Beguile had been convicted last year on 47 federal charges, including psychological manipulation, arson, and the deaths of 19 followers.”

Lila pauses mid-stir. Just a fraction. Then resumes, unbothered. No flicker of emotion, no change in posture — just a stillness that settles around her like smoke.

A few agents glance at the screen. Then at her. Murmurs follow.

“Is that her?”
“Yeah. It’s her.”

No names are needed. Everyone knows.

Then a familiar voice — bright, teasing — cuts through the tension like sunlight through fog.

“There she is. The one and only Lila Hargreeves — the woman who dismantled a 5,000-member cult with nothing but steel nerves and a poker face. Left their ‘Fearless Leader’ too paranoid to sleep for five straight years.”

The voice isn't loud, but there's amusement laced into every syllable. Lila’s lips twitch, just barely, at the corners.

“Well,” she says, finally, “if he liked to spread the light, it made sense to let him live in it.”

Derica Smith strides into view, blonde ponytail bouncing, eyes sharp with mischief. She slings an arm casually around Lila’s shoulder.

“You still won’t tell me what happened in those final 48 hours before his arrest.”

Derica leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping even lower as a wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oh, come on. What did you do to him? 

“Trust me,” Lila replies, voice low and edged with dry humor, “you don’t want to know, Derica.”

Derica grins wider. Loud, idealistic, loyal to a fault — people underestimate her. Until she takes down a double agent with a stapler and a wire. She’s been one of Lila’s closest allies ever since Lila officially joined the agency five years ago. They clicked almost instantly and the two of them are unstoppable in the field. 

She worked with him before he disappeared—and like everyone else here, he left an impression without even trying. Lila never told Derica the full story of what they were to each other, but Derica isn’t an idiot. No CIA agent of her caliber is. She can put the pieces together—especially when Lila always deciphers his encrypted messages faster than the computers do.

Derica leans in, voice dropping to a whisper again — like everyone else in the room.

“So… any word on Black Cat?”

A pause.

“Not yet.” Lila's voice is even, but the silence that follows hangs a little heavier.

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“In seventy-two hours,” Lila says without hesitation. “I need time to arrange protection protocols — for the kids, for my parents. Diego will understand.”

“He’d better,” Derica mutters. Then, more gently: “Are you worried?”

Lila stares down into her cup, buying herself a few seconds she doesn’t really need before answering

“I’m not sure.”

“How long have you been…?”

Derica trails off. She doesn’t need to finish. Silence hangs between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

“Nearly seven years,” Lila replies softly. “Six years, five months, and two days.”

A wistful smile touches her lips, faint and fleeting, like a memory she still can’t let go of. Of course she knows the exact time. How could she not?

It’s been far too long, and yet her heart still aches with that quiet, familiar throb every time her mind drifts to him. He remains the first thought when she opens her eyes each morning — and the last when sleep finally takes her at night.

They haven’t seen each other once in all these years. He keeps his word. He doesn’t come back.

All Lila knows of him now arrives shrouded in encrypted messages, signed only as Black Cat — briefs on GRU’s movements, Kuznetsov’s next play, or when Dr. Pyanovey might strike again. Nothing ever personal. Only plan and strategy.

He hasn’t contacted any of his siblings. Lila sometimes brings him up with Klaus or Viktor in passing, carefully choosing her words. They told her this time feels like when he disappeared in his first apocalypse — the boy who vanished at thirteen and never quite came back.

Now, he’s a ghost in every sense of the word. A shadow stitched into the world’s seams — present, but impossible to reach. His existence is classified, known only to the highest ranks of the agency. Even Lila isn’t allowed to speak his name during briefings. Not even a pronoun. Just “the asset” or “the operative” or simply “Black Cat”.

Ribbon grows more frustrated with him by the year, trying to recall him from the field more times than she can count. But Black Cat seems to have a mission of his own. A hidden agenda. A personal goal. And he won’t back down. In one of his coded messages, he writes: “Kuznetsov is almost within reach. I’m not leaving until he’s gone.”

Lila’s hand curls slightly at her side. Her spine straightens. Then, she turns to Derica, eyes gleaming with quiet determination.

“But whatever it is,” she says, steady and firm, “I’m bringing him back this time.”

Derica’s expression softens. She reaches out and gently squeezes Lila’s wrist, her thumb brushing over the pulse there.

“Of course you will,” she says. “If anyone can drag that stubborn asshole out of the dark — it’s you.”

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the world fades around them. It’s just the two of them — battle-tested, unshakably loyal, bound not just by their missions, but by something stronger: friendship. 

“I’m gonna go dig through the files—see if I can turn up something useful for the extraction,” Lila says at last, lifting her cup and giving a quick wave.

“Of course,” Derica grins. “See you around, Foxy.”

Lila’s eyes sweep across the blackboard, its surface a chaotic storm of overlapping red threads connecting pins—people, places, moments—stitched together in frantic precision. Notes, satellite printouts, newspaper clippings, and smeared highlighter marks layer the board like battle scars. She’s studied it for hours, days even. Still, something’s missing. A link. A breadcrumb. A sliver of logic behind the silence. Behind his disappearance.
There has to be something she overlooked.

Behind her, the desk is buried under collapsing towers of folders, half-flipped and spilling sticky notes like casualties. In the center sits her open leather-bound journal, and on top of it—a single photograph. Creased. Faded. Handled too many times. It’s the only picture she has of him from the last seven years, captured by a dusty street cam in Istanbul. His face is mostly hidden in shadow, but the profile, the posture—unmistakable.
Him.
Black Cat.
Five.

She reaches out and brushes a finger over the image, as if it might stir. As if he might blink back at her.
“Kuznetsov. Volchkov. Volchbyte. Lebanon. Bassam…” she murmurs the names like an incantation, brow furrowed, heart thudding in her throat. These were his missions. His movements. Six and a half years of high-stakes operations, threaded like blood-red veins. She still doesn’t know his full endgame—but whatever it is, it’s monumental. It’s the only reason a man like him would stay gone this long, weaving a plan so meticulous, so dangerous, that he never once surfaced unless the timing was perfect.

She remembers the start of it all—his flawless takedown of Tanzim al-Qiyama in under four months. After that, he had gone to Ribbon, adamant that the next threat was bigger. Deeper. Kuznetsov—the Russian President’s right hand, his enforcer, his executioner—was moving pieces. Five saw it. And Five, as always, moved first.
He got reassigned to Europe. Then Russia.
And that was the birth of Black Cat.

For years, he outmaneuvered the GRU at every turn. CIA versus GRU—a cold war of shadows, each side trying to claw more territory, more influence, more control. And Black Cat was the ace. Untouchable. Unmatched.

Until four years ago.
That’s when Dr. Artem Pyanovey emerged from the dark like a wraith in a lab coat. No official record of his origin. No confirmed photo. Just a rising pattern of cyber devastation—sophisticated, efficient, ideological. A brilliant phantom with unwavering loyalty to the Kremlin, trusted by both Kuznetsov and the President himself. He wasn’t just a scientist. He was a weapon.

He set his sights on dismantling everything Black Cat was about to unleash. What followed was a silent war—two brilliant minds locked in a deadly game of 4D chess, each move more ruthless than the last.

It was Black Cat who first warned them. Lila still remembers the encrypted message—clinical, concise, ice-cold. “Target: Pyanovey. Capable of redefining 21st-century warfare. Highly adaptive. No clear doctrine. Proceed with extreme caution.”
And still, they underestimated him.

Pyanovey knew when to strike and when to vanish. When to admit defeat and shift tactics. He outmaneuvered CIA cybersecurity teams more times than they could count. Sometimes, the only thing that saved them was intel from Black Cat—sometimes just hours before an attack.

Lila had gone toe-to-toe with Pyanovey herself, if only from behind the screen. Every time, she came away rattled. He was too fast, too unpredictable, too brilliant. There was no pattern to trace, only chaos masked as strategy.

Twice in the last year, they’d suffered crushing defeats under his hands.

Even with Black Cat’s warnings, they couldn’t stop the digital onslaught in the months leading up to the election. A legion of Russian hackers flooded every platform in America—misinformation campaigns, doctored videos, targeted smears. And when the dust settled, the most unqualified man imaginable had taken power.

And the world shifted.

Maybe that’s what pushed Five to act. Maybe that’s why he got bold—impatient, even. Maybe that’s why he went after Volchkov.
Alexei Volchkov—Russia’s one and only tech billionaire. The man who helped Kuznetsov turn war into wealth, laundering billions through crypto and weapons deals. Taking him out was audacious. Dangerous. Desperate, as Ribbon had put it.

But it worked.

It enraged Kuznetsov more than anything else could have. It wasn’t just the loss of a business partner. It was the dismantling of a kingdom. Volchkov was the money machine—and Black Cat had just burned it to the ground.

And now?
Now, Lila fears he’s paying the price.

Her jaw clenches. She grips the edge of the desk until her knuckles go white, trying to steady the tremor running through her arms. She’s been composed this whole time, playing the cool operative. But inside, the fear is gutting her. Drowning her.

Because if they’ve caught him—
If Kuznetsov and Pyanovey have him—
She can’t even let herself imagine it. The tortures. The experimentation. The revenge. It wouldn’t just be punishment. It would be a performance. A message to the West.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Breath catches. She wills herself to breathe.

He’s still alive.
He has to be.
He’s survived worse. Outwitted worse. He’s Five. He doesn’t lose.

But even he has limits.

She turns back to the laptop, the screen already glowing.
Encrypted folders.
Scattered traces of his voice.

She opens the most recent one, the timestamp already burned into her memory.
“What are you planning, Black Cat?” she whispers under her breath, as if he might answer.

She doesn’t know where he is.
She doesn’t know if he’s hurt.

But she knows one thing:
If he’s holding on—
she’s going to find him.

She turns to her laptop, fingers hovering for a beat before she opens the archive—those few, heavily encrypted files marked only with the symbol they all now fear and revere: Black Cat.

Her eyes scan the screen, narrowing. She digs deeper, sifting through the layers of code for anything—anything—that might hint at his real plan.

This entire operation—killing Volchkov, igniting Kuznetsov’s rage until he burned everything down chasing ghosts—it didn’t feel like Five.
He was never one for theatrics. Never the type to pull a trigger just to make noise in a quiet forest.

No—Five was precise. Meticulous. The kind of mind that would let the trap sit for years before springing it, always certain of the timing.

Reckless? Desperate? Ribbon could say what he liked. But Lila knows better.
If Five made this move, it’s because he believes the time has finally come.

So what is the endgame?

She tries to think back—to when they were still the Commission’s top assassins. The way she used to seethe with jealousy whenever the Handler sang his praises. How she’d bristle at being second-best. God, it was comical now. Childish. He probably never even noticed. Never cared.

His reputation as a cold-blooded killer? All a ruse. He only played loyal to the Commission so he could work against it—alone, in the shadows, like always. Five never showed his hand until the final second. Then he flipped the whole board.

Her fingers tighten. She opens the document Derek gave her again.

Her eyes scan the page, then halt—sharp.

The brown rectangle. The “IS” marking. It’s not a rectangle at all.

Her breath catches. “Shit,” she whispers.

Then—a flicker. A line from one of his older transmissions flashes in her memory. One she’s read a dozen times before. But something hits differently now. Something’s… wrong.

Her gut twists—not with fear. With recognition.

Odd letters. Extra numbers. Tiny glitches in the data that analysts dismissed as static, formatting errors, or decoys.

But with Five—there are no accidents.

Her chest tightens. She starts pulling up more of his messages—codes from the past three, maybe four years.
Every transmission. Every irregularity.

A pattern claws itself free.

Her hand moves on instinct now, snatching a pen, dragging a notepad close. Her wrist flicks back and forth, scribbling numbers and letters in a rapid, fevered scrawl.

How the hell did she miss this?

The sequence grows longer, coiling across the page in stark black ink. It’s maddening—meaningless, and yet not.

She doesn’t know how much time has passed. An hour? Two?

The room is silent, save for the scratch of her pen and her own shallow breath.

Then the full string appears before her eyes:

23 8 5 14 20 8 5 13 15 13 5 14 20 1 18 18 9 22 5 19 9 12 12 8 1 22 5 20 15 19 20 5 16 9 14 20 15 20 8 5 15 16 5 14 8 5 23 15 14 20 19 21 18 6 1 3 5 21 14 12 5 19 19 20 8 5 2 1 9 20 9 19 16 5 18 19 15 14 1 12 21 14 12 5 19 19 8 5 2 5 12 9 5 22 5 19 9 20 5 14 4 19 23 9 20 8 2 12 15 15 4 13 9 14 5 15 14 5 13 15 22 5 14 15 5 3 8 15 5 19 18 5 13 5 13 2 5 18 20 8 5 16 21 18 16 15 19 5 5 2 8

When the final number rests on the page, Lila lets out a breath she does not know she has been holding for a long time. She wipes her hands down the front of her blazer—careful, precise—but the tremor in her fingers betrays her. Sweat slicks the fabric, a silent alarm she can’t silence. Neat. Professional. Controlled.

But the lump in her throat gets higher and higher. A tear slips down her cheek, hot and sharp. It falls on the page, blurring ink and numbers alike—like her certainty, melting away.

She presses her palm against her mouth, trembling now. The words barely escape her lips—raw, shaken, barely a whisper:
“How could you do this?”

She chokes on something—part curse, part bitter laugh. This can’t be happening. Not him. Not like this.

“Why, Five? Did you… betray us?”

The sharp thwack of fists slamming into leather echoes across the training gym. One by one, agents pause mid-drill, glancing toward the far end where Agent Hargreeves is absolutely demolishing a heavy bag. Her blows land with rhythmic violence, a controlled fury that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain.

She looks like a storm.

But look closer—this isn’t chaos. Her footwork is deliberate: shifting side to side, pivoting back and forth in sync with the bag’s erratic motion. Her body flows with coiled precision, like a dancer wired for destruction. If that bag were a man, he’d already be dead.

Small as she is, Lila’s presence radiates danger. Her reputation travels faster than her fists—lethal, unpredictable, impossible to pin down. Her fighting style is fluid, adaptive, and unrelenting. Even agents twice her size keep their distance.

But not all.

