Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The train jolted hard enough to make three people swear and one person drop their phone.

She sat quietly by the window. Her elbow rested on the arm cushion, and her fingers pressed gently at the side of her face. A tablet rested on her lap with its screen dimmed. The same page had been open for several minutes. She tapped it once to refresh.

They were moving east. The Thames kept appearing and disappearing between buildings as the city thinned and regrouped. Warehouses turned into terraces. Rain gathered on the windows, then slid away, replaced by the soft gray streaks of early evening sky.

When the train shifted tracks again, she adjusted with it, uncrossing her ankles, then crossing them again.

Her phone vibrated.

She waited until the train passed beneath a bridge before pulling it from her coat pocket.

The interface wasn't public. There was no branding or visible network.

ZEKE:

You left early.

She typed with one hand.

HER:

I was finished.

The reply didn't come immediately. She returned the phone to her pocket and looked back out the window. Tighter roads now, closer buildings.

The vibration came again.

ZEKE:

We'll talk tomorrow.

HER:

We always do.

Another pause.

ZEKE:

Get home safe, Pieck.

She locked the screen.

The tablet on her lap went dark as well, and she slid it into her bag as she stood. An announcement came overhead, muffled and formal. Everyone on the train began to gather their things.

"Now arriving at Greenwich. Please mind the gap between the train and platform when exiting."

Pieck stepped into the aisle as the train slowed, steadying herself briefly against the back of her seat. When the doors opened, cool air rushed in from the platform, carrying the smell of rain and exhaust.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped off with the rest of the passengers, moving toward the exit, and into a misty fog.

Outside the station, the light had turned into a dull gray. Rain hung in the air in a slight drizzle that clung to coats and hair. Pieck opened her umbrella as she stepped onto the pavement, the fabric snapping and settling above her head.

She walked with purpose, boots striking wet stone in an even rhythm. The streets were quieter here than in the inner city. The buildings were older and closer together. Water gathered along the curb and spilled into shallow rivulets that caught the glow of passing headlights.

By the time she reached her block, the sky had darkened fully. She folded the umbrella at the door, shook the excess, and stuck it into the stand beside the stairs.

Her door was stuck, per usual.

Pieck leaned into it with her shoulder, felt the resistance give just enough, then pushed harder. The lock finally released with a loud click.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. The sound of it echoed briefly through the flat. The air was warm and welcoming. A familiar metallic heat oozed from the ancient radiators and carried the faint smell of old wood, like that of an antique store. It had its issues. Ones that the landlord refused to fix. But it was home.

Her bag slid from her shoulder and landed near the wall. She nudged it aside with her foot and kicked off her boots without looking.

The lights stayed off.

She moved through the space by memory, coat shrugged loose and draped over the back of a chair, fingers working the buttons of her blouse as she walked. By the time she reached the bathroom, it was already half undone.

The light flicked on.

Fabric followed. Shirt first, then trousers, pooled at her feet before she stepped free of them. Her underwear came next, dropped into the sink. She caught her reflection briefly in the mirror. Her skin had been marked by the day, lines where clothing had pressed too long. She let out a loud sigh.

The shower startled her at first. Cold water hit her shoulders and she cursed softly before the heat kicked in.

She washed slowly. Methodical. Soap slicked over skin, rinsed away, replaced again. Fingers combed through her hair, tugging once at the roots as she positioned her head beneath the spray. Water traced over her collarbone, down the center of her chest, lower.

She could stay there for hours. If the utilities were free.

When she stepped out, her skin was flushed and warm. She dried off with the towel placed on the radiator and wrapped it across her chest, tucking the edge in with a practiced twist. Water still clung to her shoulders and along her spine, cooling as it ran.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

She leaned against the counter while it heated, one hip cocked, and grabbed her favorite tea from the cupboard, placing it in her mug. Outside, the city vibrated low and constant. Somewhere nearby, a siren passed and faded.

Her phone buzzed again.

Pieck picked it up, thumb already moving.

PORCO:

You home?

PIECK:

Just got in.

A pause.

PORCO:

Shame. I was hoping you were still stuck somewhere miserable.

She snorted quietly.

PIECK:

What do you want, Porco.

Three dots appeared.

PORCO:

I'm watching this blonde-haired loser.

Her brows knit.

PIECK:

Who.

PORCO:

Tybur.

She exhaled through her nose.

PIECK:

Of course.

The reply came immediately.

PORCO:

Apparently owning half a trillion isn't enough.

It's like he needs the world to like him as well.

PIECK:

Good luck with that.

The dots barely hesitated.

PORCO:

If you want a laugh, turn it on.

The cunt's clearly off his face.

Pieck set the phone down.

The kettle clicked off behind her. She poured the water into the mug, walked into the living room, and sank into the corner of the couch, the towel loosening slightly at her thigh as she reached for the remote.

The television flickered to life on a paused screen—Continue watching? A still image of a man all heavy shoulders and sweat-slick skin filled the room. Pieck bit the inside of her cheek, tapped Add to list, and switched inputs.

Willy Tybur was already mid-sentence. Unfortunately.

He stood alone at a podium, suit immaculate, voice smooth and practiced. The kind of delivery meant to sound reassuring even when it wasn't saying much at all.

She sighed, then stood, the towel slipping free and landing where it pleased. Bare feet carried her to the bedroom. Drawers opened. Closed. Soft trousers. An old shirt. She pulled the fabric over her damp skin, cotton catching once on her curves before settling. The television played on.

"...which means increased output across the board."

Tybur rested both hands on the lectern, leaning into the microphone as if it might make the words land better.

"The deposit changes our production ceiling," he said. "Not in theory. In practice."

He looked satisfied with the phrasing.

"Basically," he went on, "it allows us to move fast. Like a cheetah!"

A pause. He smiled, waiting.

No response came. No murmurs, no smiles, no visible reaction beyond the steady blink of cameras and the quiet shuffling of press.

Tybur didn't notice.

"Battery storage," he continued, "transport infrastructure, private-sector partnerships, and this affects everything downstream." He gestured vaguely. "It's pretty good news. Very good news, I mean."

A small laugh escaped him. He carried on anyway.

"Last time, we talked a lot about responsibility," he said. "About balance. And this is balance. Progress that supports growth without any unnecessary hesitation."

Pieck reentered the room, toothbrush in her mouth. She spat it into the kitchen sink, rinsed, wiped her face on the back of her hand. The remote lay on the low table. She picked it up, thumb hovering, already bored.

Tybur cleared his throat. "Trust me, guys. I know. I know that change can be uncomfortable. But discomfort is where growth lives! That's something my father used to say, actually—"

Her thumb paused.

Behind Tybur, one of the security men shifted his stance. Not the two flanking the podium. The third one. A step back. Slightly out of alignment.

Tybur continued his laughter. "He wasn't always right, of course."

The man's eyes moved. Left. Right. Too quick.

Pieck lowered the remote.

Tybur glanced down at his notes, then back up. Still smiling. "So. The lithium deposit gives us scale. Scale gives us leverage. And leverage—"

The guard stepped forward.

Pieck felt it then. A tightening, low and sharp, just under her ribs.

"—is what allows us to deliver on promises," he finished.

"Willy. Tybur."

The name cut clean through the room.

Tybur turned, confusion flickering across his face just long enough to register.

The pistol came up.

The shot detonated.

Tybur's head snapped sideways and burst, blood atomizing into the air, a violent red mist that splattered the wall behind him. He crumpled instantly, his body folding as it dropped out of frame. The sound of him hitting the floor thick and final.

For half a second, nothing moved.

Then the room erupted.

Someone screamed. Chairs scraped back hard. A hand slipped in blood near the podium. A woman from off screen dropped to her knees, fingers hovering uselessly over Tybur's body, already soaked.

The shooter didn't hesitate. He turned the pistol inward and pressed it to his temple.

Arms desperately lunged for him from either side.

But the second shot went off before they reached him.

The man collapsed in place, limbs slack as he hit the stage beside Tybur's body.

Security surged forward. Voices overlapped. Someone shouted for medics. Another person slipped and went down hard near the lectern. The camera shook, catching chaos in fragments, red pooling across the floor. Tybur's polished shoe was still visible at the edge of the frame.

Then the feed cut.

The hum of it filled the flat. Somewhere in the walls, the heating clicked. Water dripped from the kitchen tap she hadn't tightened all the way.

Pieck didn't move.

Her hand was still half-raised. The remote lay angled toward the sofa, one corner catching the light. Her shirt clung faintly between her shoulder blades where it hadn't finished drying.

On the television, the message looped.

We apologize for the interruption. Maintenance is being performed. Service will be restored soon.

Outside, a car passed through the rain. Tires hissed. Then nothing.

Her phone vibrated against the countertop.

She let it buzz.

It vibrated again.

PORCO:

Jesus Christ. Were you watching?

Her phone made another noise. A phone call this time.

She answered it, slowly, without looking at the screen.

"Sorry, Pieck. You need to come back," Zeke said. "Immediately."

He paused.

"It'll be a long night."

The line went dead.

Pieck stood there for half a second longer. Then the moment broke.

She flung the remote aside, already moving, dragging on a hoodie, stepping into joggers. Trainers by the door. It was a controlled whirlwind that her body had memorized time and time again.

She took the stairs two at a time. The door went hard behind her, the frame rattling as she vanished into the night.

The parking deck smelled like old oil and damp concrete, even through the AC.

Ro cruised into the lowest level, circled twice, and pulled into a spot. He grabbed an antiseptic from the center console and wiped the steering wheel, the gearshift, the inside of the door handle, and the seatbelt last. He glanced once at the rearview mirror, shut the engine, popped the trunk, and stepped out.

A compactor sat in its usual place at the far end of the garage, paint scabbed and peeling at the corners. Ro walked up beside it, opened the bag he had grabbed from the trunk, and found a laptop. He held it by the edge, briefly, before letting slide from his grip and into the opening.

He followed it with the phone and the SIM card, snapped cleanly in half between his fingers. Then the bag. Then the gloves. He peeled those off slowly, turning them inside out, before dropping them on top of everything else.

The lid closed as Ro pressed the button. The machine groaned, metal shifting deep inside. He watched the opening until it sealed itself again. Silent.

He crossed the garage again, this time to the self-service drop box, where he tossed in the rental car keys, cut through a stairwell, and emerged outside.

The sky was just beginning to lighten, that early-morning navy blue that made the city feel unguarded. Street-lamps were still on, but losing their authority. Traffic was sparse and moved in slow, uneven pulses.

Ro walked with an easy stride, shoulders loose, hands empty. Somewhere to his right, the Potomac moved parallel to the road. A cyclist cut past him, tires spinning. A man waited at a crosswalk with a paper cup and a yawn. No one paid Ro any particular attention.

He crossed with the light and slipped into the flow of the block. The familiar smell of espresso had reached him now, and after a few long strides, Ro was at the door of a small, inconspicuous coffee shop nestled between a laundry mat and a nail salon.

Inside, the blender screamed once and went quiet. Cups clinked behind the counter. Two people occupied the tables, one hunched over a laptop, the other nursing a mug and staring at their phone. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-twenties straightened the moment she saw him.

"Oh—hi!"

She said it too fast and a bit too loud, hands wiping on her sides as she reached for a small glass cup.

"Morning," Ro said, easy. He leaned his fists against the counter, familiar with the space. "Maya, right?"

She looked down at her apron, her name tag visibly missing, then back up at him, eyebrows raised.

"Wow. You remembered."

He gave an easy smile. "You make a great cortado."

Her laugh was bright. "I—yeah. I mean. Thank you."

She grabbed the portafilter, movements energetic but meticulous. She placed it under the grinder. Paused. Lifted it and placed it down again, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned. She glanced up at him like she'd been caught mid-thought.

"So—um. The usual then?" she asked, already turning toward her station.

"Please."

The grinder roared. She leaned into it, bracing, hips knocking lightly against the counter. When it stopped, she startled, then shook her head at herself.

"Sorry," she chuckled. "It's early."

"Or late," Ro said, peering at the dark sky through the glass.

Her eyes lit. "Right? Exactly. I can never tell at this time."

She pulled the shot, steam curling up between them. "You're out earlier than usual."

Ro exhaled through his nose. "It was a long night."

She nodded, serious for half a second. "Yeah. I get that."

She glanced at him again, quieter this time. "What do you do, anyway?"

"I send emails," Ro said.

That earned a short laugh. "Woah. Crazy stuff."

He considered her for a beat. "Risk Advisory. Just a cushy desk job. Always busy and always boring."

"Is it, actually?" she asked.

"Yeah. But it pays," he shrugged.

She tilted her head. "And do you like it?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Not really," he said finally. "But I'm good at it."

The milk finished steaming. She poured with focus this time, tongue caught between her teeth, then slid the glass toward him.

"That'll be four fifty."

He set a twenty on the counter.

She sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You still allergic to receiving your change?"

"Yes."

She shook her head once. "Thank you."

Ro nodded, but didn't move right away. "Busy weekend planned?"

She laughed again, nerves back. "Me? No." She paused.  Glanced up at him, then away just as quickly. "Well, I mean—yes. I mean—there's this show. Indie band. Like just down the street from here. They're playing this Saturday." She took in a quick breath as if preparing to force the next words out of her mouth. "And—you know—if you're free," she added. "Which—you probably aren't. But. I have an extra ticket."

Ro didn't answer right away.

He met her eyes when she finally looked back at him.

"I'd like to," he said. "But I can't."

Her shoulders dipped a fraction.

"Work," he added, softer. "It's one of those weeks."

She nodded, quick, like she'd practiced that reaction before. She turned back to the machine, steam hissing up between them, cheeks faintly pink.

"Right. Yeah." She cleared her throat. "No worries!"

Ro studied her for a moment longer before taking his drink and continuing toward his corner table. He took the seat that faced the door, slid an earbud in, and opened his phone.

His feed populated immediately.

A news clip filled the screen first. Shaky phone footage of a crowd packed tight enough that faces blurred. Someone was shouting, the audio peaking and collapsing into static. The clip cut mid-motion.

He scrolled.

Another video. Different city. Night this time. Fireworks tossed through the gaps of metal barricades. A chant rolling forward in uneven waves, names breaking apart as they were taken up by too many voices at once.

A headline slid past.

Markets React to Tybur Assassination: Futures Unsteady

Below it, a photo of riot shields stacked against a courthouse wall. An officer beating on an elderly man, his face pressed against the ground.

He scrolled again, stopping at a post from three days ago.

Rod Reiss next, please

Hundreds of thousands of likes and climbing. Ro maneuvered to the comments.

Say it louder for the people in the back.

If President Reiss has any fucking balls, he'd do it himself.

Guys. If I repost this, will the FBI come knocking at my door?

Ro's mouth pulled sideways, just a fraction.

His thumb swiped, the feed sliding away as the chess app rose to meet him. A match paired instantly.

White.

Pawn to e4.

...c5.

Knight to f3.

...d6.

d4.

He was lining up the next move when the board dissolved. A message slid across the top of the screen.

RICO:

Pixis asked me to pass this along. Sorry about the change in plans. And to be on your best behavior.

Ro stared at it, then typed back.

RO:

I don't like the sound of that.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared.

Another message followed.

RICO:

Ride's outside.

Ro glanced up through the café window. A dark SUV had eased into the curb, engine still running.

He forfeited the match with slight annoyance, took the last sip of his cortado, and stood. The glass went back on the counter.

"Maya. It was perfect," he said, already turning away.

The barista caught his eye and gave a small nod, quick and contained, before returning her gaze to the espresso machine.

The driver had the door open by the time he reached the street. Ro slid into the back and the door shut behind him with a soft, airtight thump.

The SUV was configured for conversation. Two facing benches, and a narrow aisle between them. Across from him sat a man he knew as Zackly.

They'd met before. Once, maybe twice. Enough for Ro to understand the importance of his presence.

"Sir."

Zackly acknowledged it with a nod that didn't lift his eyes. He looked thinner than Ro remembered. Like whatever current shit-show had worn him down to the bone. His jacket was rumpled at the shoulders, his tie loosened, and his face resembled a man who had forgotten what sleep felt like.

Ro's gaze dropped, almost without thinking.

His luggage sat on the floor between them. Everything he owned that mattered. Packed clean. Tagged.

That wasn't right.

Zackly noticed. He followed Ro's line of sight, then exhaled through his nose.

"Listen. I know you're wondering who signed off on this," he said. His voice was steady, but tired. "Frankly. So am I."

Ro didn't respond.

Zackly reached into his coat and produced a thin folder. The paper inside was marked, stamped, handled too many times.

"Declassified," he said, and passed it across.

Ro took it. Opened it.

Assembly.

The word appeared early. Then again. Then everywhere.

Fragments. Financial disruptions. Infrastructure sabotage. Bombings that never quite made the news cycle. Some bombings that did. Patterns that only existed if you were looking for them. And then, Tybur. A podium. A security guard. A gunshot.