“Agent Hargreeves,” comes a voice, laced with casual challenge. “You look… energetic today.”

Lila stops, breathing hard. She yanks a towel off the nearby bench and wipes the sweat from her brow. Her eyes flick toward the tall figure approaching.

Agent O’Connor—6’2", broad-shouldered, still too new to know better.

“Yeah,” she mutters, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Punching and thinking—top-tier therapy.”

He grins. “Fancy a spar?”

She studies him. For a second, something flickers behind her eyes—fatigue, maybe. Or something darker. Then it’s gone.

“Sure. Why not?”

They climb into the ring. Lila rolls her neck once, then drops into a low stance—front knee bent, hands raised, elbows tucked. Calm. Coiled. O’Connor takes a more upright Karate pose.

The bell rings.

O’Connor lunges first with a straight punch. Lila blocks with her left forearm and counters fast—right jab toward his jaw. He blocks, but barely. Her right leg snaps up in a spinning kick aimed at his ribs. He pivots to avoid it—too slow. Her toes glance off his side.

Then she drops low, sweeping his legs. He leaps just in time, his hand slashing toward her neck in counterstrike. Lila bends back, dodging by inches, her feet sliding across the mat.

Before he can recover, she’s already on the move—hips twisting violently, launching a flurry of kicks: left, right, left again. O’Connor staggers back, struggling to block.

She’s not playing.

She wants this over.

Five would’ve seen that kick coming.

The thought stabs through her. She ignores it.

But something in her eyes—flat, flinty, distant—says she might not even be seeing O’Connor anymore.

With no warning, Lila charges.

She leaps—flipping in mid-air like a blade—and slams her heel down onto O’Connor’s shoulder.

He crashes to the mat with a grunt, dazed.

Lila lands like silk, barely a sound. Her chest rises and falls. Sweat drips down her temple. She doesn’t offer him a hand. Doesn’t speak.

Her fists are still clenched.

Her jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly.

She stares at his throat for a moment, unmoving—like she’s looking through him, not at him. Then, without a word, she pivots on her heel and starts to walk away, tossing a hand over her shoulder.

“Good spar. Work on your footwork next time.”

On the way home, Lila can’t shake the swarm of scenarios spinning through her mind. Each possibility crashes into the next—Kuznetsov, the encryption, the silence from Five. It’s bigger than she thought. Too big for instinct. She needs a plan. A perfect one.
This isn’t something she can be reckless about. If Five’s truly going through with this... it might undo everything.

The sun is dipping by the time she pulls up to the modest brick house at number 28. The porch light flickers to life automatically as she steps out of the car. Inside, the scent of her mum’s cooking clings to the air, along with the gentle hum of cartoons coming from the living room.

She goes to the kids first.

Grace is thirteen now, all sharp eyes and quiet strength, already taller than she should be. The twins, age eleven, barrel toward her in a blur of limbs and laughter before Grace reins them in like a pint-sized general. They’re precocious—smart beyond their years—but they understand the rhythm of her life by now. Safehouses. Security details. Quiet departures and warmer reunions.

She gives them the news in simple terms: Mummy’s going away for a few weeks. Yes, the protection detail will be here soon. Yes, Grandma and Grandpa will stay the night. Hugs. Nods. A few questions she answers gently. Grace watches her with a strange stillness, like she already suspects this trip is different.

Then there’s Diego.

He comes through the front door just after eight, still in uniform, the Detective Sergeant Hargreeves badge catching the kitchen light. Another late night. Lila’s already there, leaning against the counter with her arms folded, tension etched into the line of her spine like a coiled spring.

“You read my message?”

“Yeah,” he says, brushing past her to open the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water, twists the cap off with one hand. “So how long do you have?”

“Another fifty hours,” she replies. “Security team will be here twelve hours before I leave. I’ve told my parents. Told the kids.”

“Where to?”

She hesitates.

“Russia.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just takes a long drink before setting the bottle down harder than necessary.

“Right. That explains the look.”

“What look?”

“The one you wear when you're about to lie to my face and think I won't notice.”

Lila lets out a faint smirk, straightening a little. “It’s classified.”

“Lila.”

Her name carries weight in his mouth—too much weight for two syllables. She looks away, eyes landing on a photo still stuck to the fridge. The five of them at the beach. A lifetime ago.

He waits. She doesn’t elaborate.

Diego drags a hand down his face. “It’s about him, isn’t it?”

She shrugs, too casually. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence between them stretches, dense and familiar. They've stood at this crossroads before. Always circling the same wound.

“I’m not doing this with you again, Diego,” she says gently, brushing past him.

“Just tell me you’re not walking into something you can’t walk back out of.”

She stops near the staircase leading up to second floor. Doesn’t turn. Her fingers tighten at the bottom of her jacket’s pocket. 

“I have to know if he’s alive,” she says quietly. “I have to know what happened.”

He doesn’t respond at first. Just breathes. When he speaks again, it’s softer.

“You’ve always had to know. That was never the problem.”

She turns slightly, just enough to glimpse him. He’s still leaning against the counter, looking at her like she’s already halfway gone.

“And what was the problem?” she asks.

He exhales, almost a laugh, but not really. “After all these years…” The rest falls away, unfinished. Unspoken. Like always.

It lands between them with the weight of history—four years apart, and still, it aches.

“I’ll be back,” she says. Then, after a beat, adds, “With him.”

He looks at her then. Not angry. Not jealous. Just tired. Tired and kind.

“I know. Just… be careful, will you?”

She offers a nod, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I will. Thank you.”

She tries to sleep that night, but—as expected—rest refuses to come. After an hour of staring at the ceiling, she fires off a quick text to the one person she knows will be awake, no questions asked, and drives straight there.

Now, in the quiet of his kitchen, the world feels muted. The only light comes from the golden hum beneath the range hood, casting long, sleepy shadows. An open beer bottle sits slick in Lila’s hand, her fingers idly spinning it on the counter like it might divine some kind of answer. Across from her, Klaus leans against the kitchen bench, barefoot and silent, watching her with those haunted eyes that always seem to see more than they should.

“So you’re really going to get him?” he asks softly.

She doesn’t look up, just takes a long, deliberate pull from her beer. “Yes. I’ll drag him back this time, from whatever hellhole he is in.” A chuckle escapes her lips—thin, exhausted. “Of course, you’re the only one who can do that,” Klaus says with a small smile, like it’s obvious.

“I’m scared, Kitten.”

That makes him blink, the name hitting just a little softer than usual. He straightens, gently concerned. “What are you scared of?”

“I’m not sure.” She pauses, brows knitting together. Her voice dips, quiet and shaky. “He is onto something big and I’m scared that I’ve been too late.”

Klaus’s tone softens even further. “Hey, hey, whatever it is, I know he’ll come back if you come to get him. This time.”

“It’s been so long, Klaus…” Her voice trails off into the stale air, then comes back quieter, cracked at the edges. “He might not feel the same way anymore.”

“Don’t be silly, he’ll still be—”

“Don’t tell me fairytales anymore, Kitten,” she snaps, but there’s no real heat behind it. Only something frayed, worn out. She laughs bitterly and takes another sip. “No one would love someone one-sidedly for thirteen years.”

Klaus exhales, studying her. “Oh, you never know with that pig-head bastard.” He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Also, what about you? It’s been like eight years or more for you. How do you feel about him now, Lila?”

At that, Lila doesn’t answer. She stays quiet, eyes turning toward the window, to the moonlit street outside that offers no answers, no absolution. Her lips part like she might say something—but she doesn’t. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with all the things she can’t bear to say out loud.

The projector hums softly in the darkened briefing room, casting flickering light across the walls and faces inside. A map of connecting flight paths glows on the screen—thread-thin lines stretching from Sydney to Istanbul, then arcing north to Moscow. Derek stands beside the projection, pointer in hand, voice calm and methodical.

“You’ll fly to Sydney first,” he says, tapping each location as he goes. “From there, a red-eye to Istanbul. Then a short transfer to Sheremetyevo. Our field agent will meet you at Kuntsevo, west of Moscow.”

Lila stands off to the side, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes trained on the screen. Her stance is still, but every muscle in her frame is coiled with focus. Ribbon sits silently in the back corner, flanked by a handful of senior agents, Derica sits at his left, tapping notes into her tablet.

Lila doesn’t look away from the screen as she asks, dryly, “So who am I this time?”

Derek clicks to the next slide—passport scans, background files. “You’re an Australian vet. Born in India, migrated to the UK at four. Got your degree at twenty-two from the University of Liverpool. Moved to Sydney two years later. You’re attending the ISER-ICVPM-25 veterinary conference in Moscow.”

“That’s convenient,” Lila mutters, flexing her fingers as she glances down at the faint scars on her knuckles. “Explains the hands.”

There’s no humour in her voice. Just a cold edge.

Ribbon finally speaks, his tone steady, unreadable. “What’s your plan once you land, Hargreeves? None of our intel assets have been able to verify Black Cat’s exact location. We suspect either the GRU’s fortified bunker… or Kuznetsov’s private corporate facility in Zelenograd.”

“I’m not wasting time looking for a needle in a haystack,” Lila replies without hesitation.

Ribbon narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“They’ll lead me to him.”

The room stills. No need to explain. Every operative in the room understands what she’s implying. Let them take her. Let them think she’s bait.

Derek exhales, then shifts to the extraction plan. “If you find Black Cat, remember—we have two outcomes. If the situation is unstable, or his condition is compromised—”

“There’s only one option,” Lila cuts in, her voice low and firm. “I find him. And we come back.”

The tension spikes as her words settle like stone in the air.

Ribbon studies her for a beat, then relents with a nod. “If you make it to Finland, past the checkpoints, we’ll extract you from Helsinki.”

“I understand.”

His voice sharpens. “Agent Hargreeves, this mission must succeed. If it doesn’t—if recovery isn’t viable—you follow through with the second protocol. No hesitation.”

Lila doesn’t blink. She stares back at him with fire in her eyes, her voice iron-wrought.

“And it will succeed.”

The silence that follows is thick. No one questions her. 

After the final briefing, Derica pulls Lila aside into a quiet corridor. She grips her hand tightly—something she never does. For the first time, Lila sees real fear in her blonde friend’s eyes.

“Hey, Foxy,” Derica says, voice low. “I know how fucking good you are. But this mission—it’s different. If you don’t make it to Helsinki, they can’t send another team. There’s no backup.”

“I know, D.” Lila’s gaze softens. She squeezes her hand. “I’ll be careful.”

Derica hesitates, eyes flicking to hers, vulnerable and fierce all at once.

“You know what ‘Ribbon’ means, right?” she murmurs. “If it comes down to it… if you have to choose—”

She falters. Then finishes quietly:

“I want you to choose yourself.”

Lila doesn’t answer.

She just gives Derica the ghost of a smile—barely there—and walks away.

The next forty-eight hours are a haze of shifting skies, false names, and silent turbulence. From Sydney to Istanbul, and finally to Moscow, Lila barely sleeps. Time passes in a blur, her mind spinning through scenarios, revising escape strategies, sharpening contingencies. Every plan has a backup. Every backup has a shadow plan underneath.

It’s something Five taught her—though he never meant to. She doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but over the years, she began to think like him. Prepare like him. She sharpened her foresight into something cold and calculated, ruthless in its logic. And the terrifying truth? It worked. Underneath the chaos, she was no longer just reactive—she was predictive. She could bend circumstances before they bent her.

They were always alike, in ways she never dared admit. Both were able to read between the lines no one else could see. Both willing to do anything, once the decision was made. Now she’s using that same fire—for him.

By the time her plane touches down at Sheremetyevo, the city is cloaked in autumn’s last fire. Red and gold leaves shiver in the wind, strewn across cobblestone alleys and palace courtyards like forgotten confetti. Onion domes rise like sentinels above the skyline, carved in impossible colors. Moscow is stunning—vast, ancient, radiant.

But there’s no time to admire the view.

She slips into the back seat of a tinted black Volga sedan, pulled up behind a disused meat market in Moscow’s derelict Kuntsevo district. A perfect place for shadows to meet. Her handler is already there.

The man greeting her is mid-forties, lean and pale, with the kind of forgettable face designed for espionage. His name is Agent Stefan Mirov. Ex-FSB, flipped in 2011. Fluent in four languages, nerves like iron, and eyes that flick constantly to the mirrors even while speaking.

“We’re still confirming intel, but based on movement patterns and intercepted comms, it’s likely Kuznetsov has taken him to his Zelenograd facility,” Mirov says, tapping a secure tablet between them. “He was only captured a few days ago. Black Cat managed to avoid their sweep for over two weeks.”

Lila’s jaw tightens. Her pulse skips.

She forces her voice steady. “Why not take him to GRU?”

Mirov hesitates. “Unconfirmed. But the word is—Kuznetsov wants to handle him personally. No middlemen.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs. Torture. Personal. The mental image threatens to crack something inside her, but she doesn’t flinch. 

“Show me the security layout.”

He swipes the screen. “Perimeter scans show high-density surveillance—thermal, audio, and motion-triggered. Biometrics at every access point. Even the janitors are long-term vetted. The place is practically hermetic. Getting in is one thing…”

“…but locating where they’re keeping him could take hours,” Lila finishes for him. “Too long.”

He nods grimly. “Exactly.”

“I’ve got another plan,” she says, quietly, deliberately. Her gaze hardens. “But what I need from you now… is the cleanest, fastest escape route from this goddamn concrete prison of a city.”

Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Because when I get him out… we won’t have time to look over our shoulder.”

The lab basement reeked of metal, disinfectant, and rot. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like trapped flies, casting harsh reflections off the rows of server banks lining the walls. Tangled wires sprawled across the concrete floor like veins, feeding into flickering monitors and instruments. At the center of it all—strapped to a reinforced steel chair—was the man they called Black Cat.

His wrists were raw from the restraints. His shirt had been ripped off hours ago. Pale skin streaked with bruises, cuts, and burn marks glistened under cold light. One side of his face was hidden beneath a tangle of jet-black hair, damp with sweat and blood, but the other side—calm, impassive—held a smirk that had infuriated every man in the room for nearly 48 hours.

“You think you can play it tough with me?” Dr. Pyanovey asked, voice thin and clinical as he adjusted a dial on the electro-stimulator panel. “We’ve got plenty of time to play with you.”

He twisted the knob all the way to the right.

A high-pitched whine filled the air—followed by the sharp, wet crackle of electricity slamming into flesh. Black Cat’s body jolted violently, muscles seizing as voltage ripped through him. Smoke curled from his skin. The scent of burnt flesh clung to the room like a ghost. His jaw clenched against a guttural groan—then silence.

When it ended, he slumped forward slightly, breath shallow.

Then he looked up. And grinned.

“Is this all you have?” he rasped—in flawless Russian.

Pyanovey’s brow twitched.

Kuznetsov, standing beside the server rack, clenched his fists. His fingers flexed over the cold grip of his sidearm. He had been inches from executing this bastard ten times in the past two days. And each time, he’d reminded himself: the intel first. This son of a bitch had ruined seven years of covert Russian operations. Killed valuable assets. Sabotaged entire networks. Undermined his credibility with the Kremlin. And now, finally, here he was—bloodied, cornered.

But still smiling.

Not for long.

Kuznetsov’s voice was low and steady, almost pleasant. “You will die here, American. But not before you give us what we need. Not before you betray everything you ever fought for. And when you do, you’ll beg me to let you die.”

Pyanovey leaned in. “You’ve lasted longer than most, I’ll admit. But no one is unbreakable.”

“Oh, you’re just not trying hard enough,” Black Cat croaked, lips split and bleeding. “Maybe if you held my hand during the shocks, I'd feel something.”

Pyanovey’s face darkened. His hand hovered over the control panel.

Then: ring.

Kuznetsov’s phone buzzed sharply in the quiet lab. He checked the number, swiped to answer, and raised it to his ear.

“Make it quick.”

The voice on the other end crackled through static. “It’s confirmed. Black Cat’s associate…”

Everyone in the room froze—even Pyanovey. Even Black Cat, whose smirk faltered, just slightly.

Kuznetsov’s eyes narrowed. “So. The cowardly Americans finally make a move.”

He turned toward the prisoner, a grin crawling across his face. “I was beginning to think they didn’t give a fuck about this sewage rat.”

More static.

“We don’t know how many agents were deployed. But one’s confirmed. A woman.”

Kuznetsov blinked. “A woman?”

“The leak says… she was his lover.”

Silence.

Black Cat’s face blanched—for just a fraction of a second.

Then he burst out laughing.

“I don’t have a lover, dumbass,” he spat, voice hoarse. “Maybe I just have a fan club.”

But Kuznetsov caught it. That one blink of hesitation. That one flicker.

His grin widened. Something in his eyes glittered with cruelty.

“Well, well…” he murmured. “Maybe your jaw will slack once we bring her in.”

He turned to his guards. “Find the bitch. I want her alive.”

He looked back at Black Cat. “And when she’s here, I’ll make you watch.”

Lila turns the corner of the quiet Moscow street. Above her, the sky bleeds into a cold amber dusk. A gust of wind cuts down the narrow lane, whipping at her trench coat and sending brittle leaves skittering across the cobblestones.

She pauses in front of a dusty, long-abandoned storefront. Her reflection stares back from the fogged glass—unfamiliar, perfect.

The slight prosthetic softens the curve of her jaw. Her cheekbones, once sharp, now blurred into something gentler. Contact lenses wash her amber eyes in deep sea green. Every finger is coated in synthetic dermal overlays, each one programmed to leave false fingerprints. A wavy brown wig, human hair, obscures the short dark curls beneath.

She doesn’t look like herself.

But she does.

She touches the glass, feigning a quick check of her face—just another woman in the city.

It’s time.

Earlier, she’d dropped a burner phone into a sluggish canal behind her safehouse. She’d left a trail of crumbs—carefully placed signs to convince them they were tracking her. She wanted eyes on her.

And now, they’re here.

In the corner of the glass, she catches movement. A shadow standing too long at the bus stop. Another figure fumbling with a cigarette behind a parked Lada. A third hunched on a bench, beanie pulled low.

They're good.

But not good enough.

She steps into an alley. Not a run—yet. Just the casual speed of someone trying not to seem too obvious. Sloppy enough to bait them. The kind of careless escape they’d expect from someone rattled.

On the third loop, they mobilize.

Quickly.

More shadows join. She counts six. Then eight. One across the street now, mirrored glasses, radio coiled behind his ear.

They’re herding her.

Perfect.

She breaks into a sprint.

Boots thunder behind her, voices barking orders in Russian, comms crackling with urgency. The sound hones her instincts. Her breath is steady. Her pulse keeps time like a war drum.

She darts left into a narrow alley—dead end.

A crumbling brick wall rises ahead.

She stops cold and turns. Three men in civilian clothes, but with the posture of trained operatives, slide into position—weapons raised, movements crisp and rehearsed.

“Stop! На колени!” one shouts, motioning her down with the barrel of his rifle.

Lila lifts her hands slowly, eyes half-lidded.

“Alright,” she says, thick with an Aussie accent. “You got me.”

The lead agent steps closer, scanning her from boots to brow. “Passport.”

She pauses—just long enough to make them nervous. A second agent reaches for her arm.

Wrong move.

She pivots sharply. Her elbow connects with his jaw— crack —dropping him where he stands. The leader lifts his rifle, but she’s already yanking the barrel downward and slamming her knee into his gut. He stumbles, choking for air. She whips the rifle up and cracks the third agent across the temple.

One... two... three seconds.

Alley cleared.

“Amateurs,” she mutters, tossing the weapon aside.

But more boots echo. Reinforcements. At least five agents closing from both ends of the alley.

Orders are shouted. They tighten formation. Block every exit.

Lila exhales through her nose. Rolls her shoulders.

“You boys sure you’re ready for this?” she says coolly, unzipping her coat and pushing her sleeves to her elbows.

“Shut up and get on the ground!” one of them snarls.

She doesn’t.

She lunges.

The first drops to a spinning heel kick. The second draws a pistol—she redirects his arm, slamming his wrist into the wall with a crack. Two charge her; she flips one over her hip and shoves the other into a steel bin with a crash of metal.

She moves like fire through ice—controlled, brutal, alive.

But numbers catch up.

One grabs her wrist. Another slams a fist into her ribs. She grunts, stumbles—keeps swinging. A third grabs her from behind, dragging her down. Then another. Arms pinned. Concrete scrapes her cheek.

Still, she doesn’t scream.

Under the weight of four agents, breath ragged, ribs throbbing, Lila spits blood onto the pavement—and smiles.

“Эта сука — сумасшедшая,” someone mutters. This fucking bitch is crazy, Lila translates automatically in her head.

“Keep her in one piece. Bag her. Let’s go.”

A thick sack drops over her head, muffling the chaos. But before everything goes black, she hears a voice crackle in Russian:

“With skills like that—she has to be his associate. A CIA bitch.”

And beneath the hood, Lila grins wider.

The trap had already closed.

Lila isn't sure how long they’ve been driving—time blurs under the hood—but she forces her mind to stay sharp. She memorizes every turn, counts the bumps on the road, inhales the acrid staleness of the air vents. The scent of mildew and gasoline grows stronger with each stop-and-go rhythm of the vehicle. Somewhere past the third checkpoint, she catches the faint electric hum of surveillance fences and the mechanical whir of hydraulic gates. They’re deep in now.

When the van finally hisses to a halt, the atmosphere changes. Not louder—quieter. Vacuumed. Like a morgue disguised as a corporate fortress. As she’s hauled out, her boots touch smooth marble—not military concrete—and the air is cooler, almost sterile. The place smells of disinfectant and machine oil, a compound masquerading as a headquarters, but too polished, too private.

She memorized the layouts of both this compound and the GRU headquarters at 76 Khoroshevskoye Shosse the moment Black Cat’s disappearance hit the briefing table. Once she confirmed his location, she knew there would be no time for elaborate planning. The moment she was brought inside, it became clear—this isn’t the GRU’s stronghold. It is Kuznetsov’s private corporate fortress.

A miracle, if you could call it that. If Black Cat were held inside GRU proper, this mission would’ve been suicide.

She counts her steps, mentally mapping every footfall from the elevator to the inner core. Seven seconds between security scans. Four swipe pads. Twenty-nine paces to the main chamber.

At the last checkpoint, guards peel her from the escort and shove her against a wall. One of them steps through the reinforced double doors.

“She’s here,” he announces. “Took down six of us.”

A pause. Then the order comes, smooth and unhurried:
“Bring her in.”

She’s yanked forward, arms gripped in hands that feel carved from stone, and shoved into the cold metal of a chair. Plastic straps cinch her wrists tight against the frame. Then—snap—the hood is pulled away.

Light stabs her vision. Her eyes take a moment to adjust, and then she sees it:

A lab. No—something fouler. A hybrid between tech command and torture chamber. Rows of sleek computers blink beside archaic bone-crushing tools and rusted surgical restraints. The room smells of burning skin, ozone, and old blood.

In the center, two chairs face one another. One is hers.
The other holds him.

Half-slumped, wrists bound, shirtless and battered. Bruises bloom like oil slicks across his torso, and burn marks lace his ribs. His head hangs, dark brown hair shielding most of his face—but she’d know that posture anywhere. Her heart doesn’t just beat. It lurches.

Even through the pain, even stripped to nothing—he radiates defiance.
It’s him.

A tremor almost betrays her. She swallows it whole.

And then she sees the devils.

The first stands tall, clean-cut, and polished like a diamond with blood on its facets. Tailored navy suit. Gold-tipped cane. The lion’s head at the handle glints under sterile lights. His moustache is as perfect as his posture.

Dmitry Sergeyevich Kuznetsov.

She has seen his face countless times—on the news, in every CIA dossier. The recognition is instant.
He smiles as though he’s been expecting her all his life.

Dr. Pyanovey.
The mastermind behind nearly half a decade of CIA nightmares. The lone architect of a rigged American election.

Anger curls deep in the pit of her stomach like a clenched fist. If he had never appeared, Black Cat wouldn’t have had to risk everything trying to restore the balance of power in the U.S.

She feels his gaze on her—piercing, calculating—through the thick lenses of his glasses and the even thicker tangle of facial hair.

Lila’s gaze flicks briefly to the man hunched across the room—wrists bound, body broken and bruised like a map of every secret he keeps. Blood dries in dark patches along his ribs, his jaw is swollen and bloodied at the corner.

And still—still—she feels it.
Nearly seven years.
The only man who has ever held her heart without asking for it.

Emotion surges like a tidal wave, crashing through her chest, threatening to tear her in half. She swallows it down—hard—shoving the scream into the deepest corner of her ribcage, folding it into silence like a wound she can’t afford to bleed. But her eyes give her away. Heat rises behind them, blurring her vision. Tears swell at the edges, trembling against her lashes. Watching him suffer—stripped, beaten, burned—feels like her own skin is being flayed open. Every lash against his body lands in her bones. Every bruise, every scar, carves itself into her. It’s unbearable. And she can’t look away.

But a twitch catches her eye—Dr. Pyanovey’s fingers tap a strange, half-rhythmic pattern on his thigh, then near his temple, then rap lightly on the desk, as if conducting some invisible equation. His body is awkwardly bent, hair and beard a shaggy wall, lab coat stained at the hem. His eyes, thick behind warped lenses, dart here and there. The twitch is spidery but precise, and Lila’s skin prickles with recognition. This man is dangerous in a way no gun could match.

Kuznetsov steps forward, his voice velvet dragged over knives—slow, deliberate, dangerous. He circles Lila like a vulture appraising a fresh kill.

“Well now,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with calculation, “quite a looker, aren’t you? No wonder the rat’s got a taste for you.”

Across the room, the battered man lifts his bloodied face. His voice is hoarse, but still edged with steel.

“I don’t know who she is.”

Kuznetsov’s smile widens, like a serpent uncoiling.
“No? Then she’s even less useful than I thought.”

He flicks two fingers.
A guard steps forward and levels a pistol against Lila’s temple. Cold metal meets warm skin. She doesn’t flinch.
But the man does.

His body jerks forward, straining against his restraints. It’s slight—barely a second—but Kuznetsov sees it. And he grins.

“Ohhh,” he croons, voice thick with delight. “That look—does this jog your memory now?”

Lila’s eyes lock on the familiar, broken face. Her breath comes shallow, trembling.
“Black Cat,” she whispers.

Silence cracks across the room like glass.
Kuznetsov’s smirk stretches wider. “She knows you, alright.”

He nods once.
The gun presses harder against her temple.

“So,” he drawls, his voice turning cruel, “tell me, darling—who sent you? CIA? Or are you just tragically stupid in love?”

Her voice cuts the air like a blade.
“You’ve got us both. Kill us. We won’t talk.”

Kuznetsov lets out a soft laugh, dark and entertained.
“Brave,” he says, glancing at Black Cat. “I suppose you like that in a woman. But I wonder—will you like her so much after I shatter her kneecap?”

He turns to the bound man, tone sharpening to steel.
“You’ve got one chance. Names and locations of every CIA operative in Moscow. The access codes to Alexei’s account. Or I repaint these walls with her brain.”

Lila’s heart pounds. Her mind whirs.

That’s the game.

Kuznetsov doesn’t keep Black Cat from the GRU out of patriotism—it’s greed. Revenge. Control.
The rumors are true. Black Cat has gotten Volchkov’s offshore access codes before eliminating him. Tens of billions in crypto. Assets. Power. Leverage with the Kremlin.
And Kuznetsov wants it all.
No middlemen. No GRU. No split glory.
Just him, the corpse, and the cash—proof that he is still indispensable to the Russian president.

The room holds its breath.
Then the man in the chair speaks, low and firm.
“Let her go. She doesn’t know anything.”

“No!” Lila snaps. Her voice cracks with raw fury, a tremor of desperation beneath it. “Don’t—don’t do this! You know he won’t keep his promise! If you talk, he’ll kill us both!”

The pistol presses harder. Her breathing hitches. Fear bleeds through for a flicker—quick, real, electric.
Kuznetsov turns his cold gaze on her.
“Shut up, sweetheart. Your boyfriend’s having a noble moment. Let’s not spoil it.”

But Black Cat looks at her again—soft, steady.
“I won’t let you die in front of me,” he says. The words are quiet, but final. Something unbreakable flickers behind his eyes.