"Only a handful of people in the world know that you exist," Zackly continued, "let alone what you're capable of."

Zackly shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. The car rolled on in silence for a few seconds longer than was comfortable.

"It seems that number may have increased slightly about seventy-two hours ago. People who don't like being fucked with started asking how certain problems get handled without leaving fingerprints. I'm guessing someone probably answered them."

Ro held the folder for a moment longer than necessary. "Am I being pulled out completely?"

Zackly shook his head. "No. We're just handing off your leash for a bit. I'm not sure how long."

The SUV slowed. Turned.

Outside the window, the familiar geometry of departures slid into place.

Zackly leaned forward and took the folder back, tucking it out of sight. In its place, he handed Ro a boarding pass.

DCA → LHR

09:00

"London," Zackly said. "Follow their orders. Stay focused. Keep quiet."

He dug out a stick of gum from his pocket, worked it between his teeth.

"And once it's all said and done, the American taxpayers will fund a vacation of your choosing."

The vehicle rolled to a stop.

The driver was already out, opening Ro's door and setting his luggage on the curb.

Ro tightened his jaw and gave Zackly a final look before nodding once, and stepping out.

He didn't look back as the SUV pulled away.

Chapter Text

The car moved through the city with ease. 

Ro sat in the back, one forearm resting against his thigh, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He adjusted the cuff once, two fingers working the fabric flat where it had bunched, then left it alone. His ink-dark hair was partially tied back in two-strand twists, the rest falling just above his shoulders, brushing the open collar of his white oxford shirt.

He watched the window as they moved, the dark tint catching him in pieces. His reflection surfaced and disappeared as they passed through tunnels, warm brown skin briefly muted by shadow, then returning to itself. A closely trimmed beard framed his jaw, meeting a neat mustache above his lip.

The driver had introduced himself as Reeves and offered no conversation or radio. The only actual sound came from the road. If not for the adrenaline currently in his system, Ro might have rested his eyes for a bit.

Sleep had been scarce since arriving in London the night prior. His hotel was immaculate to unnecessary amount. Pristine surfaces, luxurious corridors, and a bed that was way too soft when he tested it. 

He'd gone to the gym instead, pushed himself until his breath broke into low, involuntary grunts. Heat throbbed along his muscles, slow and insistent. And when the shower came, the cold water poured over his body, still swollen with exertion, and forced everything back under control. 

Back in his room, he sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit his hands as it unlocked.

A document had arrived. 

It opened without permission. No download option. No forward function. A warning sat at the top—viewing window active. 

It was a list. A handful of operatives, stripped down to their basic functions. Their backgrounds had been reduced, their names replaced with assigned cryptonyms, and their faces redacted. He committed what he could to memory as he scrolled, pairing call signs to habits, absences, tone.

One entry stopped him.  

RASTRO.

A short passage followed. Shorter than any of the others. Barely enough to form a semblance of an idea. 

He didn't need to read it twice.

Whatever authority he was being handed to, the file made one thing clear: his history wasn't traveling with him. 

The screen became black mid-scroll. 

Time limit reached. Access denied.

He clicked his tongue, set the phone aside, and let himself go still. The ceiling held his attention while the fragments reordered themselves. What had been shown and what hadn't. He stayed there until the light shifted and morning arrived. 

"We're here, sir."

The car slowed, tires whispering over stone, then stopped. The engine stayed running.

Ro blinked once and leaned forward, attention narrowing, body recalibrating to the present. 

Outside, the building waited. Ro could see people move through it, badges flashing before disappearing again.

Reeves stepped out first and opened the door a moment later. Ro slid out smoothly, shoes hitting pavement without hesitation. He straightened, glanced once at the building ahead and turned as the door shut behind him.

Another man waited near the entrance, posture neutral, badge clipped high, hands empty. He wore circular wire-rimmed glasses and sported a thick blonde beard. 

"Follow me," he said.

Ro did. 

The air changed as soon as they crossed inside. Clean and filtered. Like even the smells had been vetted. Footsteps echoed beneath the overhang before being swallowed whole.

Security took him in layers. A sequence of movements that carried him deeper without explanation. Corridors bent. Elevators opened. Glass gave way to stone, stone to steel, and steel to reinforced concrete.

There were no windows now. And something low in frequency seemed to buzz behind the thick walls.

At the last checkpoint, an old woman looked past him to the man in glasses at Ro's shoulder. They exchanged looks before the she ultimately stepped aside without a word.

The door at the end of the hall was open by the time they reached it. His escort paused a few paces behind, motioning him to continue. Ro adjusted his step by a fraction and went through.

The room was already occupied. Five people, from what he could tell. 

A long table dominated the center. Scattered coffee cups. A tablet face-down near one chair. Another already in use, its owner scrolling briefly, then stopping as Ro entered.

Eyes lifted. Not all at once.

One man sat broad-shouldered and firm. He occupied the chair the way some men occupied doorways. His hair was pale blond, cut short and parted without care. The sleeves of his shirt strained faintly at the biceps when he moved. His gaze flicked over Ro, quick and incurious, then drifted away as if satisfied. 

IRON.

Another figure stood near the wall rather than the table. She faced the room at a slight angle, posture relaxed, arms at her sides. Her short raven hair fell straight and sat just above her chin. She had sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that looked both deadly and controlled. Her features read East Asian. Maybe mixed.

WHISPER.

Near the far end of the table, a man leaned back in his chair with both boots planted on the edge, chair tilted dangerously. An unlit cigarette rolled between his fingers, flipped once, then stilled. He grinned when he caught Ro looking.

"Morning," he said, accent unmistakably French.

MUSTANG.

To Ro's left, a woman kept her body square to the table, gaze unfocused, as though fixed on something several inches beyond the room itself. She tapped against the tabletop in a deliberate rhythm. Once. Twice. Again. The pattern never varied.

And beside her, a man hunched forward, tinkering away at a tablet, body language was attentive but without strain. His expression carried an easy openness, and when he looked up, kind blue eyes moved with quiet intent as they tracked the room.

TULIP.

ECHO. 

The man, ECHO, acknowledged Ro without hesitation. 

"You must be RASTRO," he said, tone warm.

Ro gave him a quick nod of approval. 

TULIP didn't stop tapping. Her thumb continued its slow, constant cadence against the table.

"That leaves the last one," she said, practically mumbling to herself.

Before anyone could respond, the doors opened again.

A man entered first, mid-50s, a black buzz cut threaded with gray. He wore a security pass clipped high at his chest, the laminate catching the overhead light as it settled.

Theo Magath

Director, Strategic Coordination

His presence carried the weight of long authority, someone who was used to rooms adjusting without instruction. His eyes moved across the table, taking inventory. He didn't greet anyone. He didn't sit.

A half-step behind him, a woman followed.

She was dressed simply. Dark trousers fitted high at the waist, and a blouse tucked clean. As she walked, the fabric shifted along her hips, accentuating the curve of her silhouette. 

Her hair was black, wavy, and slightly messy, falling a few inches past her shoulders. It framed a face that looked perpetually sleepy: heavy-lidded eyes set deep beneath dark lashes, focused but worn. A strong Greek nose anchored her features, adding a bit of severity to her natural beauty.

She stopped beside Magath and clasped her hands together at her front, fingers loose, eyes traveling the length of the table. She took the others in without hurry, without comment, until her focus reached Ro and settled. 

ATLAS. 

The door closed. A chair repositioned. Someone coughed.

The silence held, almost to an uncomfortable length, until Magath finally broke it. 

"The world is not short on anger right now. Or fear. Governments are feeling both, whether they'd like to admit it."

He remained standing, voice carrying without effort.

"We are seeing supply chains deplete. Borders tense. Global protests." His eyes moved once around the table. "And four days ago, some imbecile decided to put a bullet through the head of one of the most powerful men on the planet."

Magath raised his hand to massage his eyebrows.

"That incident didn't create the problem," Magath continued. "Rather, it revealed it."

He reached up and adjusted the security pass at his chest, more habit than necessity. "By now, you all should have been briefed on the existence of a terrorist organization that is operating beneath the noise. Funding unrest. Steering escalation. Pushing systems toward collapse without ever putting its name on the blade."

He let the next part linger.

"Assembly."

A few expressions moved with the word. Recognition didn't need to announce itself.

"The response to Assembly cannot belong to one country," Magath said. "Or one agency. That approach has been tried. That approach has failed. The room you are sitting in now exists because of that failure."

He paused.

"A small number of people are aware this coalition exists at all. Fewer still know who is in this room. For those people, you have a name. Project Wartime."

Magath stepped forward slightly.

"This is not a think tank, or a committee. Nor is it a long-term institution." Magath's gaze hardened slightly. "It is enforcement. Carefully selected, cross-border, and disposable if necessary."

No one objected. 

"Failure again," he added, "does not mean embarrassment. It does not mean reassignments. Failure means a world that will not recover."

He exhaled once. "I say this, not for theatrics, but for transparency. If we plan on working together, transparency is key."

MUSTANG let out a short laugh, chair legs thumping back down as he leaned forward. The cigarette reappeared between his fingers, still unlit.

"Transparency," he echoed, amused. "That's an interesting word to use."

A few heads turned.

He tipped the cigarette in Ro's direction without looking at him. "Might I remind the group that his file was what—three sentences? Four if we're being generous."

Ro didn't react.

MUSTANG continued anyway. "I know their wasn't much for any of us. But this ghost had nothing. No history. No explanation. There was just enough to say that he's dangerous, and that we should trust him anyway."

IRON shifted in his seat, brow knitting. "MUSTANG's file was longer. A lot longer."

"Quelle chance," MUSTANG said. "I feel seen."

TULIP hadn't stopped tapping her thumb against the table. "You don't need someone's childhood to know how they operate."

ECHO nodded. "I agree with TULIP. The omissions are intentional. We have a job to do here."

MUSTANG glanced between them. "So what. We're expected to find comfort in that? I'm supposed to put my life in the hands of a walking redaction?"

ECHO met his look softly. "We're acknowledging that this room exists because too much information gets people killed. Given our backgrounds, I'm sure we know that to be true."

A brief pause.

IRON leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Where I am from, trust does not come from pieces of paper."

"No," MUSTANG agreed. "It comes from watching what people do when things go bad."

Ro finally spoke. "Then you'll get what you need soon enough."

The table went quiet again. Alert.

ATLAS had not moved since entering.

She stood near Magath, one hip angled slightly. When she spoke, it was relaxed with a silky undertone.

"Director Magath," she said. "If I may."

Magath turned his head just enough to acknowledge her.

"MUSTANG and IRON do have a point. This is a team. Too little trust gets people killed," ATLAS continued. "But so does too much information."

She let that sit.

"We won't solve that today. But we can narrow the distance."

She glanced once around the table, not lingering anywhere long, but just enough to make sure everyone was engaged.

"Let's keep our call signs for work purposes. On comms. In the field."

A beat.

"But when we're not, we use first names. Just something symbolic. As long as everyone is comfortable doing so."

Magath regarded her for a long moment. Then, a small nod.

"That's acceptable."

Magath remained where he was, hands behind his back.

At the far end of the table, WHISPER straightened.

It was subtle, barely more than a change in posture, but it was noticeable. The slow bending of her arms. The quiet placement of her palms on the tabletop.

Several of them looked her way, as if they had forgotten she was even in the room.

She didn't look back at them.

"Mikasa," she said.

And nothing else.

The name settled, unchallenged. 

IRON followed slow, chest raised. "Reiner." 

ECHO lifted his chin. "Armin."

TULIP barely looked up from the table. "Annie."

MUSTANG tipped his head back slightly, cigarette still between his fingers. "Jean."

ATLAS didn't hesitate. "Pieck."

The silence was expected now. Ro let it linger half a second longer.

"Meroe," he said.

Then, after a quick moment. 

"But Ro is preferred."

Magath cleared his throat.

"Good," he said. "We'll dispense with formalities."

His gaze shifted. "Pieck?"

He stepped back, ceding the floor.

Pieck took Magath's place, still standing.

"Alright. Let's talk about what we know," she said. "It's safe to say by now that Tybur wasn't the objective. He was leverage."

Jean scoffed quietly. "A bit much for leverage, no?"

Reiner didn't look at him. "It worked."

Ro inched closer to the table, entering the space as if to better absorb the moment.

Pieck continued. "The shooter was identified as Samuel Linke. Forty-two years old."

Armin frowned. "And no record."

"And no handlers," Pieck said. "No prior operations."

Jean tilted his head. "Then why him?"

"Desperation. Probably," Ro answered.

That earned a pause.

Pieck glanced at him. 

"Samuel had terminal pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe less." 

Jean whistled in response. "Merde."

"He spent the last year deep in Assembly spaces," she said. "It's important to note that he was not recruited. Rather, he became heavily immersed in their online bubble, especially after his diagnosis."

Annie's finger tapped the tabletop. Then stopped.

Mikasa spoke softly. "Nothing left to lose."

"So Assembly did not plan the shot," Reiner said, catching on. 

Annie, now fully engaged. "They didn't need to."

Jean closed his eyes. "Ah. What a convenient excuse."

"You almost sound jealous," Ro replied.

Jean laughed, leaning back in his chair. "You're funny. Truly. Why didn't the Americans put that in your file?" He waved a hand. "Mr. Tells Jokes."

Ro shrugged. "I prefer crowd work." 

Pieck ignored them. "Assembly wants to be an idea. Something that spreads without ownership."

"Well, ideas still need amplification," Armin said after a moment. "And amplification costs money."

Ro's voice came in from the side. "It's the same for every terrorist group. Someone's paying for it."

Reiner rubbed his jaw, gaze dropping to the table. "We must not chase the message," he said. "We must chase the funding."

"That's a long road," said Jean. "That kind of influence attracts all kinds of money."

Annie shifted in her chair, fidgeting a button on her sweater.

"Not if you're watching the wrong end of it," she said. "You don't follow who joins once it's popular. You follow who keeps paying even after the profits don't return."

Pieck nodded, turning the tablet and slid it into view.

"There's a forum in France," she said. "Just outside Biarritz. Energy. Logistics. Capital." A pause. "Publicly dull. But privately dense."

Reiner grimaced. "That must be where the pressure is applied."

"Pressure reveals structure," Ro said, already there.

Pieck didn't look away from the tablet. "Or fractures it."

Her eyes lifted briefly and met Ro's. 

The moment passed as quickly as it formed.

Pieck shifted her gaze then, meeting the room.

"We have three days before the forum," she said. "If Assembly is going to surface anywhere, it'll be there. Big names will be present. Names that may lead inward." 

The room went still.

Armin was the one who broke the stillness. "When do we talk approach?"

Pieck didn't answer immediately. She glanced to Magath instead, who gave the smallest nod.

"Tomorrow," she said then. "There's still a few things to work out regarding our covers. In the morning, we'll decide which lines exist, and how to cross them."

Magath straightened, hands folding behind his back again. "Until then," he added, "you're dismissed. Use the time. Rest. Adjust." 

The room loosened, chairs returned to their original positions, and no one said a word until they exited.

Jean closed the distance as they stepped out, the sound of his boots careless against the polished floor. 

"RASTRO," he called, half-grin already in place. "A few of us are staying. Apparently, there's a shooting range in the lower level."

Ro didn't slow. His escort had been waiting and peeled away the moment Magath dismissed them, and the building's corridors had started to feel less like a route and more like a maze designed to keep people from lingering in the wrong places.

"Can't," Ro replied. "My hotel's got this eucalyptus steam room. I've been thinking about it since I landed."

Jean blinked, then chuckled. "Self-care," he said. "That explains the statuesque good looks."

Ro glanced over. "I model for Hermès part-time. The Americans must have redacted that too."

Jean let out a short breath. "Yeah, right. And my ass is a chicken." He turned away, voice trailing back over his shoulder. "We'll be there for a bit, if you change your mind."

Ro gave him a small nod and kept going.

The corridor narrowed the farther he walked, ceiling lowering by inches that were barely perceptible but unmistakable to the body. The hum overhead changed. Fluorescent. Uneven. Buzzing off rhythm.

His shoes struck a different cadence now. Harder beneath him. Less forgiving. A warm breeze crept in from somewhere ahead, carrying the faintest trace of dust and something metallic beneath it. Old. Dry. Not London.

His escort slowed at an unmarked security door, palm flattening against the release panel. A light above it flickered once.

The lock disengaged with a muted click, and the door swung open.

Ro stepped through—

—and the temperature was wrong. Humid. Years earlier. 

Concrete walls were practically sweating in the heat. The stink of stale piss and cordite. A narrow service stair in a high-rise that hadn't been renovated since its inception.

Thessaloniki. 2023. 

Ro moved first, shoulder pressed to the wall, pistol tucked tight to his ribs to keep the silhouette narrow. He wore gloves then. Thin, black, and disposable. The fabric stretched faintly over his hands as his fingers flexed.

The man in front of him was hunched forward in fear. Shoulders brushing the rail. Breath loud, mouth slightly open. His fingers left damp streaks across his jeans as he wiped his palms again and again.

Ro touched two fingers to the man's elbow.

The man froze.

Ro lifted his hand. Two taps to the back of the shoulder.

Wait.

The man swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he nodded once, sharp and obedient.

Above them, voices bled down the stairwell. Something fast and foreign. Laughter followed, loose and careless. Too close for comfort. The men stomped loudly overhead. A door slammed, and something metallic was dropped and left where it fell.

Ro watched the stair curve and listened. He heard the scrape of a shoe against concrete. Someone was coming down without bothering to be quiet.

From the corner, a face entered the angle, unguarded. A male in his thirties with stubble, and a cigar that burned between his teeth, the ember flaring as he breathed. He moved with heavy legs, eyes still laughing at something above him.

When he looked down, and his gaze snagged on Ro, the smile faltered. The cigar dipped. His body kept walking as his mind tried to catch up.

By the time he realized and opened his mouth, the sound never came. 

Ro closed the distance in a second, quick enough that the steps seemed to vanished beneath him. He drove the heel of his palm into the man's throat. Cartilage collapsed with a dull, sickening give. The cigar snapped free, embers streaking briefly as it bounced and scattered against the concrete.

The man strained to inhale, ribs flaring, desperately pulling for air. His throat refused.

Ro's other hand came up with the pistol and smashed the hilt into the man's temple with a wet click. The body went slack instantly, momentum carrying it into Ro's shoulder for a half-second before it slid down the stairs, thudding like a sack of dirty laundry.

The laughter above quieted.

A voice snapped something sharp. Alarmed.

Footsteps. Two sets now. Fast.

Ro dragged the first body by the collar and hauled it into the corner where the stairwell bent inward. The shadow swallowed it whole.

The next man rounded the bend with his gun already rising.

Ro fired once.

The shot detonated in the narrow space, white-hot and deafening. The man jerked as the round punched into his upper chest. He staggered back, fingers clawing at the wound, slipping in blood that soaked his shirt before he dropped hard against the landing.

The third man didn't hesitate.

He came down two steps at a time, muzzle trained, eyes blown wide.

Ro let him commit.

The gun went off and chewed into the wall beside Ro's head, concrete spalling outward in a spray of grit. Ro stepped inside the line of fire, caught the man's wrist mid-recoil, and twisted until the gun dropped.

Ro drove his knee into the man's sternum. Hard. Air left the body in a strangled bark. He wrenched the wrist down and pressed the elbow over his forearm. The man screamed. Crack. The bone gave and released a clean, efficient sound. Like snapping a tree branch.

Ro didn't reach for the fallen weapon.

He hooked the man's neck with his arm and yanked him forward, slamming his face into the stair edge. Teeth exploded. Blood painted the wall. The man collapsed, boneless, twitching once before going still.

Silence rushed back in.

Ro's breathing never changed.

Behind him, the nervous man made a sound of half disbelief and half nausea. His eyes were enormous. Locked on the bodies and on the blood crept down the steps.

Ro didn't speak.

He simply stepped over the dead and kept moving upward, toward the door they'd come for. The lock disengaged with a muted click. The door swung open.

Ro crossed the threshold—

—and the concrete vanished. Cool stone underfoot. Filtered air. Clean lines. London had returned all at once.

The escort didn't slow.

They moved through the final layers without comment, sound thinning as the building released him in stages. The pressure eased, subtle but immediate, like stepping out from underwater. Light shifted. Space widened.

They stopped just short of the exterior doors.

The escort reached into his jacket and produced two items, laid flat in his palm. A credit card, matte black, no markings. And a cell phone. New. Powered on.

"Operational," he said.

Ro took them. The card disappeared into his pocket, and the phone came alive under his thumb. The interface was stripped bare. One encrypted channel already open.

Familiar call signs.

WHISPER

IRON

MUSTANG

TULIP

ECHO

ATLAS

And a final name.

Zeke Ksaver

Ro paused on it.

"That would be me," the escort said, pointing to his badge.

Ro looked up.

The man extended his hand. Ro took it. The grip was firm and practiced.

"Intelligence coordination," Zeke said. "Handler, if you prefer it plain." A beat. "If you need transport. Cover. Access. Just message. Any hour."

Ro nodded once and pocketed the phone.

The doors opened, and morning spilled in, cool and immediate.

Reeves waited at the curb, already holding the rear door open. Ro reached the car and got in, movements smooth and unhurried.

Reeves glanced at him in the mirror. "Where to, sir?"

Ro let his shoulders drop, jaw loosening a fraction as his body realigned. Whatever had followed him out of the building stayed contained, pressed down where it belonged.

"A shooting range."

Reeves nodded. "There's an excellent one in Camden Town, sir."

Ro inclined his head and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The ashtray on the table was already full.

Jean still put his cigarette out, grinding it down until the filter bent. He nudged the ashtray a few inches to the left, then stopped touching things altogether.

Pieck didn't start until the room had gone quiet.

"There are four rooms," she said.

She tapped the tablet once, projecting it onto a bigger screen on the wall. Four interior spaces appeared, clean and color-coded. She let them sit there for a moment, then scrolled again, showing access routes, staff flow, and choke points.

"These are the only spaces on the property that meet the requirements for what we're expecting. They're private enough, insulated enough, and hard to wander in by accident."

Ro crossed his arms, eyes tracking the floor plans. "They won't decide which one to use until the last minute."

"No," Pieck agreed. "They won't."

Reiner leaned forward. "So we cover all four?"

Annie nodded, fumbling with the printed schematics in front of her. She straightened one, frowned, and straightened it again. "Access timing overlaps by less than ninety seconds. Anyone who drifts past that will be compromised."

Jean clicked his tongue. "Comforting."

"You'll each take one room," Pieck continued. "Jean. Reiner. Ro."

She paused just long enough for it to register.

"I'll take the fourth."

Ro's eyebrows lifted a fraction.

Pieck caught it and shot him a look that was anything but mild.

Jean cleared his throat, eyes flicking between the two of before settling back on Pieck.

"Pieck. No offense," he said, "but I remember your file. You don't usually work in the weeds. Why not leave that to the gardeners?"

Reiner nodded. "I would not mind handling an extra room."

Pieck didn't look back at either of them. Her eyes stayed on Ro.

"Do you agree?" she asked him.

Ro didn't uncross his arms. "Analysts usually stay upstream," he said. "Support. Pattern work. They don't exactly crawl around estates planting hardware."

"That's true," Pieck replied. "When the plan is linear."

Ro's gaze sharpened. "And this isn't?"

"No," she said. "It's deception-based. Everything about it is reactive." She gestured at the display. "If the location shifts, if the flow changes, if the walls close in, someone on the ground has to make the call in real time."

"And you want that to be you."

"I'm trained for it," Pieck said. "If something breaks, I can pivot faster than anyone else in this room."

Ro held her stare. Long enough that the space quieted around it.

"Everyone in this room is expendable," he said at last. "Everyone except you."

He picked up one of the schematics that Annie had been organizing and held it up, much to her dismay. "If this all goes to shit and we lose the one person holding the whole thing together, it's finished. By the time we find another ATLAS, Assembly's already moved."

Silence.

Pieck didn't blink.

Something unreadable passed across her face until it vanished.

"Well," she said calmly, "let's make sure that doesn't happen."

Reiner nodded and gave a firm thumbs-up. The room exhaled.

Ro's voice dropped, quieter now.

"You should stay close then."

Pieck's eyes locked on his. Neither of them wanted to break.

Jean clapped his hands, trying to ease the tension. "Ok. Then that is settled. Four people. Four rooms," he said. "This will be easy."

Pieck tore her attention from Ro, refocusing on her tablet as a new image replaced the last: a heavily secured door.

"The problem," she continued, "is that every private room at this forum is locked. No exceptions. Access is centralized with one credential, carried by the host. We'll need that security fob briefly, and it has to be returned before it's missed."

Her eyes settled on Jean. "You wanted more dirty work, didn't you?"

Jean leaned back in his chair. "Stealth? Sleight of hand? You really know how to flatter me."

"A Parisian pickpocket," Annie mumbled. "How original."

Jean grinned. "Je plaide coupable."

"Ninety seconds to get there, get in, and get out," she said. "That's our window. If it's not done by then, we walk away."

Ro shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms. "Ninety seconds is tight, but it's clean. I'm assuming we won't need perfect placement for the bugs. Just coverage?"

Pieck turned to him. "The panel density will vary from room to room. Your's is a bit thicker than the others. Don't force it."

"I'll be gentle." Ro assured.

She studied him, as if reassessing something, and didn't look away as quickly as she should have.

At the far end of the table, Mikasa sat motionless, eyes closed, breath slow and even. The room cautiously adjusted around her presence without comment.

Reiner straightened his jacket. "Can we not plant our insects simultaneously, once Jean unlocks the four rooms? Staggering may increase detection probability."

"Actually, it's the opposite," Armin glanced up from his tablet. "They will be monitoring everything. Too much movement suggests practiced coordination, so it's best if you four take turns completing your task."

Armin gestured to Annie. "We'll have access to the feed, but I won't be able to loop or pause any of the cameras. It's important that you stick to our timing and the blind spots if we want to move undetected."

Jean groaned. "Everything's fucking visible?"

"We'll have to choose what they see," Ro said.

"Which brings us to our covers," Pieck clarified, shifting the display again, replacing the screen with identity profiles.

"Reiner. You've been hired as security for the event. You blend. You don't intimidate unless you absolutely have to."

Reiner nodded once. "Understood."

"Jean. Service," Pieck said. "Catering liaison. Logistics. You'll have excuses to be everywhere. For a portion of time."

Jean smiled faintly. "A role that respects my talents."

"Armin. Annie," Pieck went on. "Eyes and ears. Systems, cameras, traffic. We'll be relying on you two for updates in real time."

Annie was eyeing a dark smudge on the corner of the table, lost in thought. Armin gave a quick nod, squinting at something on his tablet.

"Mikasa," Pieck said.

At the far end of the table, Mikasa was still in her trance. When her name landed, her eyes opened, slowly, and just enough to see the room.

"Let's hope we don't need you."

Mikasa didn't speak. Her hand moved instead, rolling a large pocket knife open with a soft click. Closed it. Opened it again.

Jean glanced at it once, then wisely looked away.

"As for Ro and I," Pieck continued, "we'll enter together. As married invitees. Zeke was gracious enough to handle the paperwork and the aliases."

Ro didn't comment. He simply tilted his head.

Jean's gaze drifted to Pieck's hand.

"That would explain the bijoux," he gestured.

Pieck followed his look. Her ring caught the light.

Without comment, she reached into her pocket and extended a second band toward Ro.

"Almost forgot," she said. "Put it on. Get used to the weight."

Ro took the ring. He turned it once between his fingers before sliding it onto his hand without hesitation.

Armin glanced up from his screen. "It's a good cover," he said. "Married couples get ignored."

"Boring is invisible," Reiner added.

"I appreciate the much needed context," Pieck replied sarcastically. She turned again to Ro and watched his finger turn the ring with an absent, almost intimate focus.

"Don't lose yours," she warned.

Ro met her eyes with a tinge of amusement. "Yes, dear."

Jean laughed. "Ha! The honeymoon phase. I remember it well."

Pieck rolled her eyes, and moved on.

"And that's all," she concluded. "We clear our rooms. We don't rush. We don't get clever."

Annie nodded. "You get in, you get out."

Reiner squared his shoulders. "It is a great plan."

Jean grabbed his jacket. "I still think this is bullshit."

"No one asked," Pieck said.

Ro stepped past him toward the door, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You'll do just fine, Seabiscuit."

Jean smirked. "Fuck you."

Ro gave him a wink.

The room emptied quickly. Quiet nods exchanged as they all walked away in separate directions.

They had forty-eight hours before the forum. It was just enough time for a cover to settle into muscle memory, for details to stop feeling theoretical and start carrying consequence.

Until then, Ro wanted to get out into the city for a bit. It had been a while since he'd been in London and actually walked the streets long enough to remember his favorite spots. He found himself thinking, absurdly, about a proper English breakfast. Eggs, grease, something that would sit heavy and quiet him down.

By the time he crossed the corridor and reached the elevators, Pieck was still there despite being the first to leave the room.

She stood slightly apart from the wall, a thick folder tucked under her arm, perfect posture. She looked focused. And maybe a bit nervous.

"Everyone else will travel separately," she said as he came to a stop beside her. "Different routes into town. Separate transport. Separate lodging."

The elevator lights flickered overhead.

She shifted the folder against her side, eyes flicking to him briefly. "But you and I will leave together. Later this evening."

Ro stilled.

She turned and looked up to face him. Close enough now that the difference in their height was dramatic.

"Our cover starts the moment we walk out of this building." She lifted her hand and pressed the elevator button, her ring refracting in the light again. "So we'll need to act accordingly."

The words lingered.

There was something in her tone he couldn't quite place. The cover clearly hadn't been her choice. That much was obvious. But beneath the professionalism, beneath the control, there was an energy to it. A curiosity.

Ro inclined his head once, slow and deliberate, accepting a piece of information he already knew would follow him.

"Got it."

"Good," Pieck said.

As if on cue, the doors slid open. She stepped forward, slow.

Ro matched her pace without looking at her.

"Are you hungry?" She asked.

Ro paused first, then smiled. "And they said you weren't good at reading people."

She didn't answer right away. But as the doors closed, he caught the faintest curve of her mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"There's a place I like," she said. "We'll go there."

The restaurant was small and warm, tucked just off the north entrance of the London Bridge. It was the kind of place that smelled like toasted bread and oil the second the door closed behind. It was lively, full clatter, steam, and the low hum of people eating well.

The food arrived before either had spoken.

Fatteh layered thick with yogurt and chickpeas. Labneh swirled smooth and glossy with olive oil. Kawarma and eggs still sizzling faintly beneath a scatter of herbs. Bowls of chopped tomato and cucumber glistened beside fresh mint. Za'atar sat dark and fragrant next to a shallow dish of oil. Msabaha, warm and loose, waited with torn khubz stacked between them.

Two small cups of coffee steamed gently at the center, cardamom aroma was sharp enough to cut through everything else.

Ro leaned back just enough to take it in.

Pieck didn't. She sat forward, elbows near the table, fingers already resting against the bread. There was a glimmer in her eye. Something brighter than earlier.

Ro watched her for a moment longer than necessary.

"You're Lebanese," he said.

Pieck lifted her cup and took a slow sip before looking at him over the rim.

"We're not supposed to talk about ourselves."

Ro's gaze didn't move when she lowered the cup. It traced her eyes briefly. Her mouth. He reached for his own coffee.

Not too sweet. Strong. Warm enough to settle.

"Right," he said. "First names only."

A pause.

"I guess I was just curious," he added. "Considering we're married and all."

Pieck exhaled, the sound somewhere between annoyance and enjoyment. She tore a piece of khubz, scooped through the msabaha, and ate without looking at him.

Ro waited.

She swallowed, then finally glanced up.

"Half Lebanese," she corrected. "And half English."

She tipped her chin toward the food. "Eat."

Ro reached for the bread with his left hand, but before he could partake, Pieck grabbed him and coiled her fingers around half of his wrist.

"Other hand."

He blinked once, then shifted, breaking a piece with his right. She let go immediately, already turning back to her plate.

The first bite rocked him, and he didn't slow down after that. Different combinations, different textures. Olives and spices. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until his body stopped pretending otherwise.

"You don't have family here?" he asked between bites.

Pieck watched him instead of answering right away. Something in her expression softened as she witnessed Ro eat with increasing enthusiasm.

She shook her head. "Two questions in a row," she said. "That's interrogation."

Ro's mouth tilted. "You got me."

Pieck reached for the vegetables, scooping labneh with her fingers.

"Which means it's your turn," she said. "Tell me something about you."

Ro glanced down at his coffee. The surface had darkened where he last sipped. He lifted his gaze again.

"You should know," he said, "that this is some of the best food and coffee I've ever had."

For a beat, Pieck just stared at him.

Then she laughed.

It was quick and unguarded, the sound cutting clean through the space between them. Something in Ro moved at the noise, unexpectedly, like a reflex he hadn't used in a long time.

Pieck caught herself and pressed her lips together as the laugh faded. Her eyes dropped briefly, then lifted again, steady.

"You're not going to humor your way out of this," she said. "Tell me something. Anything."

Ro finished the plate in front of him, pushing the last bite together. He set the bread down, fingers lingering.

Pieck watched him. Her left hand lifted, brushing a loose wave of hair back behind her ear. The ring flashed as it moved.

Ro drew in a slow breath before letting it out just as quietly.

"Sudanese," Ro said. "and Spanish."

A pause. "Though, I don't have much of a connection to either. I was born in the States. Northeast."

She watched him over the rim of the cup, eyes steady.

"So your parents immigrated?"