“No,” Lila whispers, shaking her head. Tears stream freely now. “No—don’t.”

Kuznetsov’s smile returns, victorious and sharp.
“You’re not as ruthless as I thought,” he says, venom curling each word. “So tell me, why the fuck did you kill Alexei? He wasn’t even a CIA target.”

His hand tightens on the lion-head cane. Barely controlled rage.
“Didn’t your fucking president promise to pull all assets out of Russia?”

Black Cat lets out a laugh, bitter and broken.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he rasps. “You got played. Our president might act like a moron, but he never trusted yours. He never pulled out the operatives. He doubled down. Just like your president did—blackmail dossiers, contingency leaks…”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly through the blood.
“No one ever planned to play fair.”

Kuznetsov’s nostrils flare, jaw clenching.
“I warned him,” he hisses. “That treacherous bastard—”

“Why Volchkov, then?” he snaps again.

Black Cat’s gaze sharpens.
“Our president says if Volchkov dies, you’ll be weakened. Your president will panic. Be too distracted to see what’s really coming.”

Kuznetsov narrows his eyes. “Coming from what?”

Before Black Cat can answer, Dr. Pyanovey’s voice cuts in—rasping, quick, almost manic beneath a curtain of unkempt hair.
“He’s cutting a deal behind everyone’s back. EU leaders. China. He’s playing our president, pretending to unite against the West, but he’s building a new bloc. If we don’t catch it in time, if China and Europe unify—he’ll have all of us boxed in.”

Pyanovey’s words tumble out in rapid Russian, barely audible but urgent.
“We’ve intercepted coordinates. Secret summit in a few hours. He’s moving fast.”

Kuznetsov’s face tightens, the weight of the threat sinking in.

The twitch in Pyanovey’s left shoulder is pronounced now, like an electric tic, his fingers tapping erratically against the desk. The eyes behind the glasses burn with something feral.

Kuznetsov looks torn—then resolved.

“If he thinks he can fuck us—he’ll learn he never would’ve made it without us. If he betrays us... we bury him.”

“I can access his private mail,” Pyanovey offers. “Leak just enough to show him we’re watching. Make him sweat. But I’ll need that access code from our friend here.”

Kuznetsov’s grin is razor-thin.

“Excellent. But first—Alexei’s money.”

He tilts his head at Black Cat, voice dipping into malice.
“If you stop talking, I’d love to hear what your girlfriend screams like when we break her leg.”

“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” Black Cat snarls—lunging forward despite the restraints. The chair tips slightly under the force of it.

But then he stops. Reality clamps down.

“I’ll give you the passcode,” he says, voice raw. “It’s ‘uvyk*wde#$%dwdwadccc’—one-time use. Enter it wrong, and the funds lock forever.”

Kuznetsov flicks his eyes to Pyanovey, who’s already hunched over the terminal. His hands fly across the keys—uncanny in speed, eerily delicate, like a pianist born in a cage. The keyboard clicks like teeth.

A beat. Then:
“We’re in. $23,450,890,989 confirmed,” Pyanovey announces.

Kuznetsov lets out a guttural, delighted laugh. “Good boy, Artem.”

“And the comms code to your CIA friends?” he asks, without even turning.

“67ccf5621,” Black Cat mutters, jaw tight.

More keys tapping. Then:
“We’re in. I can send a five-second audio transmission. Direct.”

“Perfect,” Kuznetsov says. He snaps his fingers. A guard steps forward carrying a black suitcase.

Biometric scans. A hiss. A click .

He withdraws a sleek USB stick and hands it to Pyanovey.

“Do your magic.”

Pyanovey stares at the stick for one beat too long—shoulders twitching again—then plugs it in and begins copying files.

“This,” he mutters, “will make him very uncomfortable.”

The sound of Kuznetsov’s laughter echoes through the chamber again—rich and cruel.

He turns to Black Cat, eyes hungry.

“Now,” he says. “Give me the rest. Names. Locations. Everything.”

Black Cat meets his gaze, unblinking.

“Go to hell,” he says through gritted teeth.

His jaw is clenched so tight the veins in his neck stand out

Kuznetsov’s lips curl into a cruel grin as he leans forward. “Still wanting to play hero, eh? You’ve already sold out your country for your little girlfriend. You’re no different from the rest of us—”

A gunshot cracks through the lab like a thunderclap.

For half a second, no one breathes.

Kuznetsov blinks—then the center of his forehead blossoms red, and the richest man in Russia collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, blood fanning across the marble floor.

The lab explodes into chaos. No one understands what just happened—except Lila.

She’s already in motion.

She twists violently in her chair, snapping the back legs off balance. The fall looks accidental—but it’s calculated. As the chair crashes down, her fingers slip into the seam of her boot and hook the pressure-release pin she tucked there earlier. One brutal movement, and the cuff latch pops open.

A guard charges her.

Across the room, Dr. Pyanovey lifts his head—and everything shifts.

No word. No shout. Just a stillness that slices through the chaos like wire drawn taut.

His spine straightens. The twitching vanishes. The hunched ghost becomes something else entirely—coiled, precise, lethal. His gun already moves in all directions, each shot perfect.

He reaches beneath the coat and flicks another pistol across the room with military precision. Lila snatches it mid-air, turns, and fires—two quick shots. One to the leg. One to the throat. The guard drops before his weapon hits the ground.

On the left flank, Pyanovey moves like a blade. Cold and calculated—lethal reflex and precision. He uses a rolling chair to deflect gunfire, fires twice through the mesh backrest, then slams another attacker into a server panel with a crack of bone.

Lila dives toward the second restrained figure—him. Black Cat. His wrists still zip-tied behind the chair, chest a battlefield of bruises and burns.

“I got you,” she mutters fiercely.

She uses the gun barrel to sear through the zip tie—smoke curling between them. As soon as his hands are free, he collapses forward, but she catches him.

“Stay low. Move when I move.”

Black Cat nods—dazed but alert. She drags him behind an overturned table, tucks him into cover, and rejoins the fight.

The lab is now a battlefield of fire and gunpowder.

Pyanovey throws a keyboard like a knife, disarming a guard, then fires—cold, exact. Another lunges for his blind side.

“Left!” Lila shouts.

He ducks just as a bullet blasts apart a server. Without missing a beat, he grabs a loose power cord and yanks—pulling the assailant off balance.

The moment the attacker stumbles, Lila is already there—planting a round into his chest at point-blank.

Their rhythm is flawless. Instinct over words. Muscle memory over thought.

He watches her six. She mirrors his reload. They orbit through chaos like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

Lila vaults a desk, rolls, lands behind two crouched guards. She shoots one through the throat, sweeps the other’s leg, and cracks her elbow into his temple—blood spatters the glowing screen.

Pyanovey slides under a baton swing, twists the attacker’s wrist until it snaps, and buries the weapon in the man’s skull without hesitation.

When one of the last guards tries to take a hostage position behind Black Cat, Lila swings behind a server bank and drills a bullet through the attacker’s thigh before he can pull the trigger.

Pyanovey finishes him with a single shot to the temple.

Glass shatters. Sparks spit. Screams peak—and vanish.

Seconds later, silence.

Kuznetsov’s elite guard unit lies in ruins. No one survives. Smoke coils through the wreckage. Blood steams on cold tile.

Lila—breathing hard, blood streaking her temple—glances at the man who just tore through a kill squad with her like they’d never missed a beat.

He doesn’t meet her gaze.

He just reloads in silence.

Then he steps over Kuznetsov’s still-bleeding body and yanks the suitcase from beneath the corpse. The USB stick is already clenched in his palm.

“We need to go. Now.”

“I’ve disabled every security camera in the building,” he says, lifting Black Cat’s arm over his shoulder. “We’ve got seven minutes before the feeds come back online.”

Lila chambers her last round, checks Black Cat’s stance, and turns toward the corridor.

“Then five’s all we need.”

Together, they vanish into the smoke.

Following Pyanovey’s lead, the trio navigates the underbelly of Kuznetsov’s fortress with alarming ease. The mad scientist—if that word still applies—moves with eerie precision, cutting through halls and corridors like he’s memorized every tile. Each time they encounter a guard, there's no hesitation. Lila and Pyanovey shoot to kill—clean, efficient. No witnesses.

Despite the mess of bruises, Black Cat moves under his own power, albeit stiffly. He grits through the pain, his steps steady. He’s not unscathed, but he’s not broken either.

“As soon as we pass the south gate, we drop underground,” Pyanovey murmurs without breaking stride. “Drainage tunnels. I’ve mapped everything. It's our cleanest exit.”

Lila offers no argument. She has her own escape route memorized, of course—but she can already tell his is safer. More detailed. More thought out. She falls into step beside him without a word.

They reach the south gate in just under four minutes, slipping through shadows as the distant sound of shouts and echoing footsteps grows behind them. Pyanovey pries up a heavy manhole cover with practiced strength, shifting it just enough for each of them to slide through. Lila is the last one down, replacing the cover over their heads, sealing them beneath the earth.

The darkness hits like a physical wall.

The tunnel reeks. Rotting sludge, rust, and the sour stench of human waste claw at her nose. The floor beneath them is slick and uneven, ankle-deep in something foul. Drops of water echo around them like a chorus of ticking clocks.

Pyanovey doesn't hesitate. He kneels beside a half-submerged concrete ledge, pulls out a flashlight and flicks it on, its beam cutting a narrow path through the black. Then he pries open a rusted maintenance locker camouflaged into the wall. Inside sit two waterproof backpacks. He tosses one to Black Cat and unzips the other without a word.

“Change,” Pyanovey says, already tugging on a thermal jacket and sliding on a pair of night-vision goggles. He hands the backpack to Lila without a word.

She unzips the bag quickly, scanning the contents: thermal gear, gloves, a gas mask, two fully loaded pistols, spare ammo, protein bars, and a roll of gauze.

Pyanovey signalled for Lila to put on the gloves and the gas mask, then quietly slips on a thin surgical mask for himself. It takes her a second to realize what that means—there were only two proper gas masks prepared. One for him. One for Black Cat.

But now that she’s here, he’s given the better protection to her.

The air down here is thick, metallic, and choked with rot. A proper gas mask isn’t optional—it’s essential. She knows that. And she knows what he just gave up.

She meets his eyes for a brief second, something unspoken passing between them.

No protest. Just a quiet understanding.

She pulls the mask on without a word.

Beside her, Black Cat—still shivering—shrugs into his thermal jacket and night vision goggles, silent as a shadow.

“Good thing I packed more than two,” Pyanovey mutters, digging into a side pocket. He pulls out two additional flashlights and passes one to Lila. “Infrared-compatible. Low beam only.”

Then he straps on a strange, bulky watch and taps the glass. A top-down map glows to life in soft red light—every twist and turn of the tunnels etched with clinical precision.

They’re ready.

There are only two sets of night vision, so Lila goes without. Pyanovey glances at her for a beat, then silently extends his hand.

She takes it.

His grip is firm, warm, grounding. And even though they haven’t truly escaped yet, something in her chest finally loosens. Her heart pounds—not just from the run, but from that steady, sure grasp that seems to say: I’m here now. Don’t worry.

How long has it been since he last held her hand?

Was it the night of the masquerade ball, in the dark—just like now? Or since Hotel Obsidian?
The memory is almost overwhelming.

God, she’s missed it. The way his large, warm hand encloses hers. How something about that simple contact makes her feel safe. Not just now—but from the very first time, when she told him to hold her hand in that cramped supply closet.

She should have known then.

No one else has ever made her feel that kind of safety. That quiet assurance that blooms the moment their fingers link. When their heartbeats fall into sync.

Pyanovey leads them with unrelenting speed, weaving through the ancient tunnels like he was born in them. Every few meters, he squeezes her hand—once to warn of a dip, twice to signal a turn. Left. Right. Left again. They duck under low arches, sidestep jagged protrusions, and leap over rusted debris. Water sloshes around their feet, thick with age and decay.

Time loses meaning in the dark.

After nearly forty minutes of silent maneuvering, they finally stop beneath a rust-caked ladder. Above, the faint outline of another manhole. The space is tight. The air is heavier here—denser with the weight of parting.

“We split here,Yuri” Pyanovey says quietly, turning to Black Cat. “In the side pocket—there’s a key. You’ll find a bunker. It's safe. Food, medical supplies, generator—all of it enough to last a year. Stay low. Wait for things to calm down. Then make your move.”

Black Cat—no, Yuri now—nods slowly. His expression flickers with something too raw to name.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “For keeping your promise. For avenging them.”

Pyanovey shakes his head, jaw clenched.

“No. I couldn’t have done it without you. They’d be proud. I’m sure of it.”

Yuri lets out a shaky exhale—half laugh, half sob. It echoes faintly in the hollow space.

“Ten years…” he whispers. “He’s really dead, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Pyanovey says, offering his hand. “Thank you.”

Yuri grips it with both hands, holding on to a beat too long. Then he turns to Lila, his expression softening into something kind.

“So this is her, huh?” he says quietly. “She’s the one…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just looks at her and says, “Thanks for pulling me out back there.”

Lila gives him a crooked grin. “Thanks for the Oscar-worthy performance.”

Yuri smiles faintly, pulls off his night-vision goggles, and presses them into her hand. “You'll need these more than I will.”

She slides them on.

He then hands his gas mask over to Pyanovey without another word. 

He nods at both of them, then climbs the ladder slowly. At the top, he knocks twice, waits, then pushes the cover aside. A square of dull gray light bleeds in.

He vanishes.

Pyanovey doesn’t speak. He just turns.

“This way,” he says.

His voice is colder now, all warmth gone.

With the goggles on, Lila no longer needs his hand. She keeps pace easily, but she feels the shift between them like a blade. No more contact. No more pause.

He becomes lukewarm again.

They run in silence, feet slapping through shallow filth. The maze twists tighter. The air grows damper. A distant rumble—pipes above or thunder from the city—makes the walls tremble.

Thirty minutes later, they stop at another ladder.

Pyanovey immediately climbs the rickety metal bars and pushes open the heavy manhole cover. Lila follows close behind. At the top, his hand is there again—offered wordlessly. She takes it without hesitation, and he pulls her up.

The air above the ground becomes instantly fresher instead of that thick stained full of metal and phosphoric air down underground.  