Ro lifted a brow. "Back to back questions," he said lightly. "Careful."

A smile tugged at her mouth.

Between them, the plates thinned. Bread torn down to scraps, labneh smeared clean, only a few tomatoes left rolling against the edge of the dish. The coffee cups sat empty, then were filled again.

A woman, who Ro had seen earlier instructing the servers, quietly approached them. She glanced at the table and  briefly pressed her hand to her heart before turning to Pieck. The woman said something to her in their language that made them both chuckle.

Pieck looked up at Ro, and then answered her.

"He barely chewed."

The woman, delighted, looked to Ro and reached for an empty bowl. She turned it on its side, as if showing it off. "You like the food," she said in perfect English.

Ro nodded once, then answered her in fluent Arabic, voice calm and warm.

كان طعامك رائعًا. الله يعطيك الصحة

Your food was excellent. May God grant you health.

The woman blinked and then laughed, startled. She replied softly, half incredulous, half delighted.

ما شاء الله

God has willed it.

The woman turned to Pieck for confirmation, eyebrows lifted, as if asking whether she had heard correctly.

Pieck didn't smile. She watched Ro for a moment, sporting the same expression from earlier that morning. A look of recognition. Followed by confirmation.

The woman, still chuckling, shook her head and acknowledged Ro. "You come back," she said, tapping the table lightly. "Next time, I cook more."

Pieck rose and leaned in, kissing her three times, cheek to cheek. A few quick words passed between them. The woman waved off the payment before finally accepting it anyway. She pressed Pieck's hand between both of hers and stepped away. When Pieck returned to her seat, she did not reach for her coffee.

"You never mentioned you spoke Arabic," she said.

Ro shrugged. "You didn't ask."

Her gaze held him.

"You speak like someone who's used it," she said finally.

Ro wiped his fingers with a napkin. "Languages are useful."

Something in her posture tightened at that. She gave a small nod as her eyes moved across his face the way they might have moved across the empty spaces of his file, searching for what had been left out.

Ro caught it.

After a minute, she picked up her bag.

"We should go."

He stood when she did.

Outside, the air had thinned into noon. Traffic moved slow along the bridge. She walked half a step ahead of him this time. Ro matched her pace without crowding, hands in his pockets.

They drove out of London with minimal conversation. Pieck handled the motorway with a steady grip as Ro leaned back in the passenger seat, watching the dark gather beyond the glass. He did not fill the silence. Neither did she.

By the time they crossed into France, night had settled fully. Le Mans greeted them with quiet streets and muted storefronts. The hotel was neither extravagant nor careless. Clean lines. Soft lighting. Discretion built into the architecture.

Pieck parked beneath the awning and killed the engine.

"Our cover begins now," she said.

Ro glanced at her profile. "I thought it began this morning."

She didn't argue.

Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of citrus and polished wood. A couple stood near the entrance speaking low. A businessman sat alone with a drink, tie loosened.

Pieck adjusted first.

Her shoulders eased. Her chin tilted just enough to soften the angles of her face. Her hand slid up his forearm and settled there, fingers resting along the rolled fabric of his sleeve with familiarity.

Ro did not react visibly. His hand came to rest at her lower back and his fingers curled just above her hip.

"Bonsoir," the woman at the desk said with a polite smile.

Pieck answered in French, her tone warm and unhurried. She leaned slightly into Ro as she spoke, as if the long drive had left her comfortably dependent on his presence. He felt the curve of her waist beneath his palm. The heat of her through the fabric.

The receptionist's eyes lingered on their rings.

"Une seule nuit?"

"Oui, s'il vous plaît," Pieck replied.

The keycard slid across the counter.

As they turned toward the elevators, Pieck's hand slipped from his arm. Ro's remained at her back a fraction longer.

The elevator doors closed.

Silence returned between them.

"You're convincing," Pieck said, eyes on the numbers climbing.

"So are you."

She gave a small hum that could have meant anything.

The room was on the fifth floor. The hallway carpet muted their steps. When Pieck unlocked the door and pushed it open, the overhead light revealed a single large bed centered against the far wall.

Ro let her enter first and closed the door behind them. He tested the latch once with his palm, then slid the secondary lock into place. His fingers pressed lightly along the frame, then the hinge.

Pieck set a folder down on the coffee table and removed her coat, folding it over the back of a sofa. She moved to the window and parted the curtain just enough to check the street below. Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass before she let the fabric fall again.

Ro crouched to check beneath the bed. Then the bathroom. Then the closet. He opened drawers and closed them without sound. He checked the smoke detector, the vent, the underside of the desk. Even as Pieck leaned against the wall and watched him, he didn't rush.

When he was finished, he stood in the center of the room and let the silence settle. Then he nodded once, mostly to himself.

Their luggage had already been delivered by the hotel. He unzipped his case and removed a change of clothes. Ro hooked a hand at the back of his collar and peeled the shirt upward, muscle shifting beneath skin as the fabric slid free and fell from his grip.

Pieck tried not to look.

His back was broad. Defined in a way that suggested repetition. Abs were toned and prominent. Old scars ran faint and pale along his ribs, disappearing into his waistline.

He grabbed a towel.

"I'll go first," he said.

She nodded.

The shower ran for several minutes. Steam pushed lightly beneath the door. When he came out, towel low at his hips, he did not look toward her. He dressed out of view and in silence.

Pieck passed him without comment and closed the bathroom door behind her.

Ro sat on chair beside the bed while the water ran again. His forearms rested on his thighs. Head bowed slightly. Listening.

When she emerged, her hair hung loose, darker from the water, falling in uneven waves just past her shoulders. She had changed into something softer. A thin white shirt that clung faintly where it was still damp, the fabric nearly translucent.

"You can sleep on the floor," she said, crossing to the bed.

"I was planning on it."

She paused at that. Then continued moving as if she hadn't.

The lights were lowered. The room dimmed to amber.

Pieck sat on the bed, legs folding beneath her before she crossed them properly, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. She studied him in the half light like she was waiting for him to do something. Ro simply continued to sit and stare at the ring on his finger. Pieck allowed the silence to fester until it became to much to bare.

"So you kill people."

She landed it plainly.

Ro's head lifted.

"What do you mean."

Her eyes did not leave his.

"I mean you kill people," she repeated. "I've been thinking about it. Your file was practically empty because it has to be. Because whatever you do doesn't get archived." She tilted her head slightly. "Men like you don't get biographies."

He held her stare.

She continued.

"You probably speak a dozen languages. Fluently. Operated in regions where that matters. You have no desire to ask questions. No nostalgia. Avoidant."

Her fingers pressed lightly into the duvet.

"And move like someone who expects resistance."

Ro leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her as carefully as she studied him.

"You understand I was explicitly told not to discuss my work," he said. His voice was stern. "And you've been pretty persistent about figuring it out. Is that the goal? Were you asked to? Some kind of secondary assignment?"

Pieck didn't flinch.

"No," she replied. "I'm an analyst. This is what I do. Patterns. Gaps. Data." She uncrossed her legs and hugged her knees, thighs pressed together. "Forgive me for wanting to know who I'm alone in a room with."

"And yet here we are," Ro said. "Alone."

The words hovered between them.

Pieck's back straightened as she scanned him, studying his capabilities. Shoulders that could easily carry bodies. Hands that could close around a throat with ease. A subtle confidence that had likely been tested by perpetual violence.

Ro watched her recognize it.

"You can relax," he said, finally. "It's simple. Sometimes the agency fucks up, so they call me. I guess I'm good at cleaning up their mess."

Pieck's expression didn't change. "Fixers," she said. "That's the term your country prefers."

"And sometimes messy things involve dangerous people who are already looking for a reason to pull the trigger," he continued. "So no. I'm not a hitman. Or an assassin. But if men try to kill me, I return the favor." His eyes held hers. "That's how it's always been. That's why I'm here. You hand me the string, and I tie up loose ends. That's the dynamic."

Ro paused and gestured to the room before eyeing Pieck again.

"At least, that should be the dynamic."

"You think I'm a liability," Pieck said.

"I think," he answered, "you'd be better placed with Armin and Annie."

The faintest curve touched her mouth.

"You talk about your past like it's an achievement," she said, her voice thinning. "You shouldn't." Her eyes sharpened. "You're a dog. They tell you to sit, you sit. They say bark, you bark."

Pieck's eyes were intense now.

"I may not have your field history," she continued, "but I don't wait to be told where I matter. I know it. I trust it because of who I am and the people around me." A pause. "Which makes sense why you are the way you are."

Her voice lowered slightly.

"You don't have anyone. Do you."

The room stilled.

Ro held her gaze a second longer, then stepped away. He pulled a spare blanket from the chair and spread it along the floor beside the bed with deliberate precision. The pillow followed.

"We should get some sleep," he said.

Pieck's posture adjusted. Something flickered across her face. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Ro turned off the lamp.

Darkness folded over the room.

He lay down on the floor, one arm beneath his head, eyes open to the ceiling he could not see.

On the bed above him, Pieck remained upright for a moment longer before lowering herself onto her side. Her back faced him.

The distance between the floor and the mattress felt like a mile.

Outside, a car passed in the street below. Then quiet returned.

Neither spoke again.

Neither slept.

Chapter Text

The chamber was already hot with bodies and anticipation.

Lights perched on metal rigs. Camera lenses aimed like a firing squad. Staffers moved with folders, faces tight, lips pressed thin as they maneuvered between benches and whispered into ears. 

Senator Historia Reiss sat upright at her desk. When the papers were set in front of her, she folded her hands once and then unfolded them. Her muted suit was tailored clean, and her hair was pinned back with practical restraint. The microphone in front of her looked too small for the room.

Across the semicircle, Senator Roderich leaned into his chair. His suit gleamed faintly under the lights, and his watch face flashed every time he moved his wrist. He had a smug expression like the kind of man who cuts people off in traffic just as a hobby. 

A gavel struck.

“Order,” the chair called. “Order. This hearing will come to order.”

The murmurs softened, but they didn't vanish.

A clerk read the title of the session. Something about public safety and civil stability floated and landed with obvious discomfort. The chair cleared his throat again, eyes cutting toward the gallery.

“The Chair recognizes the Senator from Vermont.” he said. 

Historia leaned forward and adjusted the microphone with two fingers. Her eyes moved across the chamber, slow and intentional.

“Five days ago,” she began, “a man was executed on live television.”

A small stir in the gallery. A soft, involuntary sound from someone in the second row. Another camera flash.

“I will say this plainly,” she continued. “The assassination of Willy Tybur was a crime. It was not justice. It was not resistance. It was murder.”

Roderich’s lips curved, amused by Historia's opening

She didn’t look at him.

“And still,” she said, “we are watching this administration respond as if every person in the streets is holding the gun.”

A few senators shifted. The chair’s knuckles tightened around the gavel.

“Thousands have been detained,” she said. “Some without charge. Some without access to counsel. We have footage of officers firing into crowds at close range. We have hospital reports of broken ribs, fractured jaws, head trauma. We have elders being pulled from sidewalks and pressed to asphalt. Teenagers with zip ties cutting into skin until it turns purple.”

Historia’s voice remained controlled.

“We have been told that this is stability,” she said. “Unfortunately, that is an outrageous lie.”

A murmur rippled. The chair struck the gavel again. Twice.

“Order.”

Historia continued.

“I understand anger,” she said. “I understand fear. You would too if you listened to these protesters. You would realize that the murder of Willy Tybur did not appear out of thin air. It arrived in a country already injured. For years, we have been treating this tsunami like it's a kiddie pool and acting surprised when the waves reach our lawn.”

She paused for a moment before picking back up again.

“And now,” Historia said, “this administration is offering only one solution. Force.”

Roderich finally eaned forward, elbows on his desk, fingers laced.

“Senator,” he said, pitched toward the microphones, “I have to say, this is surprising even from you. I mean, am I hearing this right? You offer a few words condemning a murder, but then you turn around and make excuses for the ideology that created it?”

Historia turned her head to him, slowly.

“I do not make excuses,” she said. “I am describing cause and effect.”

Roderich’s eyes narrowed, pleased at the response.

“Cause and effect,” he repeated, tasting it. “So when domestic terrorists riot and burn, when they block roads, when they chant for the President’s death, the death of your own father, you call that, what? A protest?”

“Some of it is protest,” Historia said. “Or grief, or rage, or opportunism. Sometimes people are pushed and pushed until they have no options left.”

Roderich shook his head with fake disbelief.

“What an unbelievably naive statement,” he said. “President Reiss has a duty to protect this nation. To protect the rule of law. I understand that. My constituents in the great state of Texas understand that. If you cannot understand that, Senator, then what exactly are you doing here?”

He leaned back again, watching her like a door he expected to close.

Historia didn't budge.

“I am here,” she said, “to make sure ‘rule of law’ does not become a phrase we use to justify whatever we want.”

Roderich laughed this time.

“Spoken like a true child,” he said. Then, softer, sweetly, “Be a good girl and listen to your daddy.”

The chamber reacted instantaneously.

Senators rose from their seats. Some shouted. Some laughed. The gallery was quickly thrust into chaos  

Roderich held his hands up, mockingly, still smiling.

The gavel pounded. Over and over. The chair’s voice cracked through the microphones.

“Order. Order, please. Senator Roderich, withdraw the remark.”

Roderich shrugged.

“If she wants to posture in public,” he said, “she can handle a little reality.”

Historia’s hands remained still. She waited until the gavel slowed. Until voices dropped into something like silence.

Then she spoke again.

“This administration is using Tybur’s death as a permission slip.”

Roderich began to interrupt, but Historia raised her voice enough to cut off his theatrics.

“Senator Roderich. You call Americans ‘traitors’ because you do not like what they have to say,” she continued. “You encourage the public to see dissent as treason.”

Her gaze stayed on him now.

“And when you tell people that treason deserves death,” Historia said, “you should not act shocked when someone listens.”

The chamber fell into a strange, taut quiet. Even the cameras seemed to pause.

"And with that, I yield the remainder of my time."

Roderich’s smile was nowhere to be seen.

The chair cleared his throat, desperate to regain control.

“This session is adjourned.” he snapped, gavel striking once. 

The gallery buzzed, a thousand low conversations blooming at once. Historia gathered her papers with deliberate calm. She did not look rattled or rushed. Roderich stood and adjusted his tie. He glanced back at Historia with a horrible look before turning away and exiting through the side corridor. A staffer hurried at his side, speaking quickly, but Roderich waved him off.

“I have a call,” he said.

The secure elevator descended with a mechanical sigh, and when the doors opened to the underground deck, the air cooled and bright overhead lights cast shadows across the entire lot.

Senator Roderich walked with his phone to his ear, shoes clicking in a steady cadence. Two security men trailed him at a protective distance. One of them spoke quietly into a sleeve cuff, eyes scanning.

“We need to move it,” Roderich said into the phone. “Before the committee report makes its rounds. I want the position shifted early.”

A voice answered, muffled and deferential.

“Yes, Senator.”

“And I want the purchase spread,” Roderich added. “Even more than last time. Do it quietly. Multiple accounts. Let's be ready to fucking sell once the share price increases.”

He turned his head as he walked. A row of black SUVs sat parked in their designated spots. A maintenance worker pushed a cart past a pillar and vanished behind a concrete column. The sound of the cart wheels faded.

Roderich’s gaze flicked over his shoulder.

Nothing held it. Just shadows.

He kept walking.

“Call me once it’s done,” he said.

“Yes, Senator.”

He ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. His car waited in the last row, a black sedan with tinted windows and a small American flag pin on the dash that made him look more important than the parking deck could. 

One of the security men moved ahead of him, hand already reaching for the driver’s side door.

Roderich stopped short.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, loud enough for them both to hear. “Listen, I've had a long day. Can you two give me some room? I know how to open a fucking door.”

The men hesitated.

“Go bother someone who needs babysitting,” he added, already stepping past them.

They fell back. 

Roderich slid into the seat, shut the door, and sat there for a breath. The cabin held the scent of leather and mint. His eyes moved to the rearview mirror out of habit.

Nothing. Just the empty backseat, the headrests, and the faint reflection of the lights.

Roderich exhaled through his nose and reached into his pocket.

His vape slipped free of his fingers and fell, dropping to the floor by the pedals.

“You bitch,” he cursed.

He leaned down, shoulders rolling forward, hand searching beneath the steering column.

His fingers found it.

When he sat upright again, he took a deep hit and blew the smoke toward the dash. As the cloud billowed and dissolved, Roderich squinted at the rearview mirror again. 

And this time, a pair of eyes looked back. 

They were steady. Close. Level with the headrest.

Roderich swallowed. His hand tightened around the vape.

A gloved arm reached around the driver’s headrest with blinding speed, and before Roderich could beg, a thick wire snapped across his throat and tightened.

The sound that came out of him was wet and animalistic.

His hands flew up, claws digging at the wire. His elbows banged the window. His knees kicked, heel striking the underside of the dash. The car rocked once, then again as the wire bit deeper, splitting skin, and crushing his voice before it could scream.

His face reddened, eyes bulged, and spit sprayed as he tried to pull breath through his windpipe.

The arm behind him held steady.

In a last ditch effort, Roderich’s fingers scrabbled at the wire, fingers catching and bending and slipping. One of his nails tore clean off and smeared blood onto his own knuckles. His frantic movements became slower and slower until his legs jerked, his shoulders shuddered, and his mouth opened wide for air that never came.

His hands dropped to his side.

His head rolled.

The wire held a moment longer. Then it loosened.

Roderich collapsed, chin hitting his chest. His eyes stayed open. His tongue pushed out slightly between his teeth, swollen and purple.

The figure in the backseat moved economically. He leaned forward and removed a piece of paper from his jacket. And then, a stapler.

Metal clicked.

Once. Twice.

The paper lay flat against Roderich’s forehead, stapled through skin. A small bloom of blood spread beneath the edge.

The figure withdrew. The rear door opened without the cabin light turning on. He slipped out, closing it softly behind him.

The security men were a dozen bays away, speaking to someone near a pillar. Their heads angled toward each other. The deck’s hum swallowed most of their words. The figure moved behind parked vehicles and columns, staying in the blind seams of the garage. He reached the stairwell door, pulled it open, and vanished inside. 

Above ground, the sun beamed down with reckless abandon. A narrow alley cut between buildings and spilled into a street with pedestrians who walked fast, heads down.

The figure emerged dressed differently. No gloves. No mask. No jacket. A sported a baseball cap pulled low. Rust-colored hair brushed forward beneath it. A phone sat against his ear.

“It’s done,” he said.

A voice answered.

“Good.”

The man kept walking, weaving around a woman with a tote bag and another man in a suit. He reached up, adjusted his hat, and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

“And the video?” he asked.

“Ready,” the voice said. “We upload when the media starts talking about the body.”

The man’s mouth twitched.

A pause.

“Things are going to get messier,” the voice added.

“I’ll be there soon,” the man said.

“Good work, Floch.”

Floch’s jaw shifted. He ended the call without another word.

His hands snapped the phone in half with a practiced twist. Plastic cracked. He dropped the pieces into a public bin as he passed, never breaking stride.

A food truck sat parked near the edge of Capitol Hill, steam rising from the service window. The smell of meat and lime juice wafted through the street. Floch went straight toward it.

“Jorge!” he called.

The man behind the counter looked up, face splitting into a grin.

“Forster,” Jorge said. “Today's the day, right? You finally taking some PTO?”

Floch laughed.

“I wish I lived in your world,” he said. “Vacation comes out of my own pocket.” He exhaled. "But yes, today's the day."

Jorge gave him a celebratory nod, already reaching for tortillas.

“That's why I like to hear, brother. Two birria for the road?” he asked.

“Two,” Floch said, and set cash on the counter.

Jorge worked fast, hands sure. He passed the tacos over, wrapped tight, dripping just enough.

Floch took a bite immediately. His eyes half closed for a second, the expression honest enough to look like pleasure.

“Easy bro,” Jorge said. “Don't go having an orgasm and scaring away potential customers." 

Floch gave him the finger

“And can you finally tell me where the fuck you're going?”Jorge asked as he wiped the counter. "I don't know why you're acting so secretive about it. Is it Brazil? Mexico? Don't you dare say you're going to Mexico without me.”

Floch chewed and swallowed.

“France,” he said, smile still in place. “I'm going to France.”

The limousine moved slowly up the private drive, tires crunching over gravel. The estate came into view in pieces through the windshield, a stretch of limestone and glass framed by trimmed trees. Beyond it, the Atlantic glittered like gemstones.

Inside the car, Ro sat quietly. His eyelids had looked a lot heavier just an hour before, but after a splash of cold water to the face and two shots of espresso down the hatch, he was good to go. Pieck sat beside him, one hand resting over the other in her lap. The dark chocolate dress she wore absorbed the light every time the vehicle curved, satin shifting in dark waves along her hips and thighs. Her hair was up, fashioned into a bun that was somehow messy and sophisticated. A couple of strands fell on either side of her cheek.

Ro adjusted the pocket square of his tuxedo jacket and glanced at Pieck. The ring on her finger gleamed softly. He had a couple days of getting used to his, but it still felt just as heavy as the first time he put it on. He rolled it once with his thumb, then let it settle.

They had arrived in Biarritz last night, long after the sun had drained from the sky. Another hotel. Another large bed. Another night of him on the floor with a folded blanket beneath his shoulders. He could still feel the faint pull in his lower back from it, a tightness he had tried to work out with slow stretches while Pieck stood at the mirror fastening her earrings. She watched him briefly in the reflection. 

"I could use some help," she had asked him, drawing attention to her exposed back. 

Ro stood and zipped her dress, fingers careful at the small of her spine, the metal teeth closing smoothly under his touch. She hadn’t thanked him. She simply turned around and adjusted his tie, her knuckles lightly grazing the sides of his neck. He had leaned over slightly, attempting to provide an easier angle for Pieck. Their faces were close. Very close. 

Back in the limo, the driver slowed as they approached the circular drive.

Cars were already lined up along the curve, glossy and expensive. Staff in tailored uniforms moved between them, opening doors, guiding guests toward the entrance. The fountain at the center shot water into the air in a clean arc that caught the afternoon sun.

The mansion revealed itself fully as the car rolled closer. Tall windows. Iron balconies. Stone steps sweeping up toward massive double doors carved with impressive detail.

Pieck’s gaze moved across the grounds, cataloguing the positions of security without appearing to. Two men near the hedges. Another near the fountain. Cameras embedded along the facade. She took in a deep breath. 

Ro noticed.

The limo came to a smooth stop, and for half a second, neither of them moved.

Then, as if by magic, the tension between them, the effects of sleepless nights and sarcastic remarks, folded inward and gave way to something performative.

Ro turned slightly toward her. His hand found hers where it rested in her lap. He squeezed once, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

She met his eyes and let her mouth soften. A small smile touched her lips, private and fond. The kind of smile reserved for a husband who had just whispered something only she could hear.

The door opened, and warm coastal air drifted inside.

Ro stepped out and immediately turned back, offering his hand. She took it, fingers sliding into his palm. Her heel found the gravel without error, and the dress settled nicely against her body as she stood.

Ro’s hand moved naturally to the small of her back as they ascended the steps, his thumb tracing a slow line along the fabric. To anyone watching, it was muscle memory. A couple long accustomed to one another.

At the top, a greeter waited.

“Name, please.”

Pieck tilted her head slightly toward Ro, a gesture that read as affectionate deference.

“Everly,” she said, voice warm.

The greeter scrolled.

“Mr. and Mrs. Everly,” he confirmed with a bright smile. “Welcome to the Forum du Littoral.”

Ro returned the smile, easy and relaxed.

“Thank you,” he said.

He leaned slightly closer to Pieck as if to murmur something in her ear. His lips brushed near her temple without quite touching. Her laugh answered him softly, convincing enough to draw another glance from the greeter before he gestured them forward.

A faint vibration ticked against Ro’s ear.

“Everyone in position,” Annie’s voice murmured through the concealed earpiece.

Ro’s expression did not change.

“Cameras visible,” Armin followed. “You’re clear. It’s go time.”

Pieck adjusted the angle of her clutch beneath her arm. Ro’s hand remained at her back as the staff reached for the double doors and pulled them open.

Warm light spilled outward. Conversation layered over sounds of cutlery and violin. Ro and Pieck stepped forward together. The smiles remained. The posture. The rhythm of two people who belonged to each other.

They crossed the threshold as the doors closed behind them.

Chapter Text

A ripple moved through the crowd near the entrance as new arrivals were registered and absorbed. Ro kept his hand at Pieck's back. She adjusted her grip on his arm and smiled at a woman who gave her dress a nod of approval.

Armin's voice came through. "That's him. Silver tie. Center." 

Bruno Baumeister stood near a column, one hand curved around a glass, the other resting against his jacket as he listened to a man half his age explain something with too much enthusiasm. 

Pieck and Ro paused, stopping once near a floral arrangement as if to admire it. Ro leaned toward her ear.

"Let's go congratulate the king," he said, quiet enough for anyone nearby to assume it was affectionate. 

She smiled up at him. "You do the flattering."

Ro angled them toward the group without rushing it.

"Mr. Baumeister," he said once they were close enough to be noticed.

Baumeister turned and smiled immediately, the kind of smile that came easily to him.

"Yes?"

"Daniel Everly," Ro said, extending his hand. "This is my wife, Elise. We've heard a lot about tonight."

Baumeister shook his hand, pleased. "All good things, I hope."

"Ambitious things," Ro said.

That earned a broader grin.

"I prefer that," Baumeister replied.

From the corner of Ro's eye, another man approached with quiet steps and familiar slicked-back hair. 

"Champagne?" Jean asked, gesturing to his tray.

He stood beside another server who looked slightly nervous, but otherwise composed.

"For the beautiful couple," Jean added, eyes flicking once between Ro and Pieck.

Pieck's fingers tightened slightly against Ro's sleeve.

Ro didn't look at Jean. He picked up two glasses, placed one in Pieck's hand, and drank from the other, a quiet smile lingering on his lips.

The second server stepped forward toward Baumeister. 

Reiner, who had been moving throughout the room, timed his approach just then. A shoulder clipped an elbow, and champagne spilled across Baumeister's jacket. The group gasped, and the server offered scattered apologies. 

Jean snapped at him in French, and pressed a napkin against Baumeister's lapel with fake irritation. "Sir, I apologize. Completely unacceptable."

Baumeister stiffened. "It's fine."

Jean dabbed at the fabric, then slipped his hand briefly inside the jacket under the pretense of blotting.

Annie's voice sounded in their ears. "Six minutes."

Jean withdrew, pressing something small into Baumeister's palm as if returning it. "We wouldn't want to lose this."

Baumeister glanced down at the replica fob and waved him off with a tight nod.

"I'll have someone bring you a new jacket immediately," Jean added.

He removed the stained one from Baumeister's shoulders and handed it to a housekeeper stationed near the entrance before disappearing of view. 

Baumeister adjusted himself and tried to laugh it off. "These things happen."

"Occupational hazards of success," Ro said. 

Baumeister clapped Ro on the arm. "You'll enjoy the next panel. Energy security. Controversial, if you like that sort of thing."

"We do love a bit of controversy," Pieck said.

Baumeister was pulled away by another guest before the exchange deepened.

Pieck's gaze followed him just long enough to mark his path. 

"I'm going to kill that French bastard," she said under her breath. 

Ro chuckled. "You knew horse-boy would throw in at least one sly remark. He's not used to seeing us this way." 

Pieck scoffed once and leaned into Ro just an inch more. 

Armin's voice again: "All doors unlocked. Great work, MUSTANG," he praised. "The shims seemed to be holding. Now, start us off with your room." 

Annie cut in. "IRON. Stand by." 

Reiner made his way toward one of the estate security personnel stationed near the bar and leaned in close. Whatever he said was brief but confident. The guard glanced once toward the terrace doors, hesitated, then nodded and headed in that direction.

Reiner waited until the man had fully committed before turning and moving toward the staircase, blending with the steady circulation of guests shifting between conversations.

Across the room, Jean emerged again from another corridor carrying a dark jacket over his arm for Baumeister, who was mid-sentence with a delegate. Jean stepped into the edge of the circle and waited for the smallest pause before offering the replacement jacket with a courteous smile.

Baumeister slid one arm, then the other into the sleeves while continuing his speech. Jean adjusted the shoulders and tugged the fabric straight along the back. When his hands came down to smooth the sides, he dipped them briefly toward the pant pocket. The replica fob disappeared back into Jean's palm. The real one returned to its place.

Baumeister patted the pocket absently and continued talking, unaware.

Jean stepped back, gave a small nod, and disappeared again through the kitchen doors.

"IRON. Ninety seconds," Annie said. "RASTRO. Stand by."

Ro set his glass down on a passing tray and shifted his stance so that he was angled more toward the hallway leading to his assigned room. The motion was subtle, but Pieck felt the intention behind it.

"You have plenty of time," she said quietly.

He glanced at her, measuring. "Be ready."

She gave the smallest nod.

He began to step away from the cluster, intending to widen the distance between himself and the main floor without making it obvious.

He didn't make it more than two paces.

"Forgive me for interrupting."

Ro stopped and turned.

A man stood there with the easy confidence as he stared at Pieck with ravenous eyes. 

"But is this divine angel with you?"

He smiled as if the question were harmless.

Ro regarded him plainly. "She is."

The old man's attention stayed on Pieck for another second before drifting, as if she were something displayed rather than addressed.

"Lucky man," he said. "Very lucky."

"Daniel Everly," Ro replied.

"Kenny Ackerman."

They shook. Kenny's grip was firm and a fraction longer than necessary.

"Newlyweds?" Kenny asked, glancing at their rings.

"Recent," Ro answered.

"I thought so. You two have that... temporary glow."

Pieck didn't respond. She stood comfortably at Ro's side, hand resting at his forearm. 

Kenny continued, eyes steady. "First time at one of Bruno's events?"

"Yes," Ro said.

"They are absolutely boring." Kenny's mouth curved slightly, shooting Pieck a quick glance. "Each time I come, I try to find something new and exciting."

In Ro's ear, Armin's voice came through. "IRON, stay tight to the left wall. You're brushing camera range."

A beat.

"Excellent. Room two is live. Two more to go."

Annie cut in. "RASTRO. Ninety seconds."

Ro didn't move.

Kenny noticed the stillness. "You look like a man who doesn't enjoy standing still," he said. "Everything ok?"

Ro held his gaze. "Too much champagne."

Kenny smiled at that. "You two meet in academia? Finance? Let me guess. Geneva?"

"Berlin," Pieck corrected, giving Ro a brief look. 

"Ah." Kenny nodded slowly. "Bonding over bad coffee and even worse music."

"Eighty seconds," Annie said, tension creeping.

Kenny shifted his weight slightly closer, lowering his voice. "You know, this place isn't just some dinner party." 

Ro's expression didn't change. "I assumed."

"Good." Kenny nodded once. "Too many people show up thinking they've actually been invited to listen to subject matter experts."

"And why are they invited?" Ro asked, trying to skip to end.

"To see how far they'd go for some opportunity," Kenny grinned. "And how quickly they'd do it." 

"Seventy seconds," Annie said. "RASTRO." 

Ro shifted his foot slightly, preparing to break the conversation cleanly.

Kenny stepped forward, eyes flicked toward Pieck again. "Which is why you should keep her close," he said. "Rooms like these? They chew people up."

"I can manage," Pieck replied.

"I'm sure you can, darling," Kenny said, with faint amusement. "But I'd love to speak with your husband a bit more. I have some ideas on how we can keep you... entertained."

"Sixty-five," Annie said.

Armin's voice cut in, quieter but firm. "End it. Now."

The words were directed at Ro, but Pieck heard the urgency in the tone. She saw the calculation flicker behind Ro's eyes. He needed space. Kenny wasn't giving it.

So she created it.

Her hand slid from Ro's forearm up to his collar. She turned toward him without warning and pulled him down into her.

And she kissed him.

It was immediate and deep, her mouth pressing hard against his as if they had been waiting for decades. Ro reacted on instinct. His hand came to her waist and tightened, drawing her closer. For a moment, the room fell away. The crowd, the timing, the countdown. The only thing that remained was the heat of the kiss, like raw electricity. It lingered just long enough to be unmistakable.

When they separated, Pieck didn't step back far. Her lips brushed his once more, and her eyes stayed locked on his. 

"Sorry," she said quietly, her hands in his chest. "I really can't help myself sometimes."

She turned her head slightly toward Kenny. "You were saying?"

Kenny blinked.

He cleared his throat, recalibrating.

"Fifty-five," Annie said, strained now. 

Kenny adjusted his tie. "My apologies, then. Enjoy your evening."

Ro managed a small nod as Kenny stepped aside, disappearing back into the crowd.

Ro's hand tightened once at Pieck's waist before dropping away. He met her eyes for half a second and brushed his hand to the side of her cheek. Before she could react, Ro turned and moved toward the back corridor, heading for room three.

"Forty-eight," Annie said.

Pieck remained where she was, pulse still catching up, and forced her breathing back into rhythm as the room resumed around her.

"Forty seconds," Annie said. "Camera sweep rotating."

"If you're not inside before it resets, you'll be seen entering," Armin added.

Ro moved at a steady pace toward the rear corridor. Halfway down, a security guard rounded the corner.

They saw each other immediately.

Ro adjusted course and closed the distance with mild urgency. His eyes dropped to the guard's hand. A lighter rested there, silver, thumb rolling the wheel absently.

Ro let relief flicker across his face.

"Sorry," he said. "You wouldn't mind letting me borrow that light, would you?"

The guard glanced down at his own hand before answering. "You're not supposed to be back here."