They replace the cover behind them and slip into the shadows. He leads her down a dark alleyway through a desolate, half-abandoned neighborhood. They stop in front of a nondescript house. He unlocks the triple-bolted door, then guides her through a narrow, pitch-black corridor to another triple-locked entrance. Each door responds only to his iris scan.

This place has been prepared for years. A true safehouse.

As soon as the last door seals behind them, warm yellow light floods the room. Inside, Lila sees a single chamber outfitted with an array of high-tech monitors showing live feeds of the surrounding area. A compact kitchen. A bathroom. A single bed tucked into the corner. It’s spartan, but secure.

Pyanovey—no, Five—sets down the suitcase and backpack without a word. He still won’t meet her eyes. It's as if he wants to pretend she isn’t here, as if he’s trying to slip into the next phase of the plan without acknowledging her presence at all.

But after a few silent beats, Lila breaks the standoff.

“Five.”

His body freezes. Her voice roots him to the spot.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says hoarsely. “We change. Shower. Switch disguises. Burn anything traceable. We leave as soon as possible. We’ve got a six to eighteen hour window before the GRU figures out what happened.”

His voice sounds strange, like it hasn’t been used in years—but it hits her instantly. That voice. His voice. Not Pyanovey’s Russian accent. English. Five’s English. The man she’s been dreaming of for six and a half years.

“I know,” she says gently. “But can we talk?”

She takes a step toward him.

He takes one back.

“We can talk later,” he says flatly. “What route did Ribbon assign you?”

“Helsinki.”

“My exit is Belarus. We split here.”

His tone is cold. Clinical. As if her presence means nothing. The indifference hits like a punch to the gut. Just like before. Just like always.

“I’m not splitting from you, Five,” she says, voice trembling. “I came here to bring you back.”

Her eyes are wide, brimming with tears. He can’t look at them. He turns his back to her.

“I’ve got more work to do. It doesn’t concern you. You should go with them.” A pause. Then, quieter: “It’s safer.”

Every word is barbed. Distant. But she sees through it now. She knows who he really is. She’s not letting him vanish again.

“Didn’t you once say…” Her voice cracks. “If I told you, just once, that I wanted to abandon everything and run away—you’d take my hand and never look back?”

Tears spill down her cheeks. She stares at his back, waiting. Watching. And then, slowly, his body goes still. The words hit him like a blade.

She read the letter.

The one he never meant for anyone to read. The one he torn apart and let the wind carried it away before anyone could know about its existence. But somehow, she had it. She memorized it. The same way he did.

She knows.

But instead of folding, he scoffs—dry and dismissive. Still turned away.

“Lila… you must be insane to think I’m still in love with you.”
A pause. A knife twist.
“I was. But that was a long time ago. It’s been nearly seven years—I’ve moved on. Don’t waste your time. This does neither of us any good.”

The words cleave through her like a razor.

He turns, begins moving through the room, methodically prepping their escape—just like he did nine years ago in Allison’s kitchen. Just like six and a half years ago, after he saved her from drowning… and vanished.

She can barely breathe.

But she doesn’t back down.

“Five-two-eight,” she says, quietly but clearly. “It means ‘Five loves Eight’ in Mandarin, doesn’t it?”

He stops mid-step.

He doesn’t turn, but tension coils in his shoulders.

“The hidden code you sent—the one only I could decode—”
Her voice is low, breaking at the edge.
“It’s based on information from the Commission. The briefcase room. The brown rectangle with IS in it—”
She draws a slow, ragged breath.
“The Infinity Switchboard. Room number 2589.”

She steps closer. Softer now. Like a truth that’s taken years to form.

“You made sure only I could break it,” she says, “because you knew… we were the only two left from that timeline.”

Her eyes are shining now, but she doesn't blink. Doesn’t waver.

“You used yourself as bait. You gave up Black Cat’s location. You lived as Pyanovey for years to earn Kuznetsov’s trust. You did it all because you said: EBH—528. ”

Her voice drops to almost a whisper.

“Because you still love me.”

A pause.

“The code is for me… but also for yourself.”

Another step closer.

“You needed to remind yourself who you did all of this for.”

Silence thickens. His shoulders rise and fall.

“If you really don’t love me anymore,” she says, voice steady, “then why leave that code?”

Another scoff. A brittle one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters. “I didn’t leave any code. It’s laughable that you think I would write you anything after all these years”

He is trying to brush it off again. 

But she sees the lie. He’s lying. The old her might’ve believed him. Not now.

“Then laugh,” she says. “If it’s so funny—laugh. Look me in the eye and tell me it means nothing.”

She steps closer.

“Five.”

“Lila—”

“Look at me,” she says fiercely. “Look me in the eyes and tell me again that you don’t love me. Say it. Tell me you hate me more than anything and I’ll go. I’ll disappear. You’ll never have to see me again.”

She reaches out and touches his shoulder.

Then, gently, she wraps her arms around him from behind. Her cheek rests against his shoulder. Her tears soak into his shirt.

“Please don’t leave me again,” she whispers. “You said you’d wait forever. Well, I’m here now. I see you, Five. I always see you.”

He turns.

Finally.

Even behind the disguise, his stormy green eyes are unmistakable. Five. Her Five.

“Lila,” he chokes. “It’s been so long… no one’s said my name.”

She cups his face in her hands, trembling.

“Five.”
She kisses him, soft and gentle.
“Five.”
Another kiss, firmer.
“Five.”
Again.
“Five.”

And when she says it the last time—he can’t take it anymore.

He surges forward and crushes her to him. His lips claim hers with years of starvation behind them. Tongues meet, teeth clash. It's not clean, not gentle—it’s desperate. Human.

A whimper escapes her throat. He groans against her lips. His hands slide up her back like he’s terrified she’ll disappear. Her fingers twist in his hair like she’s anchoring herself to life.

He holds her like a man who thought he’d never touch her again.

Because he did.

And now he can’t stop.

Not now. Not ever.

After years apart, grief and longing and buried love ignite into something unstoppable.

She leads him to the bathroom without a word, her fingers curled around his wrist like a lifeline pulling him back from the dead. He follows without resistance. He knows exactly what she wants—what they’ve both starved for.

She flicks on the light. A golden glow pours over them, soft and liquid, like honey catching fire. It wraps around them like a cocoon—warm, protective, and full of promise . The mirror fogs instantly as she turns on the hot water. Steam rises in lazy tendrils, cloaking them in heat and anticipation.

Her gaze clings to his like gravity, refusing to let go—as if blinking might break the spell between them.

In the glow of the bathroom, she lifts a hand and gently peels away his disguise. The moustache first, then the beard. The adhesive tugs at his skin, making his jaw twitch, but he doesn't flinch. He lets her strip away every false part of him.

Next goes the wig, then the hairnet, revealing thick, raven-black hair damp with sweat and curling slightly in the heat. She drags her fingers through it, slow and tender. When she moves to his shirt, she zips it down and helps him shrug it off. Piece by piece, his clothes fall to the floor—until he stands before her, fully exposed.

He’s all angles and scars now. Lean, sculpted muscle stretched over broad shoulders and a chest dusted with faint bruises and darker marks that hadn’t been there before.

Her hand hovers over one particularly vicious scar tracing across his ribs.

“These are new,” she whispers, fingers ghosting over it.

“They don’t hurt anymore,” he murmurs back. But something in his voice says otherwise.

Then it’s his turn.

He peels the layers from her one by one—hair, disguise, armor—each piece cradled with reverence, as if unwrapping something sacred. A face he’s memorized in dreams. A miracle returned. 

He unzips her jacket and slides it down her arms. Then slowly, gently, he unbuttons her shirt. One. Button. At. A. Time. He doesn’t rush. His eyes drink her in like he’s starving. When the fabric finally falls, revealing her breasts and her soft, toned torso, he exhales shakily—like she’s knocked the breath out of him.

She’s more beautiful than he remembered. More exquisite. More real.

His fingers move to her pants, and he kneels—eyes never breaking from hers—as he unzips and tugs them down her legs. She steps out of them, completely bare, lit by the flickering golden light and cloaked in steam.

Her body gleams like molten bronze. Soft and strong. A spy. An assassin. A woman. His.

And it’s too much. It’s not enough.

She takes his hand and pulls him under the spray of the shower, the water sluicing over their skin, washing away blood, sweat, dirt, and years of longing.

Then, silently, she guides his hand to her breast. He hesitates—almost like he still thinks this is a dream—but then cups it gently, his thumb brushing over her nipple.

A soft whimper escapes her lips.

His mouth crashes into hers—hungry, breathless—his tongue seeking hers like a live wire, desperate to complete the circuit. The moment they connect, it’s electric: a jolt that surges through both of them, soul to soul, heart to heart. Their tongues tangle—twisting, tasting, claiming—locked in a dance that’s less about lust than need. He wraps his arms around her, sealing her against him so completely it feels like he’s trying to absorb her, to draw her inside his skin, to make sure not even air can come between them. She can feel it—his heartbeat, wild and unrelenting, pounding against her chest, syncing with hers until it’s impossible to tell whose rhythm belongs to whom. It’s not just bodies touching—it’s everything.

She lifts one leg, wrapping it around his hip—and then he’s there.

His erection presses against her entrance, and they both groan at the contact. Their eyes lock.

And then he sinks into her in one perfect, aching thrust.

Her head falls back, a breathy cry slipping from her mouth. He grits his teeth at the feeling—hot, tight, home.

They move in rhythm, water cascading around them, steam swirling. The slap of skin, the hitching breath, the low, guttural sounds of need fill the air.

“Did you…” she gasps between thrusts, voice rough and trembling, “Did you ever… touch yourself… thinking of me? Like I did. All these years?”

He groans at her question, jaw clenching.

“Every time,” he growls against her neck. “Only you. It’s always been you.”

She arches against him, her nails digging into his back.

He fucks her harder now, faster. Their wet skin slaps in sharp rhythm as he drives into her over and over, deeper and deeper. Her back hits the tile wall and she cries out—but doesn’t stop him. She pulls him closer.

Each thrust is frantic now, laced with desperation. Years of wanting. Years of loss.

Her cries build, rising from her chest in ragged, shuddering waves. She clings to him, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle taut with the crashing tension of release. He feels it too—the way her body tightens around him, the trembling in her thighs, the breath caught in her throat.

Their eyes lock in a moment of blinding clarity, unspoken and soul-deep. Everything they've run from, everything they've lost, converges in this one impossible, unstoppable second.

And then it happens.

Their bodies seize together—shaking, gasping, collapsing into each other as the world narrows to heat, to light, to the thunderous rush of their shared climax. Their hearts stutter in perfect sync, like twin detonations echoing through their ribcages.

He moans her name, low and ragged, as he spills inside her, hips jerking, face buried in her shoulder.

They come together, shaking, breathless, home.

Afterward, they remain locked in each other’s arms, forehead to forehead under the steaming water. His hand cups the back of her head. Hers rests over his thudding heart.

Eventually, they pull apart—just enough to reach for towels and begin drying each other off, slow and deliberate. Their eyes never waver, locked in a silent language only they understand.

Then, with surprising ease for a man of his stature, he bends and lifts her into his arms, cradling her in a princess hold. He carries her toward the bed—narrow, but just wide enough for the two of them.

As he looks into her eyes, a line from his unsent letter echoes through her mind:

“I want to gaze into your eyes for hours, committing every fleck of amber in your irises to memory.”

His green eyes are intense—piercing, yet soft. Gentle. So full of feeling that she can’t help but lose herself in them. Then he gives her a small smile, and the devastating dimple appears, carved deep beside his twin mole.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, voice low.

And she knows exactly what he means—
“I want to kiss and taste every inch of your body, your skin, so you know how much I treasure you.”

She nods, returning his smile, but says nothing. She doesn’t dare. As if speaking might shatter the moment—like it could dissolve into mist if she even breathed too hard.

He cups her cheeks tenderly, then leans in to kiss her—soft, reverent. But then his mouth begins its descent, leaving open-mouthed kisses in his wake. His tongue flicks out—tasting, licking, sucking—each motion unhurried and worshipful. He trails down her throat, over the slope of her collarbone, down to her chest, where he circles one nipple with his tongue before taking it into his mouth. A low groan vibrates from him as he suckles gently at first, then with more pressure, teasing her with the edge of his teeth until she gasps and arches up to meet him.

He doesn’t stop. His mouth continues downward—slow and deliberate—as if memorizing her skin by taste alone. Her hands slide into his hair, gripping tighter with every kiss. He lavishes attention on every part of her: her belly button, the curve of her hip, the dip between her thighs. Then her inner knees, her calves, the arches of her feet—before trailing back up, kissing a path along the inside of her thighs, each one trembling now with anticipation.

Every kiss ignites a fresh bloom of heat beneath her skin. Little detonations of pleasure spark across her nerves, until she feels like she’s unraveling—dying a hundred tiny, exquisite deaths beneath his mouth.

To be loved by him—truly, deeply, as if she were something rare and sacred—was unlike anything she’d ever known. How could she have ever denied herself this? The warmth of his touch, the quiet admiration in his gaze, the sheer ache of being his?

When his mouth moved between her thighs, his tongue slipping inside her cunt with aching precision, her body responded instantly—clenching around him, her wetness flooding his lips. He breathed her in like a memory long buried but never forgotten. That scent—undeniable, divine—dragged him back through time.

He should’ve known. The moment he walked into that kitchen over eight years ago and saw her standing there... he should’ve known. The goddess in the gold dress. The woman who gave him the most unforgettable night of his life.

"You smell… divine," he murmured between slow, deliberate flicks of his tongue. Then his fingers joined in—sliding inside her, curling expertly, finding every spot that made her quake. His mouth and hands moved in perfect rhythm, relentless in their devotion, drawing another wave from deep within her.

Her moans grew desperate, her thighs trembling around his head. The pressure built—higher, tighter—until it shattered. She cried out as her climax crashed over her, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He was tasting eternity.

But he is nowhere near finished with her.

He pulls her into his lap, guiding her to straddle him, her body flushed and trembling from release. As he sinks back inside her, their mouths part in tandem—his from the rush of heat, hers from the gasp he draws out of her like a secret. This way, he can watch her come undone—see every flicker of emotion that crosses her face when he brings her pleasure. He marvels at the way her breath catches, the way her body arches, the way her breasts bounce with every deep, deliberate thrust.