"I know," Ro replied easily. "Just needed air. And a smoke. It's a bit much out there."

The guard studied him, then extended the lighter.

Ro flicked it once. Flame caught.

"Balcony that way?" Ro asked, nodding toward the end of the hall.

"Just around the corner," the guard said reluctantly. "Make it quick."

"Appreciate it."

"Twenty," Annie said.

Ro rounded the corner and stopped just out of sight, listening to the guard's footsteps resume in the opposite direction.

"Ten."

Ro waited.

"Five."

He stepped back into the corridor.

"Three. Two."

The guard disappeared around the far bend.

Ro moved, lunging back into the corridor, and twisted the handle to Room Three.

It opened immediately.

Jean's thin metal shim was wedged into the strike plate, barely visible unless you knew where to look.

Ro pulled it free and slipped it into his jacket pocket as he stepped inside. The door closed softly behind him.

"You made it," Armin said. "No hallway visual. Place the bug."

"RASTRO, twelve seconds," Annie said.

The study was compact and deliberate. Bookshelves climbed one wall from floor to ceiling. Two leather sofas faced each other near a low table. A desk stood near the tall window, heavy drapes framing the view beyond.

Ro crossed to the shelving unit. His fingers located the narrow seam behind the third shelf from the bottom. He pressed. The backing shifted.

He slid the device inside and pressed it into the interior panel. The anchoring pin scraped once before catching.

"Signal live," Armin said. "Now get out of—"

Footsteps.

Close.

"Shit," Armin muttered. "They're coming your way."

The door beeped.

Baumeister entered mid-sentence, laughter already warming his voice.

"—and I insisted on restoring it myself. The previous owners wanted to modernize everything. Black. Steel. Ruin the character."

Someone followed him inside. Female, from the sound of it.

"You kept the paneling," the guest observed, running a hand lightly over the wall near the entry. "That's rare."

Baumeister smiled. "Of course I did. This house deserves respect. You can entertain downstairs, but this room..." He gestured toward the window. "This is where you close conversations."

The guest stepped toward the desk, examining the spines of books arranged with careful precision. "And the courtyard?"

Baumeister crossed the room and placed a hand on the back of one of the sofas.

"Don't worry," he said. "Completely private. No one can see us from the gardens. At sunset, the light hits the coastline just there." He pointed toward the window. "It makes everyone look better than they are."

The guest chuckled softly.

Baumeister moved closer to the desk, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the fob, setting it down casually on the polished surface.

He stepped toward the window.

"And the view," he said, pushing the curtain aside slightly, "is perfect."

Outside the window, ninety feet above the stone courtyard, Ro stood pressed flat against the exterior wall.

The narrow ledge beneath the window was barely wide enough for the length of his shoe. His shoulder was pinned to cold stone. His fingers dug into the mortar seam between blocks, steadying himself against the drop below.

Inside, Baumeister continued speaking, unaware.

"You see?" he said, angling his body so the guest could step closer without fully opening the window. "No distractions. No interruptions."

The guest agreed. "I understand why you reserve it."

Baumeister let the curtain fall back into place.

"Shall we?" the guest said.

They exited, and the door closed.

"God dammit," Armin said quietly. "Camera cycle completed. Hallway and door are active again. And we don't have time to wait for another one."

Ro didn't look down.

He already knew.

If the hallway camera had rotated back into its pattern, the balcony would be dark.

He shifted his weight along the ledge.

To his right, the balcony edge waited several feet away, separated by open air. Hesitation meant death. So he didn't hesitate.

One breath, and he pushed off.

His hand caught the ledge just barely, grip slipping once before tightening. With his free hand, he found the balustrade and hauled himself up and over. Ro landed feet first, adjusted his jacket, and stepped inside through the balcony doors.

The same security guard stood near the corridor entrance. Ro approached him calmly and extended the lighter.

"Thanks. I needed that."

The guard took it, giving him a small nod.

Ro continued past, entering the main hall from a side angle. 

Armin's voice hit his ear immediately. "RASTRO. How did you get over there? Did you actually jump—"

Annie's voice interrupted. "ATLAS, stand by."

Ro slipped back into the crowd as if he had never left. He made his way beside Pieck and placed an arm around her waist as if he just stepped away for some champagne refills.

"You know, I did not have parkour on my agenda for today," Ro smiled.

Pieck didn't look at him right away.

"That was almost really bad," she murmured.

"Yours will be cleaner," he assured, eyes on the group across the room.

"ATLAS. Ninety—"

Annie's voice snapped into static.

Pieck's spine went rigid.

The quartet did not miss a beat. The violins continued their song, and some drunk attendees laughed loudly near the bar.

Then Armin came through with a heavy breath.

"ATLAS, listen to me. We've got someone at the van."

A sharp clatter echoed faintly through the line. Metal on pavement. A muffled impact.

Ro's gaze shifted instinctively toward the windows, though there was nothing to see beyond hedges and darkness.

Armin's voice rose, no longer controlled. "They were trying to breach. WHISPER handled it but we can't stay here. We have to relocate. Now."

Another thud. A door slamming.

The signal crackled.

"We're losing hardline access," Armin rushed on. "TULIP's rerouting but we won't have the camera cycles. Not for several minutes."

Pieck kept her expression fixed as Baumeister's laughter rolled through the hall.

"You'll have to forfeit the fourth room," Armin said, and there was frustration in it now as if he was angry at himself.

A beat.

"ATLAS, if you can't guarantee blind spots, don't attempt it. We cannot risk visual confirmation."

The line hissed with interference.

"Going dark."

Silence swallowed the comm. The constant hum of the ballroom and the distant swell of strings still remained. 

Ro looked at Pieck.

She did not look back. She stood eerily still and blinked. Once. Twice. Until a decision settled over her face.

She set her untouched flute on a passing tray and touched two fingers against his wrist.

Follow. 

They moved through the crowd without haste, weaving toward Baumeister and his notable guests.

Kenny stood slightly apart from the others, gaze lowered, jaw set. Beside him hunched an even older man, bent with age, who leaned on a tall man with a chinstrap beard for support. Though the man wore a gentle smile, his eyes methodically catalogued the room. 

Baumeister turned at their approach, face blooming with welcome.

"My dear."

Pieck smiled with warmth. "We were just informed our car is on its way. I wanted to thank you before we slipped out. This has been extraordinary."

"Please," Baumeister waved a hand. "The night is young."

"It is," she agreed. "I would propose a toast in your honor, but I must confess I prefer the red stuff to champagne."

Ro felt the line land before Baumeister did.

He let out a soft chuckle and bent to kiss the top of her head. "She's quite the sommelier, Mr. Baumeister," he said. "Has a glass of red every evening. Claims it sharpens the palate."

Baumeister's eyes widened, then gleamed.

"Is that so?" His chest lifted with pride. "My cellar has impressed even the most discerning critics. Finest private selection in the county."

Pieck gasped, lightly. "Here?"

"Just downstairs." He beamed. Baumeister glanced toward his group. "If you'll excuse me a moment."

Kenny did not look up. The tall man did.

Ro felt his gaze brush him and pass on.

Baumeister led them toward a narrow staircase tucked behind a paneled wall. He tapped his fob against a discreet reader. The door had already been unlocked, thanks to Jean, though Baumeister was none the wiser.

As they stepped through, Ro's hand drifted briefly to the lock. A thin shim slipped free and vanished into his sleeve in the same motion.

The cellar air wrapped around them: cool, mineral, faintly sweet with cork and oak. Low lights glowed along stone walls, illuminating rows upon rows of glass bottles stacked with symmetry.

Baumeister inhaled deeply. "You'd be pleased to know that I hold many meetings here. Wine softens the edge of difficult conversations."

Ro traced a finger along a label near eye level. "Château Margaux. Ninety-six."

Baumeister turned, delighted by recognition. They drifted toward a central rack, already deep in discussion of tannins, weather, and harvest years.

Pieck moved along the outer wall.

She analyzed potential spots. Corners. Acoustics. A beam recessed just enough to conceal a device without dampening transmission.

There.

She reached between two older bottles, stretching just enough to hide the angle of her wrist. The bug pressed into place with a soft, decisive click.

In that moment, Baumeister appeared at her side, reaching past her shoulder to retrieve the very bottle she had shielded.

"A true sommelier, indeed. You have excellent taste," he said approvingly. "One of my best. I have been saving it for the right occasion."

He cradled the bottle like a baby.

"I believe tonight qualifies."

Pieck met his smile, unflinching.

As they returned upstairs, the ballroom seemed louder, especially after the hush of stone and glass.

Jean, assuming his role, accepted the bottle from Baumeister with a respectful nod and disappeared toward the bar. When he returned, he carried it open, glasses arranged neatly on a tray.

Baumeister gathered his circle once more.

Ro took one of the glasses and lifted it slightly, waiting until the quiet held.

"To generosity," he said. "And to excellent taste."

Crystal chimed.

The tall man leaned toward Kenny and whispered something too low to catch. Jean stood close enough to see the movement. He did not look at them again as he drifted toward the entrance. 

Baumeister turned to his group, loosened by wine and flattery. "Shall we continue somewhere more private? Mr. Calvi always enjoys the study. And Kenny, I suspect you would not object to another pour downstairs."

Kenny's eyes lifted at last. "You said it best earlier, Bruno. The night is young," he said evenly. "Sea breeze like this should not be wasted indoors. Let's walk the grounds."

Surprise flickered across Baumeister's face, then smoothed away.

"As you wish." 

Just like that, the energy was sucked from the room. 

Pieck felt it first. The careful architecture of the night collapsing. The study. The cellar. The controlled acoustics. Every calculated angle became useless in a single casual redirection.

"Thank you again for your kind words," Baumeister said, turning to Pieck and Ro. "You must stay longer next time. We barely touched the surface of conversation."

Pieck's smile did not falter, though her pulse was racing. 

"It would be our pleasure."

Ro inclined his head. "An unforgettable evening." 

The sound in their ears crackled back to life.

"We're set up down the road," Armin said, breathless. "Amazing work, ATLAS. I was watching the feed. Fourth bug is live."

Armin paused.

"Why are they heading to the exit?"

Annie exhaled softly. "All that work."

The doors opened, and night entered. The group began to step outside.

They watched Baumeister and his companions exchange hearty laughs while the gravel crunched beneath their polished shoes. The nervous server from earlier hurried forward, placing old man Calvi's walking stick into his waiting hand. The silver handle caught the moonlight as they disappeared along the path.

Pieck held her composure like armor. Ro looked at her with empathetic silence as the front doors swung closed behind the departing group.

Then Armin's voice sharpened.

"Hold on. What? I'm getting a fifth reading."

Silence stretched thin.

"Jesus christ. Don't tell me one of you managed to plant a back-up on them."

Jean reappeared at Pieck's side as if summoned, topping off their glasses with the last of the red.

"Some canes," he murmured, barely moving his lips, "have detachable heads."

He flashed a wicked smile.

Pieck's composure fractured into something brighter. Controlled, but electric. She lifted her glass again without looking at him.

Ro shook his head, slow with a subtle sign of respect.

In his ear, Annie's voice returned. "Quality isn't perfect. But it's usable. Reconvene at the hotel in two hours."

They hadn't lost. 

Inside the silver head of that walking stick, they had ears. And those ears might provide the next clue that reveals another cog in Assembly's machine. 

Through the windows, Ro watched the last of Baumeister's inner circle disappear beyond the hedges. 

He hadn't realized until now how tightly his body had been braced. Ro took in a deep breath and exhaled.

Jean drifted past once more, clearing empty glasses from a tray, his mouth curved just enough to acknowledge the shared victory. Across the room, near one of the marble columns, Reiner lifted his gaze and gave a nod of approval.

Even Pieck finally allowed herself the smallest change in posture. 

Ro leaned slightly closer her. "We did it. Our horse came through at the end."

She answered without turning her head. "Don't remind me."

Outside, headlights curved up the drive. The limo rolled to a stop.

Ro moved first, pulling the doors open himself, before stepping aside and offering his hand. 

Pieck took it. 

At the bottom step, Ro shifted his hand behind her, guiding her toward the open car door the driver held waiting. Pieck ducked slightly and slid into the seat. He followed her inside, and the door shut firmly behind him.

When the gates began to shrink in the rear window, Pieck leaned her head against his shoulder, and he adjusted slightly to support her.

Chapter Text

Pieck and Ro entered the room, and the door closed behind them. 

Jean had taken the armchair closest to the bed, legs stretched out and boots crossed at the ankles. Annie sat on the edge of the desk with her arms folded. Armin hovered beside the television with a laptop balanced in one hand, while Reiner leaned against the wall near the window. Mikasa stood near the door, silent.

Jean looked up from where he had been examining the ceiling.

"Well, here we all are," he said.

No one answered.

Jean slowly turned his head, his gaze drifting between Pieck and Ro.

"So," he continued, "how far did the two of you go to stay in character?"

Ro paused halfway into the room.

Jean gestured lazily toward the bed.

"Because if you needed to christen it for operational integrity, I would have understood."

Pieck walked past him without acknowledging the comment and pulled a chair closer to the table.

Jean nodded. "Ah. Silence. The most convincing answer."

"Focus," Annie said flatly.

"I am focused." Jean clarified. "On the very obvious tension between those two."

Reiner cleared his throat. "We should discuss the mission."

Jean sighed. "Germans. Always the fun police."

Pieck sat down and pulled her hair into a low ponytail. 

"Let's start with the complication. What happened at the van?"

Armin rubbed the back of his neck.

"Someone tried to break in," he said. "A kid. Late teens, maybe. Probably looking to steal something."

Ro straightened slightly. "Assembly?"

Armin shook his head. "No. Just bad timing."

He glanced briefly toward the door where Mikasa stood.

"He didn't get very far."

Jean followed the look and exhaled through his nose. "Quelle malchance."

Armin nodded and leaned forward. "We still succeeded thanks to everyone's improvisation. The audio feed isn't perfect, but we did receive transmission from the cane device."

Jean bowed like a man accepting applause.

Reiner remained near the window, arms crossed.

"There was something else," he said. "When I was moving through the lower hall, I overheard two security personnel talking. They mentioned another assassination."

Armin's brows pulled together. "Where?"

"Washington," Reiner said. "They said a senator was strangled in his car, and the killer left a message stapled to his forehead. 'Traitor' if I remember correctly."

Jean blinked. "Ok. That's a bit much."

Pieck shook her head slowly. "That timing can't be coincidence. They're escalating."

"Could be another random radical," Annie said. "Someone who got swept up in Assembly forums the same way Tybur's shooter did."

Ro spoke from across the room.

"Not likely."

Everyone looked at him.

Ro leaned against the dresser. 

"I saw it on my phone on the way here. Assembly released a video after the death was confirmed. Financial corruption. Sexual misconduct. Insider trading. It covered Senator Roderich's entire history."

Pieck exhaled quietly. "So they're curating targets now."

Armin nodded. "Assassination paired with character assassination. It's very smart."

"Narrative control," Reiner said. "And considering what I heard the guards say, the public is rallying around Assembly again."

Jean rubbed his face. "Well then maybe that senator is better off six feet under." 

Annie made a face. "To play judge, jury, and executioner is a slippery slope, Jean."

Pieck folded her hands together again. 

"It's only a matter of time until Assembly does something that allows for complete government overreach. No more covert options or close hits. Some nations will end up bombing a subdivision if it means killing just two Assembly members. There will be civilian mass casualties like never before seen."

She paused, drawing in a steady breath before continuing.

"We aren't doing this for some perverted senator. That guy can fucking rot for all I care. But I won't let innocents enter the crossfire."

Jean didn't argue this time.

Ro looked at Pieck as she finished. She had answered diplomatically, but something in her eyes suggested her words weren't drawn from theory alone.

After a moment, he shifted the room back on course.

"We still have the recording," Ro said. "Let's see if what we captured tonight gives us anything useful."

Armin connected his laptop to the television. The screen flickered, static appearing briefly before resolving into a waveform.

"The cane mic picked them up intermittently," he explained. "Signal quality drops when the cane moves."

Jean leaned forward slightly as Armin tapped a key. The recording crackled. Footsteps. Gravel. Wind.

Then fragments of voices. 

"..."

"...beautiful night..." 

"...watching you..."

"...national..."

A dull thud.

"... it should be brief..."

Another shift in audio.

"...very foggy..."

A pause.

"...three hundred million..."

The audio continued.

"...keep them happy..."

"...family first..."

"...able to kill..."

"...a pella..."

"...don't wrinkle it..."

The recording dissolved back into wind and footsteps.

Armin stopped the playback. Silence filled the room.

Jean took a deep breath and exhaled. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, man."

"That's all we have," Armin said.

Reiner rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Three hundred million could refer to funding."

"Or leverage," Pieck added.

Jean gestured toward the screen. "A pella? And 'don't wrinkle it' is what? Financial advice?"

"They must have been discussing something physical," Ro guessed. "Fragile."

Pieck looked up. "Did we have cameras outside the estate?"

"No," Armin explained. "The forum cut the exterior feed once Baumeister's group left the main hall."

Pieck closed her eyes. "So we have no visual confirmation of what happened during that conversation?"

Armin shook his head. 

For a moment, no one spoke.

"I followed them," Mikasa said quietly.

Several heads turned.

"I heard Armin say the host and his friends were heading outside. So I followed," Mikasa explained. "Moved through the trees along the edge of the property and stayed outside earshot. At the end of their conversation, one of the men was looking at a paper."

She held up three fingers.

"Trifold."

Pieck leaned forward slightly. "Who had it?"

"Not Baumeister. The leathery looking one. He was wearing a hat."

"Kenny," Pieck said with disgust.

Ro looked toward Armin. "Do we have interior camera recordings?"

"Absolutely," Armin responded before switching to a feed of the main hall. 

Ro crossed the room and pointed toward the screen.

"There was another man with them."

Armin squinted. "The tall one."

"They never said his name," Ro said. "But he's important. The way he moved. The way he directed the conversation."

Jean tilted his head. "You think he's the real player?"

Ro nodded.

"We can send still images to Zeke," Pieck added. "He has access to the full guest list and can cross-reference."

"On it," Armin replied, pressing various keys on the laptop.

The room eased slightly after that.

Jean stretched his arms above his head. "You're all welcome by the way."

Reiner looked at him. "For what?"

Jean stared at him. "For saving the operation?"

Reiner gave him a thumbs up. "Of course. You did very well."

Jean sighed, then waved the compliment away. He stood and rolled his shoulders. 

"But now I am exhausted."

Annie glanced at him. "You act like you ran a marathon."

"Emotional labor, not physical," Jean said, turning toward the door. "Which brings me to my next proposal. Let's take the day off tomorrow.

Pieck raised an eyebrow.

Jean pointed toward himself proudly. "I live in this country, remember? My house is in Langon. Three hours from here."

He spread his arms.

"You should all come! It's great space. Big enough for all of us. Scenic views. And..."

His voice softened a degree. 

"And I miss my wife."

Everyone in the room paused, as if attempting to confirm what had been said.

Jean crossed his arms. "Yes. My wife. The real deal. Not whatever fake marital experiment RASTRO and ATLAS have going on." 

Ro smiled slightly.

Annie repositioned, "I don't care about scenic views, but I could use a break." 

The rest of them looked at Pieck for approval.

She considered it for a moment, then nodded.

"Sure. It'll give us some time to dissect the voice recording more and wait for Zeke's intel."

Armin shut his laptop. "Then tomorrow we rest."

They all stood, and one by one they filtered toward the door.

Jean waited until almost everyone had left. He turned back toward Ro and Pieck. He looked at the bed. Then at them. Then back at the bed.

"Just one more suggestion," he said thoughtfully.

Ro sighed.

Jean pointed at them both. "Condoms."

Pieck threw a pillow at his head.

Jean ducked easily and disappeared into the hallway laughing.

The door shut, and the room finally went quiet. 

Pieck crossed the room first and removed the hair band from her low ponytail, her hair falling loose over her shoulders. She moved through the small rituals of the night. Earrings placed neatly on the table. The zipper of her dress sliding down her back. The soft rustle of fabric as she changed into something looser behind a closed door.

Ro stayed where he was, leaning against the dresser. 

A moment later, Pieck stepped back into the room.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Pieck said, 

The words came quickly. Too quickly.

Ro watched her for a moment longer.

Pieck slid beneath the covers and pulled the blanket high over her shoulder. She turned onto her side, facing the wall, leaving him with only the back of her head and a few dark strands of hair spilling across the pillow.

The room settled into quiet again.

Ro changed quickly out of the tuxedo, leaving the jacket folded over the chair before pulling on something more comfortable.

He moved to the floor beside the bed, spreading the folded blanket he had claimed the night before. He lowered himself down slowly, resting back against the side of the mattress.

For a while he said nothing.

Then he spoke into the dim room.

"I know we aren't supposed to talk about our real lives," he said. "It's protocol."

He let out a quiet breath.

"But agencies have no idea what it's like to be out here. It doesn't make sense to them. I've seen it first hand."

Ro stared up at the ceiling.

"If you ever want to talk about something," he said. "Anything. I'll listen."

The blanket shifted slightly. Pieck didn't turn around. She didn't speak.

But after a moment, she gave the smallest nod.

"—I'm telling you someone from this place did it!" the young man shouted in French. 

He couldn't have been older than nineteen. Thin. A cheap jacket hung loose over his shoulders, and his hair stuck up unevenly in the back.

"You think we have time to jump random kids in a parking lot?" one of the guards said.

The teenager pointed down the road. "Just over there! I wake up in the bushes with my head pounding and no wallet. You people think that's normal?"

The other guard folded his arms. "Maybe someone didn't like your face."

"Well if it wasn't you," the teenager shot back, pointing toward the estate gates, "then it was someone who was here last night. Aren't you guys responsible for your guests? I demand compensation."

The first guard let out a short laugh.

"Listen, kid," he said, stepping forward. "The people that are invited here don't show up in vans and rob délinquants. Now, I seriously need you to walk away before I actually beat the shit out of you."

The teenager opened his mouth to argue again—

—and was interrupted by a dark sedan that pulled up beside him.

The engine idled for a moment.

Then the driver's door opened.

Floch stepped out.

He wore a light jacket and sunglasses despite the early hour, reddish-brown hair brushing forward over his forehead as he scanned the scene.

"Bonjour messieurs," he greeted. "What's going on here?"

One of the guards turned. "Private property, sir. Just a minor issue."

Floch walked closer, glancing between them.

The teenager jabbed a finger toward the estate.

"They need to pay me," he said angrily. "Last night I got jumped near here. Knocked out cold."

Floch's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

He took a step closer to the boy, eyeing his clothes.

"Knocked out while minding your business?"

The teenager hesitated. "Yeah. Well..." he admitted. "Not exactly."

Floch waited until the teenager broke.

"I was trying to make some quick money," the kid said finally. "There was this van parked out by the road."

One of the guards groaned.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

The teenager ignored him.

"I figured maybe there was something inside," he continued. "So I tried the handle."

Floch tilted his head. "And then?"

The teenager rubbed the side of his neck again.

"And then I'm waking up the covered in leaves and shit," he said. "Like someone knocked me out and dragged me off to the side."

He frowned suddenly.

"Actually... there was something else."

The kid squinted toward the road like he was trying to force the memory back.

"I remember lying on the ground just as I was fading," he said slowly. "I could see something. A door opening? But then—"

He rubbed his temples.

"Forget it. It doesn't make any sense."

The guards exchanged a glance.

The teenager looked back at Floch.

"And I don't know who the fuck you are. Why are you even asking me any of this?"

Floch reached into his pocket and pulled out a small fold of cash. He pressed it into the boy's hand.

"Does it matter?" Floch asked.

The kid looked down at the bills.

Floch lowered his sunglasses slightly and studied him.

"Now," he said calmly, "tell me everything you remember about that van."

A faint smile crept into the corner of his mouth.

"Start from the beginning."

Chapter Text

The front doors of the château swung open and Jean stepped through them first.

“Welcome,” he said, spreading his arms as if unveiling a masterpiece.

The entry hall rose two stories above them, the ceiling supported by thick oak beams darkened with age. Sunlight spilled through tall windows at the far end of the room, catching the polished stone floor and the long staircase that curved upward along the wall.

Pieck stepped inside slowly, her eyes moving across the room with quiet interest.

Armin turned in a slow circle.

“This is a house?”

Jean scoffed. “It’s a château.”

Reiner followed the others in and glanced toward the high ceiling, then toward the wide hallways stretching off in both directions.

“How,” he asked carefully, “did you afford this?”

Jean frowned. “Did you even read my file?”

Reiner shrugged.

Mikasa answered from the back of the group.

“He’s a thief.”

Armin blinked. “What could you have possibly stolen to afford a château in the Gironde region?”

Jean grinned.

“That,” he said proudly, “is a very long story.”

A bell rang somewhere deeper in the house. The sound echoed faintly through the hall. Jean’s head snapped toward the doorway.

“Oh!”

He hurried across the room and pulled the front door open.

“Perfect timing!”

Two people stood outside holding several large bags of takeout containers.

“I come bearing gifts!” the man announced triumphantly, lifting one of the bags.

Beside him, a young woman shifted the containers in her arms and smiled.

Jean laughed and pulled them both into a quick embrace.

“You two actually made it.”

The man handed the bags inside.

“From your favorite place,” he said proudly.

The woman moved past them and set the containers on the table near the entryway.

“I hope everyone’s hungry,” she said cheerfully. “There’s a lot.”

Jean turned toward the rest of the group.

“Oh, right. I guess introductions are overdue.”

He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“This one here is Connie,” Jean said.

Connie gave a relaxed wave.

Jean then gestured toward the woman.

“And this one we call Sasha.”

She lifted one of the containers slightly with a grin.

“I helped pick everything out,” she said. “So if it’s good, you can thank me.”

Jean draped his arm across both of their shoulders. Then he glanced behind them.

“…Wait.”

His usual smugness had disappeared. “Where is she?”

Connie sighed. “Relax.”

Sasha glanced over her shoulder toward the drive. “She was just behind—”

The door opened again.

A woman stepped inside carrying another small bag.

Curly brown hair framed her face, and clear framed glasses sat lightly on her nose. Freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose like faint brushstrokes of sunlight.

Jean froze.

“May.”

She barely had time to smile before Jean crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the floor.

May laughed as he spun her in a circle, kissing her cheek, her temple, her forehead.

“Hi Jean,” she said through a giggle.

“I've missed you,” Jean said immediately.

He set her down but didn’t let go.

Ro glanced sideways and saw Pieck standing near the staircase, observing the moment with a soft expression.

May finally noticed the others standing in the hall.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Jean straightened slightly but kept one arm around her shoulders.

“Everyone,” he said proudly, “this is my wife, May."

He turned back toward her.

“And these are the friends I told you about.”

May adjusted her glasses shyly.

“Jean said he was bringing people,” she explained, “So Connie, Sasha, and I stopped by Le Homard to grab some food.”

Connie nudged Sasha with his elbow.

“Her chef boyfriend was kind enough to give it to us free of charge.”

Jean’s eyes widened at Sasha.

“You and Niccolo are finally—”

“Please,” Sasha groaned. “More eating. Less talking.”

She grabbed one of the containers and started toward the dining room.

Jean smiled and clapped his hands once before gesturing toward the long dining table accompanying the adjoining room. 

“Yes. Let's eat.” 

They all gathered around it, the containers Sasha had brought spreading quickly across its surface.

Plates were passed down the line as lids were lifted one by one, steam curling upward with the smell of butter and garlic. Someone found a stack of clean glasses in a cabinet along the wall while Jean disappeared briefly and returned with two bottles of wine.

“This,” Sasha said proudly as she opened one of the containers, “is the lobster pasta.”

Connie leaned forward, inspecting it like a professional critic.

“Oh yeah. That’s the one.”

Jean poured the wine and slid a glass toward Ro before taking the seat beside May.

“Eat,” he said, gesturing toward the table like a host unveiling a feast. “Before Sasha decides to claim it all for herself.”

Sasha gasped.

“That happened like one time.”

“Three,” Connie corrected.

“Two and a half.”

Laughter moved around the table as plates began to fill.

Armin asked May a few questions about the history of the place, curious about how long the estate had been producing wine. Reiner glanced out toward the windows where the rows of vines stretched beyond the courtyard. Even Mikasa relaxed slightly in her chair, quietly listening to the chatter.

For a few minutes the conversation stayed light. Then Connie leaned back slightly and glanced between Ro and Pieck.

“So how’d the operation go?”

Several people paused mid-bite.

Annie looked up slowly. 

“The operation,” she repeated.

Connie froze mid-bite. “…Was that supposed to be a secret?”

Jean waved a hand dismissively. “No, don’t worry about it.”

Sasha swallowed quickly. “We didn’t hear anything important.”

Annie turned her head toward Jean, one eyebrow lifting.

“You told them.”

Jean didn’t even hesitate. “They’re practically family.”

“That’s not how classified information works.”

Connie raised both hands defensively. “In fairness, most of it was very confusing.”

“And we mostly just listened,” Sasha added.

Jean nodded toward Annie like the matter had been thoroughly resolved.

“See? Responsible civilians.”

Annie sighed and picked up her fork again.

“I’m choosing not to think about this.”

Jean looked pleased with that outcome and leaned toward May to say something quietly between bites. 

Sasha began enthusiastically explaining which dishes she had insisted on ordering, while Connie tried to argue that guns with silencers cause more commotion than guns without. Reiner agreed.

Then, several phones buzzed. Ro glanced down. One notification from Zeke Ksaver.

Across the table, Armin had already opened it, eyes moving quickly across the screen.

“What is it?” Reiner asked.

Armin looked up.

“Zeke ran the guest list again.”

“And?” Jean said.

Armin frowned slightly as he read the rest.

“The tall man from last night isn’t on it.”

The table went quiet.

Ro looked down at his own phone, reading the message for himself. 

ZEKE:
No match on the guest registry. Not staff either. Whoever that man was, he was never cleared to be there.

Ro leaned back slightly in his chair.

“When I was outside the study window,” Ro said, “Baumeister was already inside showing the room to someone. A woman, from what I could hear.” 

Armin immediately looked up.

“That’s not right.”

Ro glanced at him.

“I watched the interior feed from the hallway cameras,” Armin said. “Baumeister was with the tall man when they almost discovered you.”

The table sat with that for a moment. Ro turned back toward Jean.

“When you overheard the tall man talking with Kenny,” he asked, “what did you say his voice sounded like?”

Jean thought for a moment.

“…Strained.”

“How strained?”

“Like he was sick,” Jean said. “Or something like that.”

Ro gestured slightly with his hand.

“Or like someone forcing their voice lower.”

Pieck set her fork down.

“You think the tall man,” she said slowly, “was a tall woman.”

Jean blinked.

“Well,” he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair, “if that was a disguise, it was a damn good one.”

Reiner nodded. “We only see disguises like that in our line of work.”

Connie leaned forward.

“So what, they're some kind of spy?”

“Possibly,” Pieck said.

She pulled out her phone and began typing. Ro looked toward her.

“Tell Zeke something else.”

Pieck paused. “What?”

“If we’re right about this,” Ro said, “we need to bring in a specialist. Someone who’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”

“Who?” Armin asked.

“Hitch Dreyse. A surveillance analyst I've partnered with before back in Washington,” Ro said. “She works on the books for the NID. Probably the best tracker the agency has ever had.”

Pieck added the name to the message and hit send.

“She'll have to work around classified information,” she stated. 

Ro nodded. “She won't mind. Hitch has put up with worse.”

Connie leaned forward across the table, eyes bright with interest.

“You know,” he said, pointing between Ro and Pieck, “if you ever need another member for this secret spy club of yours, I’m available.”

Jean snorted into his glass.

“Says the man who immediately revealed he was provided sensitive information.”

Connie waved that away.

“I’m saying if things get serious, I can drop in at a moment’s notice.”

Reiner chuckled quietly.

Sasha nudged Connie with her elbow.

“You wouldn’t survive a day doing what they do.”

“Please,” Connie said, puffing up slightly. “They were able to convert Jean of all people. How hard could it be.”

“Hey!” Jean protested.

Connie stretched his arms over his head.

“I will admit,” he said, standing. “This has been extremely educational.”

Sasha gathered a few containers as she rose.

“And delicious.”

She turned to Jean and pulled him into a quick hug.

“You better visit soon.”

“Drive safe,” Jean said.

Connie shook a few hands around the table before clapping Ro on the shoulder.

“Seriously. If you ever need backup,” he said seriously, “tell that horse looking guy to shoot me a message.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ro smiled.

A few minutes later, the front doors closed behind them, and the group thinned quickly after that.

Armin stood and glanced toward Annie.

“There’s a museum in town,” he said. “Something about regional history.”

Annie looked at him for a moment.

“That does sounds interesting.”

They both stood, and several pairs of eyes around the table followed the exchange.

Jean angled his head.

Reiner tried very hard not to smile.

Annie noticed the attention and narrowed her eyes.

“Is there some sort of problem?”

“Not at all,” Reiner said quickly.

Armin cleared his throat and grabbed his jacket.

“We’ll be back later.”

They disappeared toward the front hall.

Reiner pushed his chair back next.

“I am going to check out the local market,” he said. “If we are staying here for the day, I might as well see the town.”

Ro nodded. “Bring back something good.”

“I shall try my best.”

By the time Reiner stepped out the door, Mikasa had disappeared as well, to God knows where.

“And now. Where were we," Jean said as he pulled May into another affectionate kiss.

May laughed softly before glancing apologetically toward Ro and Pieck.

“I’m sorry about him,” she said shyly. “He's always like this.”