She is radiant—like lightning wrapped in silk.
He buries his face in the curve of her chest, lips and tongue adoring the delicate peaks of her breasts as if they were sacred. She clutches his shoulders, hips rolling with him in a rhythm that feels both primal and sacred, as though their bodies speak a language the world has long forgotten.

His grip tightens at her waist as he drives up into her, again and again, their movements urgent and unyielding. Her inner muscles seize around him—silken, molten, insatiable—drawing him deeper, coaxing more from him with every pulse and cry. It's as if her body is a flame and he's made of kindling, eager to be consumed.

She gasps, her hands fisting in his hair as he thrusts deeper, hitting something inside her that makes her shudder. Her forehead presses to his, lips brushing his as she pants his name.

“I love you,” she breathes—raw, involuntary. A truth torn from the depths of her as she rides the edge of something vast.

His eyes fly open. He stares at her—stunned, then undone.

“God, Lila—” His voice catches, but the words come anyway, helpless.
“I love you too.”

His thrusts grow deeper, harder—like he’s trying to memorize every second.
Their bodies move erratically but perfectly against each other, driven by something more than lust now. Worship turns to wonder. Urgency gives way to awe.

Another wave builds, tighter and more consuming. She clings to him like she’s drowning in the feeling, and he meets her there—matching every pulse, every cry, every breath.

She cries out as her climax crashes over her, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.  He follows her over the edge, hips jerking as he spills into her, filling her with warmth that makes her shudder and cling to him like he is the only thing that matters. 

In that moment, there is no world beyond this room.

Only the echo of their confessions, the tremble in their limbs, and the desperate, infinite way they hold each other—like they’d been starving for centuries and finally found home.

The room is quiet except for the sound of their breaths, still uneven from the storm they had just weathered together. The air between them is thick with something fragile, something Five is too afraid to name.

Lila rests against his chest, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns over his skin, but Five doesn’t move. He just watches her, as if memorizing every detail of her face, as if she might slip away if he dares to blink.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard against the lump forming there, but it’s no use. The weight of this moment, the sheer impossibility of it, crashes into him all at once. A single tear escapes before he can stop it, sliding down his cheek like a betrayal of everything he has tried to hold back.

Lila notices.

She reaches up, her fingers gentle as they cup his face, her thumb wiping the tear away. Her own eyes shimmer with unshed emotions, mirroring the same disbelief he feels deep in his bones.

His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and raw when he finally speaks.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream, Lila.” His hand cradles her cheek as if anchoring himself to reality. “Tell me that when I wake up, you’ll still be here.”

Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly as if she, too, is struggling to grasp that this is real. That after all these years, all the distance, all the pain, they are here. Together.

A soft, trembling smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she presses her forehead against his.

“It’s not a dream, Five.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes betray the depth of her emotions. “I’m here. I’m really here.”

Five exhales, but it comes out as a quiet, broken sound, like something inside him is unraveling.

He has spent thirteen years loving her in silence, believing she would never look at him the way he looks at her. Thirteen years convincing himself that his feelings were nothing more than a curse he had to bear alone. That she was meant to be with Diego, that she could never be his, no matter how much he longed for her.

And yet, here she is.

In his arms.

Loving him back.

He presses his forehead harder against hers, his hands gripping her like he’s terrified she’ll disappear. “I don’t know how to believe it,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to believe that I can have this. That I can have you.”

Lila’s heart clenches. She should have known—of course, she should have known. Five isn’t just afraid of losing her. He’s afraid of wanting her. Afraid that the moment he lets himself believe in this happiness, it’ll be ripped away.

So she does the only thing she can.

She kisses him.

Soft. Slow. A quiet reassurance that she isn’t going anywhere.

And when she pulls back, her fingers threading through his hair, she whispers again, her lips brushing against his.

“It’s not a dream, Five.”

And for the first time in thirteen years, he lets himself believe her.

They don’t get much rest that night—barely two and a half hours —before Five is up again, already moving with quiet urgency. The air in the room feels heavier, as if it knows time is running out.

“We’re not going to Finland,” he says, pulling up a map marked with coded notations and alternate routes.

“That border’s too hot. We go through Belarus, then Latvia. From Riga, we take the ferry to Helsinki— it’ll throw them off our trail.”

Lila raises a brow. “Belarus?”

“It’s safer—for now. Fewer cameras, fewer questions. But we need to move fast.”

Their job isn’t finished. The damning document—the one linking covert deals between the U.S. and Russian presidents—is a ticking time bomb. With Kuznetsov dead and Dr. Artem Pyanovey officially vanished, it’s only a matter of hours before the Russian government starts asking dangerous questions. At first, the GRU will suspect Pyanovey was kidnapped by Black Cat. But the deeper they dig, the more inevitable the truth becomes: Pyanovey was the double agent. And Five knows better than anyone— the GRU never omits a possibility.

They can’t afford mistakes.

Five’s escape plan is as meticulous as it is ruthless. He’s arranged a sequence of stolen vehicles, each one preloaded with full fuel tanks and parked in pre-planned locations—barns, alleyways, garages in ghost villages forgotten by time. They travel mostly on foot, skirting toll checkpoints, weaving through dense forests and long-abandoned industrial zones, where no surveillance cameras can track their movements. Every few hours, they change clothes. Hats, wigs, glasses, even the way they walk—nothing is left to chance.

The disguises are simple, but effective. Five’s face, miraculously, is still unknown to the GRU. That anonymity won’t last. Not once did they realize who Pyanovey really was.

Lila, it seems, hasn’t been identified yet either. Her arrival flew under the radar—a stroke of luck, and a tactical advantage. But just in case, they decide to split up for part of the journey, separating for a few hundred kilometers to reduce suspicion and increase their odds.

“We regroup at the first checkpoint outside Mogilev,” Five says, pressing a burner phone into her palm. “You see even one thing that feels wrong, you leave. No hesitation.”

She nods. “You too, yeah?”

They part without ceremony—just a long look, and the trust that binds them tighter than any words.

The next 18 hours are brutal. Lila navigates backroads in silence, her eyes scanning every vehicle in her mirrors. Five moves with clinical efficiency, sleeping in two-minute increments in the backseat of a rusted van, eating cold protein bars, hacking into abandoned railway schedules to divert attention elsewhere. Their Russian is flawless—local, convincing—and it buys them just enough time.

Twenty hours after Kuznetsov’s death, state television across Russia begins flashing alerts. The face of Dr. Artem Pyanovey appears alongside Black Cat’s photo - Yuri in disguise. 

Lila sees the screen from a petrol station window and swears under her breath.
Five photos are everywhere. And yet… no one recognizes him.

By the time they reunite near the Belarusian border, exhaustion clings to them like second skin—but they don’t slow down. They swap vehicles again, darken their hair, even alter their voices. Every checkpoint crossed feels like breaking through a barrier of fate.

Crossing into Belarus proves easier than expected—security between the two countries remains disjointed, underfunded. They don’t linger. The border guards barely glance at their forged documents.

As the city lights of Mogilev fade behind them, they finally exhale.

Next comes Riga. Then Helsinki. Then the airlift.
Then—if they're lucky—home.

If they make it that far.

By the time they reach Riga, the weight on their shoulders has eased, just slightly—like a breath they didn’t know they’d been holding finally let go. They hole up in a safehouse by the docks, a stone’s throw from the ferry that will take them across the Gulf of Finland by morning.

And as the door clicks shut behind them—quiet and final—something breaks loose between them.

They fall into each other’s arms, no words, no hesitation. Just gravity.
A hunger shaped by years of absence and months of fear.
They don’t kiss so much as collide, mouths searching, hands frantic, desperate to memorize what time tried to erase.

They hold each other like it might be the last time.
Touching not just for comfort, but for proof—
That they’re still here.
Still real.
Still each other’s.

They lie tangled in soft sheets, the room still warm from the shower, their skin cooling as the adrenaline fades into something quieter, deeper. The glow from a small lamp spills across the bed, catching in the strands of her hair as she nestles into the crook of his shoulder. Five’s arm is slung around her waist, and his thumb brushes absently against her side, as if to make sure she’s really here.

Lila’s voice breaks the silence, low and lazy. “So… when did you figure it out? That it was me sparring with you behind the screen?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t know exactly. Just a gut feeling. The way you fought—it reminded me of how we used to spar in that hotel bathroom. Direct. Unrelenting. Feral.”

She gives him a mock scowl and lightly thumps her fist against his chest. “Oi. You calling me feral, old man?”

He grins. “I said it with admiration.”

“You better.”

They share a smile, then let the quiet settle again. But after a few beats, she shifts slightly, her tone turning serious.

“But you… you stopped him. From coming back for the second term, didn’t you?”

His jaw tightens, and the shadows under his eyes deepen. “That one was easier,” he says. “There were already external forces pushing the outcome in that direction. I just gave it a nudge. But the third time… it was almost impossible. So I used it. Let them think I was loyal. I needed their trust.” A pause. His voice softens. “I know it caused pain. To a lot of people. I’m sorry.”

Lila reaches up and cups his face, her fingers cool against his warm skin. “You did what you had to. You can’t rewrite history overnight. You have to work from the inside, change the trajectory once you have access to all the right pressure points.”

His eyes flutter closed for a moment under her touch. “Yeah… only you understand it like that.”

He places his hand over hers, leaning into her palm as though drawing strength from it.

“You must’ve been so exhausted,” she whispers. “So lonely. Living that life. Wearing someone else’s skin for so long.”

He swallows hard. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Then, from the pocket of a shirt folded on the chair nearby, he pulls out a small, laminated sketch—weathered but carefully preserved. A scowling cartoon black-haired boy with cat ears and tail.

She stares at it, her throat tightening. “You kept that?”

He nods. “Always.”

Her eyes burn, but she laughs through the emotion. “God, you are such a ridiculous, romantic idiot.”

He doesn’t disagree.

“So,” she says, trying to steady herself, “who’s Yuri?”

“Yuri…” He exhales. “He’s the son of two scientists Kuznetsov executed when Yuri was twenty. I needed someone smart enough to play the role. Someone who hated Kuznetsov enough to risk everything. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of people who want that bastard dead. But Yuri—he has the mind for it. And the motivation. Also, we have similar builds. That was a bonus. But tell me, when did you figure out Yuri wasn’t me?”

“I felt your presence the moment I stepped near that lab’s door. I don’t know why, I can always feel that. And when I looked at you in Pyanovey’s disguise, my heart beat so fast.” She touches his hand and plays with his long fingers, savoring the intimacy between them.

“So you figured out what I was planning? And instantly played along?”

“Your code gave me an idea, and your presence confirmed my suspicions,” she says with a proud smile, and he can’t help but kiss it.

“You’re always so damn smart, love.”

Lila melts a little at the way he calls her love.

“And Pyanovey?” Lila asks.

“He worked with them for years. Died four years ago. I took his identity.”

She blinks. “Wait… Pyanovey?”

He gives a faint smile. “His name is interesting, isn’t it?”

“‘Ya nomer pyat’... I am number Five,” she says, finishing his thought. Her lips curl into a grin. “An anagram of Artem Pyanovey.”

Five looks at her like she’s just solved a puzzle he thought no one else ever would. The pride in his eyes is unmistakable.

“I guess I can never lie to you,” he murmurs.

She leans in, smirking. “Well, don’t even try. I’ll know.”

But then her playfulness falters. Her gaze drops, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet.

“But… I really did believe you hated me. All these years.”

Five stills. His arms come around her, holding her tighter, grounding her.

“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he admits. “I’ve never… loved anyone like this. As much. It scared the hell out of me.”

Her hand finds his again and laces their fingers together. “It’s okay. It’s over now. We’re together. That’s what matters.”

He gives a small nod, breathing in her presence like he doesn’t trust it to last.

She shifts slightly, resting her chin on his chest. “So. Alexei Volchkov. That your last alias?”

“Yes,” he says. “Kuznetsov’s too paranoid to trust anything that doesn’t come wrapped in obscene amounts of money. So I create Volchkov. Become his closest ally, make him a shitload of money. Then I stage his death. Losing twenty billion dollars nearly sends him off the edge.”

Lila lets out a low whistle. “He must’ve been livid.”

“He was,” Five says, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. “It makes him unstable—easier to manipulate. I drove the knife in deeper, keep nurturing the seed of distrust I’ve planted for years. I told him the U.S. president can’t be trusted. That he needed to prepare for the worst. That’s when he brought out the suitcase—with all the evidence of the backchannel deals between the idiot in the White House and the dictator in the Kremlin.”

“You sold it well,” she murmurs, drawing lazy circles on his chest. “When I heard about the code to contact the president directly, I thought—that code doesn’t exist. You made all that up just to trick him into giving you the evidence.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah. Kuznetsov’s not stupid, but when the twenty-three billion comes back, he lets his guard down. Still—I have to thank you for the excellent acting. You really make it sound like Yuri is giving the real code.”

“We both did. Yuri caught on so fast,” she says with a laugh, shooting him a sly side-eye.

“And those devices you used to ‘torture’ him… they weren’t that painful, were they?”

“Not really,” Five says with a smirk. “More like stage magic—dramatic sounds, flashing lights. All bark, barely a bite.”

Lila lets out a dry laugh. “You arrogant bastard. That Morse code trick you play with Yuri—right under Kuznetsov’s nose—disguising it as Pyanovey’s body tic? That was reckless as hell.”

She nudges his shoulder. He catches her hand easily, that same infuriatingly confident smile stretching across his lips.

“I’m allowed to have a little fun, aren’t I?”

“Still,” she murmurs, exhaling. “You were playing with fire.”

“And you weren’t?” he shoots back, voice softening as he tightens his grip on her hand. “You use yourself as bait. Let them capture you, knowing they’ll take you to Black Cat. Do you have any idea how scared I was? What if I couldn’t protect you.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to her temple, his smile tinged with sorrow.

“I guess we always mirror each other,” she whispers. “In the worst ways possible.”

These are the reasons they’ve spent years apart instead of side by side—misunderstandings, half-truths, each of them making sacrifices in silence, thinking they know what’s best for the other.

But now, there’s no point in looking back.

Not when they’re finally standing on the same side, in the same moment.

Together.

She arches a brow and changes the topic.
“You really went all in on exploiting your apocalypse knowledge, huh?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t hard. Set up a few shell bitcoin companies. Rode the quantum computing wave. Especially with his help.”

“His?”

Five tilts his head, almost fondly. “The old man. My ruthless father.”

“What did you say to get him on board?”

“I told him I was doing the same thing he tried to do in a hundred different timelines—save the only woman he ever loved. He owed me that much.”

Her chest tightens. “And did he help?”

“He did. Couldn’t even bring himself to call me a foolish boy,” Five says with a soft chuckle. “You know what’s funny? He once told me it only takes a few seconds to fall in love. And maybe it did. That moment I rolled back time, accidentally pulled you out of the Handler’s grip…”

He looks at her then—green eyes steady, unwavering.

“That’s when I sealed my fate. And yours. Together.”

Lila says nothing. She doesn’t need to. She reaches up and brushes his dark hair off his forehead, then leans in and kisses him—slow, certain, full of everything they’ve never been able to say in all those stolen, aching years.

This isn’t a reunion.

It’s a homecoming.

And this time, neither of them will walk away.

The Baltic wind cuts sharp across the docks of Riga, the sea restless beneath an overcast sky. Lila and Five stand shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the port, their eyes fixed on the approaching ferry that’s meant to carry them into Helsinki—and, hopefully, freedom.

But then, the sound of boots slapping against wet concrete shatters the stillness.

Lila turns sharply. A squad of men in black tactical gear rounds the corner behind them, rifles raised, eyes locked on their position.

“Run,” Five snaps, grabbing her hand. But it’s too late.

Before they can move, a helicopter slices through the clouds above, blades thundering. Lila’s heart seizes—until she spots the woman leaning out of the open door, hair whipping wildly around her face.

“Derica!” Lila shouts in disbelief.

The CIA agent throws down a rescue line.

Without hesitation, Five grabs it and helps Lila latch on. The cable jerks them upward, and the world below begins to fall away. A heavy-mounted gun swings toward the dock, and within seconds, gunfire erupts. Controlled bursts rain down from above, scattering the men in black. They dive for cover, shouting into radios, but it’s too late—their ambush is falling apart.

Chaos receding as the chopper lifts them higher and higher above the waterline, out of reach of the men now shouting and scrambling on the docks.

Inside the helicopter, Lila collapses onto the floor, breathless, heart pounding. Her hands are still clutched in Five’s. She looks at him, her eyes red-rimmed, overflowing with relief and adrenaline.

Derica kneels in front of them, composed despite the wind still whipping through the cabin. Her voice is steady, too steady.

“Is it true?” she asks. “Do you have the suitcase—with the evidence of the U.S. and Russian presidents' dealings?”

Lila nods, catching her breath. “Yes.”

Derica’s next question lands like a stone.

“Did you share it with anyone else?”

Five answers quickly. “No.”

“No,” Lila echoes, eyes narrowing. “Why? Derica—how did you even know we were in Riga?”

There’s a long pause. Then Derica straightens.

Her eyes, once familiar, now carry a foreign steel.

“I’m sorry, Foxy,” she says softly. “But I had to choose where my loyalty lies.”

Her hand moves too fast.

Before Lila can blink, Derica pulls a pistol from her coat, levels it at Five—and fires.

The shot cracks through the cabin like lightning.

Five gasps as the bullet tears through his chest. His eyes widen—not in fear, but in stunned realization— Time seems to fracture. He stumbles back, body convulsing, back facing the open door.

“No!” Lila screams, lunging for him.

But he’s already falling—out the door, into the gray abyss below.

The sea swallows him whole.

Lila’s scream is raw, animal. She fights like a woman possessed, thrashing against the arms of two agents as they pin her down. “Let me go! Let me go—he’s still alive! He’s still—!”

But the door seals shut. The cold silence inside the helicopter settles like ash.

Derica doesn’t look at her. She stares straight ahead, her face unreadable.

“You don’t understand,” Lila sobs. “You don’t understand what you’ve done…”

Derica’s voice is quiet.

“I know exactly what I’ve done.”

This is what loving him has always felt like.
He is the moon’s reflection dancing on the surface of dark water—so close, so luminous, it almost feels real.
But the moment she reaches for him, the surface breaks.
He scatters into ripples and silence.
Untouchable. Inevitable. Gone.

She could never hold him.
He was light caught in motion, belonging to the sky, not the shore.
And yet, every part of her longed to dive in—to catch the shimmer, to prove the impossible wrong.
But all she ever found was cold water and an aching emptiness.

Perhaps she was foolish to chase him.
To think the moon would ever fall for a girl made of earth and scars.
He was never hers to hold.
And she… she should’ve known better than to reach for something that was never meant to be touched.

The lake today is as grey and hollow as the day she nearly drowned in it.
Lila stands at the edge in a white dress, the fabric stirring faintly in the wind, like a ghost refusing to settle.
She wonders—if he hadn’t come for her that day, if she had sunk beneath the surface and never risen—would all the heartbreak that followed have hurt less?Would it have spared her this relentless ache?

Back then, when she fell into the water, he found her. He pulled her out like a promise made flesh.
But when he fell—when the sea in Riga swallowed him whole—she wasn’t fast enough.
She couldn’t catch him.
And that failure lives in her bones.

Wasn’t she supposed to protect him, too?
Wasn’t that the deal—always dragging each other back from the edge?

The memory replays endlessly. The crack of the gun. The way he tumbled through air, silent and graceful like the end of something sacred.
If only she’d moved quicker. If only she'd fought harder.
If only…

She stares down at her reflection—a sorrowful woman framed by ripples, eyes dull with absence.
He’s gone. And this is what she tells herself:
She has to let him go.
She has to accept the ending.

But then—
A gust of wind rises, sudden and fierce. It kicks up dust and bends the trees, throwing her off balance.
She stumbles, eyes stinging—
And then hands catch her.

Steady. Certain. Familiar.

She gasps, blinking through her lashes.
Green eyes look into hers. Alive. Warm. Unmistakably him.

“You’re back,” she whispers, breath catching like a held note.

“I am,” he says, voice low, soft with apology. He smiles that rare, secret smile—the one he only ever gave her.

“You made me wait so long.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He glances at her hand, then back to her eyes. “But you know how it goes. It had to be perfect.”

He reaches into his coat. Something small glints in his palm. Gently, he slips a ring onto her finger, his touch reverent.

“It seems to fit.”

She stares at it, heart swelling, tears rising.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes.

“I made it,” he says, with a boyish shrug.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“I aim to please.”

And when they kiss, it’s slow, sure, and sweeter than any kiss they’ve ever known—
like forgiveness,
like home,
like a second chance made real.

BREAKING: U.S. President Found Dead Amid Explosive Corruption Leak

WASHINGTON D.C. — October 10, 8:42 AM EST

In an unprecedented and chaotic turn of events, the President of the United States was found dead this morning, just hours after a damning video aired in Times Square showing him allegedly colluding with the President of Russia to influence a past U.S. election.

The President was discovered face-down in his private swimming pool at the La Margot estate in Virginia around 5:17 AM. Authorities report no immediate signs of foul play, and the death is currently being investigated as an apparent drowning. However, officials have not ruled out any possibilities.

Simultaneously, more than 3,000 pages of classified documents—including bank records, wire transfers, private correspondences, and intelligence briefings—have been leaked to major media outlets across the globe. These documents detail years of alleged corruption, foreign bribes, election tampering, and illegal financial dealings involving multiple nations.

The video released in Times Square, which has since gone viral worldwide, shows the President in a private conversation with the Russian head of state. In the footage, the two leaders appear to discuss covert support in securing a re-election campaign, with references to falsified polling data, cyber-operations, and financial backing.

Vice President Also Implicated

Sources within the Department of Justice have confirmed that the Vice President is also named in the leaked files, with evidence pointing to his involvement in offshore laundering schemes and obstruction of federal investigations. Senior congressional leaders are moving swiftly to initiate proceedings to remove him from office, as bipartisan outrage mounts.

A senior intelligence official, speaking under condition of anonymity, called this "the single most destabilizing political event in modern U.S. history."

A Nation in Freefall

With both the President and Vice President now unable to serve, the line of succession is in flux. Lawmakers are working around the clock to ensure continuity of government, and an emergency congressional session has been called to appoint an interim leader until a special election can be held.

World leaders have issued cautious statements of concern, while markets have responded with severe volatility. Protests and vigils have begun forming across major U.S. cities as the nation grapples with the magnitude of the revelations.

What Comes Next

The FBI and CIA are launching full-scale internal investigations into the source of the leak, while the White House has issued no formal statement since early this morning.

More details are expected to emerge in the coming hours as this story continues to develop.
We remain on standby for official confirmation regarding the next acting President and any potential charges against members of the former administration.

—This is a developing story. Stay with us for live updates.

Earlier that day

Silence blankets the sprawling estate. The guards are gone. The surveillance systems disabled. The President, alone in his private study, feels the weight of something unnatural settle in the air.

Then—he appears.

A young man in a tailored black suit steps into the room like he’s always belonged there. No fanfare. No threat. Just inevitability in human form.

“Mr. President,” he says softly. “I’ve come to collect the debt you owe this country.”

The President stumbles backward. “Who the hell are you? Where is everyone?!”

The man steps into the light. Late twenties, maybe. Clean-cut. A dark smirk lifts at his cheek, where a pair of twin moles frame a devastating dimple.

“You tried to have me killed. Just seventy-two hours ago,” he says, amused. “But you know what they say—kill a ghost, and it only comes back smarter.”

Realization dawns like a sickness. The President gasps, voice shaking.

“You’re… Black Cat. But you're supposed to be dead.”

“That was the plan,” Five says casually. “A good magician always needs the audience to think he’s disappeared.

He glances at his watch, feigning boredom. “But the illusion’s over now.”

The President’s voice rises in desperation. “Why are you doing this?! You’ve already leaked everything. The documents, the footage—every network in the world’s playing it. I’m finished!”

Five takes a step closer. His tone turns razor-sharp.

“You think that’s enough? Even with the truth out, your supporters will twist themselves into pretzels to defend you. You’re not just a man to them—you’re a symbol. And symbols start wars.”

A pause. His voice darkens.

“I’ve seen it. The world you create. The war you ignite. World War III—burning cities, collapsed governments, orphaned children screaming in the rubble.”

His jaw clenches, and for a split second, something raw flickers in his eyes.

“She was in that world. Her kids. I saw what would happen if I didn’t stop you. And I couldn’t let it stand.”

He breathes in—sharp, steady.

“How many lives have already been lost because of your lies? How many more do you think I’m willing to let die? If I leave you alive, we risk a second Civil War here—and a global war beyond it. I won’t give them that. I won’t let you light the match.”

The President lunges for a hidden drawer. Empty.

Five is already beside him.

In one smooth motion, he jabs a needle into the man’s head. A subtle click. A hiss of vapor.

The President recoils, swiping at his face. “What did you do to me?!”

Five steps back, graceful, distant. Almost amused.

“It’s a neural enhancer,” he says. “Alien tech. Courtesy of someone who owed me a favor.”

He watches calmly as the President’s breath quickens, muscles beginning to twitch.

“It ramps up your brain’s activity, heightens your guilt responses, intensifies every monstrous act you’ve committed—until it consumes you. Your body will shut down, your mind will collapse in on itself. You’ll die choking on your own sins.”

The President stumbles, seeing things that aren’t there. His hands tremble. His knees buckle.

Five leans casually against the table, gaze steady.

“And the best part?” he adds, voice almost tender. “It dissolves in water within thirty minutes. No trace. No toxins. No evidence. Just a dead man in a pool.”

A twisted smile curls his lips.

“Elegant, isn’t it? My father would be proud.”

The President tries to crawl, but his limbs are failing. His face contorts in panic as he stumbles backward, blindly, until his heel catches the edge of the marble deck.

He topples.

SPLASH.

Water engulfs him. He thrashes once. Then stills.

Five stands at the edge, silent.

He looks down at the floating body—no anger, no satisfaction. Just cold, measured finality.

“Checkmate.”

He straightens his cuffs, turns away from the pool, and disappears into the darkness— the final piece of his plan falling perfectly into place. Thanks to her.
And  all for her.

Back in Riga, Latvia

The room is dim, lit only by the flicker of a dying fire and the soft rhythm of rain tapping against the windows. Their bodies move in unison—slow, molten, unhurried. Every breath shared, every touch deliberate.

Lila straddles him, her palms pressed flat against his chest, her hips rolling with a rhythm that’s both primal and intimate. But her eyes, sharp and burning, never leave his.

“I know whoever shows up tomorrow,” she whispers between shallow breaths, “will be the one trying to kill you.”

Five exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, hands gripping her waist like she’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. “I know.”

She leans down, their foreheads brushing, and slides her hand along his chest, reaching for the black jacket draped on the chair. Her voice is steady even as her body trembles against his.

“You’ll wear this. As soon as you hit the water, press this button—here.” She guides his hand to a hidden seam in the fabric. “He will be watching. He’ll know what to do. Once you’re a dead man, it’ll be easier for you to move. Finish what you started.”

Their movements grow more urgent, breath mingling with moans, skin slick and flushed. But beneath it all: steel.

She cups his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. Her voice cracks, just slightly.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me. At all costs, Five. No more goodbyes.”

His hand slides along her spine, pulling her tighter against him as he thrusts into her with aching precision.

“I will,” he breathes. “You know I will.”

Then he opens his eyes—those relentless green eyes—and looks at her like she’s the only person who’s ever mattered.

“I already promised you. I can destroy the world or save it. If that’s what you want. My loyalty belongs to you. Only you.”

She shudders, the climax hitting her like a wave pulled tight too long.

“I love you, Lila,” he whispers into her skin.

Tears prick her lashes as she kisses him—deep and endless.

“I love you too, Five.”

And in that moment, tangled in firelight and fate, they are no longer fugitives. No longer traitors or weapons or ghosts of war.

They are simply two souls who have wandered through ruin and silence, converging at last after a thousand missteps and wrong turns.

Two halves of a whole, carved to fit, yet scattered by time—finally falling into place.

Chapter Text

Hargreeves Industries occupied the top half of the skyline, but Reginald’s private office was another world entirely—a glass-encased throne room suspended above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the space, revealing a panorama of steel, clouds, and the restless sprawl far below. Every surface gleamed: black marble floors, a vast obsidian desk, brass fixtures polished to mirror brightness. A golden astrolabe spun quietly in a corner, next to shelves of rare artifacts encased behind temperature-controlled glass.

Reginald worked behind the monolithic desk, ink flowing from a jet-black fountain pen that likely cost more than an ordinary person’s yearly income.

Andy, his assistant, hovered respectfully near the doorway.

“Master Hargreeves,” Andy announced. “There’s a man downstairs. CIA. Says he wants to see you. He’s waiting in the lobby.”

Reginald’s brow creased, though his eyes never left the paper.

“How many times,” he said flatly, “must I remind you that I have no interest in dealing with governments? CIA or otherwise.”

“He, uh… told me that if I said his name, you’d meet with him.”

Reginald paused mid-stroke. “Arrogant.” A faint curl of amusement tugged at his mouth. “Well? Go on, then. Impress me.”

“His name is Five Hargreeves. Number Five. And he said he knows about the Marigold.”

Reginald froze. The pen stopped. Slowly, he lifted his gaze—the monocle glinting like a focused beam of judgment.

A flicker of something—recognition, shock, calculation—darted across his face before it hardened into cold authority.

“Bring him up,” Reginald ordered. “Ten minutes. And this had better be worth my time.”

Andy bowed and hurried out.

Eight minutes later, a knock echoed through the cavernous office.

“Enter,” Reginald called.

The door swung open. Andy stepped inside, followed by a much shorter figure. A young man—or to Reginald, practically a child—walked in as if the room belonged to him. Jet-black hair. Sharp brows. Eyes a piercing, unsettling green. His suit was immaculate, his gait calm and precise, his presence older than his face allowed.

He smirked.

“Hello, Father.”

Andy’s eyes shot between them, stunned. No one—absolutely no one—addressed Reginald Hargreeves like that.

Reginald stared back, equally intense, the light from the glass walls catching the rim of his monocle. After a silent beat, he dismissed his assistant with a curt:

“You may leave us, Andy.”

Andy backed up to the door, bowed again, and slipped out, closing it gently behind him.

“I have no children,” Reginald said coolly once they were alone. “So drop the nonsense. I don’t entertain con artists.”

“Not in this timeline, no,” Five replied, strolling deeper into the office as if giving himself a tour. “But you’re aware we exist. You kept the monocle—I’m sure it still shows you fragments of past cycles. Even if they’re from timelines you technically never lived.”

He spun the crystal globe on the coffee table with idle ease. Not a flicker of hesitation.

Reginald’s jaw tightened. So he knows about the monocle…

“I assume you didn’t come here for a sentimental reunion with the version of your father you never had,” Reginald said. “Especially considering I’m not your father at all.”

“No,” Five replied with a shrug. “Biologically, you’re not. But you’re the one who released the Marigold and created us in the first place, old alien ass and all. On the level of creation? Unfortunately, that makes you Daddy. Don’t worry—I wouldn’t have chosen you either.”

Reginald narrowed his eyes. The resemblance—arrogance, sharpness, unshakeable certainty—was irritatingly familiar. He could very well be mine, Reginald admitted grudgingly.

“So much attitude,” Reginald said dryly, “for someone who walked into my office clearly about to ask for a favour.”

“Who said anything about asking?” Five lowered himself into the leather chair, crossing one leg over the other with effortless indifference. “If anything, you owe us. A ridiculous amount.”

Reginald smirked. “And what makes you think I care about debts from worlds I didn’t personally ruin?”

“Oh, please,” Five scoffed. “You used us across how many resets? How many timelines? How many times did you kill us to get what you wanted?” He pointed lazily at the massive oil painting of Reginald and Abigail displayed above the mantel. “Last timeline, you killed Luther and drained the Marigold out of us to run your machine—all for her.”

Reginald flicked a brief glance at the painting, then back at him.

This boy knew far too much.

“Your alien tech gave you location of the restart machine,” Five continued. “You rewrote reality. You got your wife back. I’m sure you’d hate to lose this world so soon after achieving your masterpiece.”

He was cutting straight to the chase—bold, impatient, and clearly desperate.

Reginald steepled his fingers. “And why, pray tell, would I need help from you? What challenge exists that the richest and most intelligent man on Earth cannot solve himself?”

“Because I know exactly what’s coming,” Five said calmly. “You don’t. And by the time you do, it’ll be too late.”

Reginald opened his mouth to interrupt, but Five raised a hand.

“You keep records,” he said. “Copies of your consciousness. Notes on your failures through each timeline. That’s why you trained us—turning us into your little experiments. You know how many times you’ve failed. Money and brains don’t make you almighty. They never did.”

Reginald stared at him, studying him the way a predator studies something unexpectedly dangerous.

Five didn’t flinch.

Finally, Reginald sighed. “Enough innuendo. Spit it out, Number Five.”

Five smirked again, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Now we’re talking.” His hands clasped together. “Tell me… have you ever heard of something called the Infinity Switchboard?”

“So when I saw his name—and the logo stamped on the rocket—I knew this was the timeline it would happen,” Five concluded, eyes locked on Reginald with unnerving precision.

Outside the glass walls, lightning flickered across the distant skyline, illuminating the office in brief flashes of white-blue. The air hummed faintly from the building’s automated climate system, a low mechanical pulse that underscored the quiet stand-off between them.

Reginald leaned back in his leather chair, skepticism etched sharply across his face.

“You’re certain this is the timeline? I’ve already avoided releasing the Marigold. None of you possess powers anymore. How, exactly, would a collapse still occur?”

Five didn’t flinch. “Because once you released the Marigold the first time—once you created us—the damage was done. The timelines fractured into hundreds, maybe thousands of parallel realities. Each one drifting toward the same endpoint. Power or no power, the collapse keeps happening. Slower, maybe. Manageable, possibly. But inevitable unless someone intervenes.”

His explanation spilled out with clipped, practiced precision—like he’d recited it in his mind a thousand times. Reginald knew from his own secret memory records that the boy wasn’t wrong. Every timeline, every attempt, had ended the same way.

Reginald’s voice dropped. “And when does this… inevitability arrive?”

“Seven years from now,” Five replied. “2025.”

Reginald’s fingers tapped once against the desk.

“And your plan?”

Five stood up smoothly, brushing a hand along the perfectly polished edge of the desk as he passed it. His eyes gleamed with that dangerous, effortless confidence:

“Is there a boardroom with a big whiteboard?”

The boardroom was a cavern of glass and shadow, perched high above the glittering night skyline. A long table of black marble stretched between them, its polished surface reflecting the city lights like scattered stars. Five had already filled half the whiteboard with diagrams, timelines, red-circled threats, and branching collapse points.

Reginald watched him silently, arms folded behind his back as he paced along the windows. His silhouette cut clean and sharp against the city below—a man who believed the world bent around his will.

And as he watched, his mind worked.

He had to admit it: Five’s plan was brilliant—exhaustively detailed, flawlessly structured.
If he’d raised this boy in an Academy setting the way his other selves had, he would have given him a five-star evaluation without hesitation. Out of all the children his variants had collected across the timelines, this one was undoubtedly the sharpest mind of the lot.

Reginald hadn’t contacted any of them in the six years since the restart, but the records preserved in his monocle had shown him everything that happened in Hotel Obsidian. He knew they existed. He had monitored them quietly from a distance. It was difficult not to notice them, especially when his lawyer arrived with the paperwork for the trust funds the previous Reginald had established for each sibling. A sentimental gesture—one he personally considered unnecessary. They were grown adults; they should be capable of managing their own lives by now.

Not that most of them touched the money anyway.
Except the Korean one—and Five.

And Reginald had been impressed to discover, through his private investigations, that Five had taken that inheritance and multiplied it a hundredfold within a few years. Always ten steps ahead of the others. Always thinking faster, calculating harder, moving further.

Which made it all the more curious—irritating, even—that the boy kept circling the same district over and over while discussing the worst-case scenario.
If their plan failed.
If war broke out.
If evacuation became necessary.

Why fixate on that area?

Reginald watched the marker sweep across the board again, landing on the same spot for the third time.

Suspicion tightened in his chest.

“You’ve circled this district three separate times,” he observed, breaking the silence. “And yet, by every metric, it is not the highest-risk zone.”

Five froze. The smallest stiffening of posture, but Reginald caught it immediately.

“It is,” Five said too quickly. “You just don’t see it yet.”

“Don’t insult me, Number Five.” Reginald’s voice sliced through the room. “What personal stake do you have there?”

Five exhaled once, short and annoyed.
“It’s where Diego and… Lila live. All right?”

That minuscule pause before Lila’s name—barely half a breath—was invisible to most.
But not to Reginald.

He caught it like a predator catching the tremor of prey through the ground.

“Lila,” he echoed, tasting the name. “The mimic. Diego’s partner in the previous timeline.”

Five bristled. “Yes. Her. But that’s not important. Moving on—”

His haste—the too-quick dismissal, the tightened jaw—confirmed every suspicion Reginald needed.

Five turned back to the board, scribbling with forced focus, burying his slip under layers of equations and divergences.

But Reginald wasn’t looking at the board anymore.

He was looking at Five.

At the way his shoulders tightened each time he passed over the same district.
At the too-sharp tone.
At the aborted “People like—”
At the name he tried to swallow.
At the fracture in his composure when Reginald spoke her name.

He let the silence stretch—long enough for Five to feel the weight of being watched.

Then, in a voice so calm it unsettled the air around them, Reginald spoke:

“So,” he said lightly, “you’ve constructed all of this—”
he gestured at the sprawling chaos of equations and circled risk zones
“—this elaborate plan, this fixation on preserving this reality—because of one very simple thing.”

Five froze mid-stroke. The marker hung in the air, ink pooling at the tip.

Reginald’s mouth curled into something between amusement and disdain.

“You’re doing all of this,” he said, “for your brother’s wife”

Five’s back stayed turned, shoulders rigid.

Reginald clicked his tongue.
“That is, without question, the stupidest thing I’ve heard. Falling for your sibling’s partner? Really, Number Five? I expected more self-control from you.”

The marker squealed as Five pressed too hard. For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of the ventilation system and distant thunder rolling behind the skyscrapers.

He set the marker down with enough force to rattle the tray.

Then he turned.

Expression unreadable at first—then sharpening into something cold, something dangerous.

“Who are you to judge me?” Five asked, stepping away from the board with slow, deliberate strides.
“Wasn’t it you who created countless timelines—entire universes—just to get one chance to save your wife again?”

Reginald’s jaw flexed, the insult landing too close to the bone. The monocle caught the overhead light, glinting like a drawn blade.

Five didn’t stop.

“You tore reality apart,” he continued, voice steady as bedrock. “You rewrote existence — repeatedly—slaughtered civilizations, destroyed versions of us by the thousands just to bring Abigail back.”

He was close enough now that Reginald finally met his eyes — green against cold, calculating blue.

“So don’t stand here,” Five said softly, “pretending you can lecture me about loyalty.”

The boardroom felt smaller suddenly. Thicker. The storm outside cracked against the glass like a warning.

Reginald inhaled once—slow, controlled—the only sign the boy had struck a nerve.

Five stepped back, expression settling into something icier. Something resolved.

“I’m saving this timeline because it matters,” he said.
A beat.
“Because she matters.”
Another beat.
“Because they all do.”

Reginald’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

“So that’s your weakness,” he murmured.

Five’s reply was instant.
“No,” he said. “That’s my reason.”

For a long moment, Reginald said nothing.

He simply regarded Five—this irritating, arrogant, brilliant little anomaly who shouldn’t exist in this timeline at all, and yet understood him with a precision no one else ever had. The thunder outside rolled again, low and resonant, vibrating through the glass walls like the pulse of an approaching storm.

Reginald finally exhaled through his nose—a sound so quiet most people would miss it, but Five caught it instantly. A crack in the armor.

“You presume much,” Reginald said, voice returning to its cool timbre. “Far more than any version of you has ever dared to presume in my presence.”

Five didn’t blink. “I’m the only version who remembers enough to make it worth saying.”

Reginald’s gaze flicked to the whiteboard—the complex network of predictions, collapse points, contingencies, calculations. The work of a mind that ran as fast and ruthlessly as his own.

Then he spoke, quieter now:

“You know,” he said, “most beings—human or otherwise—never understood why I did what I did. They only saw destruction. Failure. Obsession.”

He turned slightly, looking out at the sweeping lights of the city below.

“But you,” he admitted, “seem to understand what it’s like to stand on the brink of time itself… and still reach for one person.”

The admission hung in the air—not sentimental, not soft—but honest in the way Reginald rarely allowed himself to be.

Five’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Love makes you reckless,” he murmured.

Reginald huffed—a dry, humorless sound that could almost have been a laugh.

“Love makes you focused. Singular. Willing to do the impossible.”
He tapped the monocle lightly.
“Abigail was my compass. Even when it nearly cost me existence itself.”

He turned back to Five, eyes sharp but no longer dismissive.

“And now you have your compass.”

Lila’s name didn’t need to be spoken.

Reginald studied him again—and this time, the scrutiny held something like respect. Begrudging, reluctant, but undeniable.

“You’re a fool,” Reginald said. “But a brilliant one. And brilliance paired with purpose…”
He gestured at the apocalypse map on the board.
“…can change worlds.”

Five lifted his chin slightly.
“Then you’ll help me?”

Reginald didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer to the board, examining a convergence point with the eye of someone who had mastered the science of fate long before humans discovered electricity.

Finally, he spoke.

“I will consider your proposal,” he said. “Not because you asked.”
His gaze cut sideways.
“But because you—regrettably—understand me.”

Five’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something close to satisfaction.

Reginald added, almost as an afterthought:

“Do not mistake my understanding for approval.”

Five smirked. “Do I look like I need your approval?”

Reginald sighed—long-suffering.

“I should never have released the Marigold,” he muttered.

Five replied dryly, “And yet here we are.”

Reginald shot him a look.
“Yes… here we are.”

And for the first time, the two most dangerous men in any timeline—creator and creation—stood on the same side of a problem neither could solve alone.