Jean didn’t even try to deny it.

Pieck offered a subtle smile.

“This really is a lovely château, May. I imagine a place this big has a lot of bells and whistles. Do you happen to have a gym here as well?” she asked.

May’s face brightened instantly.

“Oh! Yes.”

She pointed toward a spiral staircase at the far end of the room.

“It’s downstairs.”

Pieck pushed her chair back and stood.

“Ro,” she said, glancing toward him, “care to join me?”

Ro bowed his head as he stood and followed her toward the staircase. They descended the narrow spiral steps, the stone walls growing cooler as they moved deeper into the basement.

When they reached the bottom, Pieck stopped.

“Gym,” she repeated.

Ro glanced around. “That’s one word for it.”

The basement was enormous.

A long lap pool stretched along one wall, the water still and reflective beneath soft overhead lights. Beyond it sat a sauna room with glass doors, racks of free weights, benches, and several pieces of training equipment arranged neatly along the stone floor.

But what caught Pieck’s attention was the open space near the center of the room.

Tatami mats covered the floor there.

She stepped closer.

“What are those for?”

“Judo,” Ro said.

Pieck turned toward him.

“You know judo?”

Ro nodded.

Pieck pulled her hoodie over her head and set it on a nearby bench, then slipped off her sweats. Underneath she wore a black sports bra and compression shorts.

She rolled her shoulders once as if testing the movement.

“Show me.”

Ro reached behind his neck and dragged his shirt over his head, revealing the same broad chest, chiseled abs, and large scar Pieck had seen over the past few days. Curiously, there was a tattoo on his back she hadn’t noticed before, a winged insect at the top of his spine with words in Greek beneath it.

Ro stepped onto the tatami, barefoot on the mats, and he stretched his arms back over his head, arching slightly. He turned back toward Pieck and tightened the drawstring of his loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. 

Pieck’s eyes flicked downward at his hands, then lower for just a second, catching a massive outline beneath the fabric, briefly visible.

She made a quick, involuntary sound.

Ro looked up immediately.

“What?”

Pieck blinked once and straightened.

“Nothing.”

A beat passed. Then she stepped onto the mat.

“So,” she said, “now what.”

Ro studied her for a moment, then stepped in. He reached for her wrist, guiding it into place.

“First thing is balance.”

His other hand came to her waist, firm and steady, nudging her a few inches.

“Your weight’s too far back.”

Pieck adjusted as he moved her, eyes lifting to his.

“Like this?”

“Not quite.”

He stepped close enough that his chest nearly brushed hers, and his hand slid along her hip to square her stance.

“Here.”

She nodded and then exhaled slowly.

“I also wanted to say thank you. For what you said last night,” she said.

Ro glanced at her, still adjusting her grip.

“Oh. No problem.”

“It’s just…” she continued, shifting her footing as instructed, “Sometimes I forget why I'm doing what I'm doing. I’ve spent most of my career planning from the sidelines.”

Ro repositioned her elbow, guiding it inward.

“It’s different being in the field.”

“How so?” he asked.

“I'm not exactly sure,” she responded. “Maybe it just feels like I’m trying to catch up to everyone else.”

Pieck moved her elbows again and sighed. “Being out there with you, Jean, and Reiner really put it into perspective.”

Ro didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped back half a pace and gestured.

“Try to move me.”

Pieck raised an eyebrow but stepped in.

Her hands found his shoulders first, then his arms. She pushed.

He didn’t move.

“You’re using your arms,” he said.

“Then what should I use?”

He stepped in again, closer this time.

“Everything else.”

His hand returned to her waist, pulling her slightly off-center. His leg slid behind hers, demonstrating the motion slowly.

“You take the balance first,” he said, voice lower with the proximity. “Then you move.”

Pieck followed the motion.

Their bodies brushed.

She adjusted, then tried again.

“You know,” she said between movements, “I wasn’t even supposed to be on this team.”

Ro caught her wrist mid-push and redirected her weight.

“Yeah?”

“Zeke wanted someone else.”

She stepped in again, closer, more confident now.

“A friend of mine. Porco.”

Ro turned with her, resetting her stance with a hand at her hip.

“Porco,” he repeated. “How long have you two been friends?”

Pieck’s mouth tilted faintly.

“Well. It has been a complicated relationship.”

Ro caught the nuance in her tone, the kind that suggested more than she was saying.

“So Zeke changed his mind?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she moved again and hooked her leg the way he showed her, testing the timing.

“Porco refused,” she said.

Ro shifted with her, letting her feel the motion.

“Said I was better suited.”

He exhaled quietly.

“Huh.”

He reset her again, hands firm at her waist, their bodies nearly aligned.

“I had my doubts concerning your capabilities,” he admitted.

Pieck looked up at him.

“Oh?”

“I figured you were just another analyst who got tired of being behind a desk. The kind of person who steps into something they can’t quite handle.”

A small pause.

“But I can admit when I’m wrong.”

Something in her expression changed.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

She stepped in.

Hooked. Turned.

And Ro hit the mat.

A solid impact.

Pieck followed through and planted both knees on either side of him, settling her weight with slow, deliberate pressure.

She stilled for a second.

Then smiled.

“I like a man who knows when he’s defeated.”

Ro looked up at her. There was a flicker in his eyes.

He could have moved, but he didn’t.

Pieck tightened around his hips as her hands pressed against his bare chest to keep him pinned. The contact lingered, her fingertips registering his quickening heartbeat directly against her palm.

“Can you say it again for me?” she asked, quieter now, voice husky at the edges.

She could feel something harden underneath her, pressing up between her thighs and making her grip tighten involuntarily, nails leaving impressions on his skin.

Ro held her gaze, pupils dilating in the dim light.

“I was wrong.”

The words landed heavier this time, vibrating between them.

Pieck inhaled slowly, her body quivering as tension coiled where their bodies met.

Then she leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed against his skin, warm and sweet.

Her eyes dipped for a fraction of a second to his mouth before lifting again, dark with want.

“Good bo—”

“—Oh, there you are!”

Jean’s voice cut clean through the moment.

Pieck pulled back immediately.

Ro’s gaze snapped toward the staircase.

Jean descended a few steps into the basement, phone in hand, already mid-motion.

“I’ve got Armin on the line,” he said, tapping the screen. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Armin’s voice came through faintly over speaker.

“Ro? Pieck? Can you hear me?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Ro said, pushing himself up to his feet.

Pieck stood a second later, adjusting her posture, her expression already neutral again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just got a motion alert,” Armin said. “From the camera I left in the van.”

Ro’s attention sharpened.

“In Biarritz?”

“Yes,” Armin replied. “I’m sending you the clip now.”

Jean angled the phone between them.

“Watch.”

The video began to play.

A grainy feed from inside the van.

A figure stepped into frame, masked, moving quickly and methodically.

He tore through the interior, checking compartments, lifting panels, searching with purpose.

“There’s nothing there,” Jean muttered.

“Of course there isn’t,” Armin said. “I cleared it.”

The man kept searching anyway.

Then he stopped. His head tilted slightly.

Slowly, he turned toward the corner of the van. Toward the camera. He stood there for a second, and lifted his hand.

A peace sign.

Then the man folded the fingers down and raised his middle finger directly at the camera.

Ro’s jaw tightened and his shoulders tensed, briefly. 

The man stepped forward and reached out. The feed jolted and went dark.

Silence settled in the basement.

Jean lowered the phone slightly.

“Well,” he said. “That’s not ideal.”

“Someone’s on our tail,” Pieck said.

“Yes,” Armin replied. “And there’s more.”

A brief pause.

“The other four bugs we planted at Baumeister’s have all deactivated.”

Jean looked back at the phone.

“All of them?”

“At the same time,” Armin said. “They found them.”

Pieck crossed her arms.

“So they know we exist.”

Armin exhaled through the speaker.

“They’ll review everything from the forum,” he said. “Try to identify anyone out of place.”

“They won’t find anything,” Jean said, with a tinge of worry. “We were careful.”

“They might not,” Armin agreed. “But they’ll keep looking.”

Jean nodded slowly. “We’ve lost the element of surprise.”

Pieck glanced once more at the dark screen before lifting her gaze.

“It changes the pace,” she said.

A brief pause.

“Keep us updated,” she added.

“I will,” Armin said. “Stay sharp.”

The line clicked off.

Jean lowered the phone and looked between them.

“By the way,” he said casually, “was I interrupting something earlier?”

Ro walked past him, grabbing his jacket from the bench.

“Just some judo practice,” he said, slipping it on. “Pieck’s a quick learner.”

Jean’s mouth curved into a grin as he looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said. “I could tell.”

He waggled his eyebrows toward her.

“I had no idea there was a cowgirl position in judo. You learn something new everyday.”

Pieck rolled her eyes as she walked past him.

Jean laughed as he followed them back toward the stairs.

By the time night settled over the château, everyone had returned from their separate outings. The halls had quieted, doors closing one by one as the group retreated to their chambers. The distant hum of conversation faded, replaced by the soft creak of old wood and the occasional shift of pipes behind the walls.

Inside their room, Ro stood near the closet, pulling the door open. He reached inside and found another folded sheet, dragging it free with one hand.

Pieck watched him for a second.

“You can just sleep on the bed, you know.”

Ro glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s not a lot of space.”

“It’s fine,” she said, already turning down her side of the covers. “We’re both side sleepers anyway.”

A small pause.

“And I’m sure your back hurts from all the nights we’ve been together.”

Ro stilled for a second then placed the sheet back into the closet.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

He crossed to the other side of the bed and slid in, careful not to disturb her space more than necessary. They settled without speaking, back to back, facing opposite directions.

At first, there was distance. 

Pieck repositioned slightly, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. Her foot moved, brushing lightly against his calf.

Ro didn’t move.

She shifted again, the space between them closing inch by inch until her body settled flush with his, and her curves pressed lightly against his back.

Neither of them pulled away.

“Good night, Ro,” she said softly.

“Good night, Pieck.”

The room fell quiet again, though Ro remained restless, eyes open in the dark. He adjusted once, then again, the unfamiliar softness of the mattress doing little to settle him. Eventually, he pushed himself up carefully, moving slow enough not to disturb her.

He glanced back.

Pieck had not moved.

Her face was turned slightly into the pillow, hair loose, breathing slow and steady. Peaceful.

Ro held the look past the point of indifference, then stood and left the room.

Downstairs, the kitchen was dim, lit only by a single light above the counter. Ro crossed the space quietly, reaching for a glass. He filled it halfway, then leaned back against the counter and drank.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Ro looked up.

May stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame, the other holding an empty plate she had brought down from upstairs.

He nodded once.

“Something like that.”

She stepped inside, moving softly across the tile, and set the plate into the sink.

“Jean said you had quite the workout,” she said.

Ro closed his eyes and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Something like that too.”

May smiled faintly and leaned against the counter across from him.

“You know,” she said, “he talks about you like you’ve known each other for years.”

Ro lifted a brow.

“Does he?”

“All the time,” she said. “Three days, and suddenly you’re part of every text message and phone call.”

Ro looked down at the glass in his hand.

“That sounds like him.”

May watched him for a moment.

“He used to have a friend like that,” she said. “A really kind person who always brightened our lives. He died awhile back, and Jean wasn’t the same for years.”

She folded her arms loosely.

“Jean's better now. Mostly. It comes in waves.”

A small pause followed.

“Today,” she added, “watching the two of you, I don’t know.”

She smiled, mostly to herself.

“It reminded me of them.”

Ro didn’t respond.

“It’s funny,” she said. “The way people find each other.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” she implied. “You don’t always expect it. And it doesn’t always make sense.”

She pushed off the counter.

“But when it works, it just fits.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the staircase.

“Even when neither of them is willing to admit it.”

Ro blinked.

Her lips curved, gentle and knowing.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” she said, her expression both gentle and knowing. She paused at the doorway, then leaned back as if retreating.

“Good night!” she whispered.

He nodded in reply as she disappeared down the hall.

Ro finished the rest of the water and set the glass down before heading back upstairs. The room was exactly as he left it, quiet and still. Pieck had not moved much, though the blanket had lowered slightly, slipping from her shoulder.

He crossed the room and pulled it back over her carefully, adjusting it so it sat properly again.

He walked back to the closet and pulled the sheets out again, along with a pillow this time. He spread everything out on the floor with quiet precision and lowered himself down.

One arm tucked beneath his head.

Eyes open.

The space between the floor and the mattress felt smaller now, and heavier.

He stared into the dark for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing above him. At some point, without noticing when, his eyes closed, and sleep came.

Chapter Text

2010. Madrid.

“Introducing first! Fighting out of the Red corner!”

The voice rolled through the Bernabéu stadium like a second atmosphere. Sixty thousand people absorbed it and gave it back louder.

“Weighing in at two hundred and thirty one pounds—”

The noise swelled before the name even landed.

“—fighting out of Porto, Portugal—”

A section of the upper bowl erupted. Flags snapped open. Red and green catching the stadium light.

“With a professional record of twenty three wins. Zero losses. Nineteen knockouts—”

The announcer let the number hang.

“—ladies and gentlemen. Heitor. La Tormenta. Vael!”

The roar was enormous and immediate. Heitor emerged from the tunnel already moving, shoulders rolling, jaw set beneath the hood of his robe. He was twenty four years old and built like something that had never learned the word enough. His team moved around him in a tight formation, but the crowd only saw him. He climbed the steps and ducked through the ropes in one clean motion, turning immediately to face the opposite corner with flat, patient eyes.

The noise took its time settling.

“And introducing his opponent!”

It began again.

“Fighting out of the blue corner!”

A different sound rose from the crowd now. Deeper. More collective. The kind that came from recognition.

“Weighing in at two hundred and forty six pounds—”

Stomping began somewhere in the lower sections and spread upward through the stands like something catching fire.

“Fighting out of Arantza, Navarra, Spain—”

The stomping became deafening.

“Former undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World—”

The crowd screamed louder.

“With a professional record of fifty one wins. Eleven losses. Thirty eight knockouts—”

A pause the announcer had clearly learned to leave room for.

“—ladies and gentlemen. Izaro. El Oso Vasco. Urbasa!”

The stadium came apart.

He emerged slowly. No rush in his body. His robe was the deep red of Basque earth, hood pulled low, and he walked with the unhurried weight of a man who had made this walk so many times the arena felt like a room he owned. His hands were already wrapped. His face was still. He rolled his neck once to the left, once to the right, and climbed the steps without looking at the crowd losing its mind for him.

The noise held long after he had ducked through the ropes. It moved through the upper tiers in waves, section answering section, flags and scarves catching the stadium light. People who had watched this man carry the sport on their shoulders for the better part of a decade stood now without quite deciding to. Something about the sight of him still doing this, still here, still enormous and unhurried and impossibly himself, made sitting feel insufficient.

Near the ring, photographers jostled for position along the apron. A television camera swung wide to capture the full scale of the reception, the sea of faces, the flags, the light. Vendors had stopped moving through the aisles. A woman three sections over pressed both hands to her mouth.

The referee called both fighters to the center.

Heitor stood straight, chin level, eyes already doing their work. Izaro looked at a point somewhere past the younger man’s shoulder, expression unhurried. They touched gloves without ceremony and returned to their corners.

The bell rang.

Somewhere in the fourteenth row of the lower bowl, amid all of it, a boy sat with both feet flat on the ground.

His shoes were pressed together neatly beneath his seat. His hands were between his knees. Around him people rose and fell with the rhythm of the fight, voices peaking and dropping, elbows finding ribs, strangers briefly becoming the same person. He didn’t move with any of it.

His eyes were on the ring.

More specifically, on his father’s hands.

They always were.

Heitor came forward immediately. Not reckless but purposeful, covering ground with efficient steps, reading the older man’s weight distribution before committing to anything. He threw a testing jab. Then another. Izaro absorbed both behind his guard and circled left with surprising lightness for his size.

The crowd murmured approval.

Still fast. Not what he was. But still.

Heitor reset and came again. A combination this time, jab, cross, jab, the last one slipping through and catching Izaro high on the cheekbone. His head moved with it, rolling just enough to bleed the impact.

The boy’s hands tightened between his knees.

His father did not react.

He circled. He watched. He waited with the patience of something that had learned long ago that the first round belonged to the young.

By the fourth the pattern had established itself. Heitor was faster. Sharper. His combinations landed with a frequency that was beginning to show on Izaro’s face, a swelling beneath the left eye, a small cut reopened above the right brow that the corner closed between rounds. But Izaro moved through it with the same unhurried expression, absorbing, circling, waiting.

Three rows behind the boy and to the left, two men sat without speaking. Good jackets. Bad expressions. They watched the ring the way some people watch a movie that had been spoiled for them. Indifferent and slightly annoyed.

The boy had seen their faces before

Outside dressing rooms. Near exits. In the particular way they waited after the final bell, always patient, always apart from the celebration.

He looked back at the ring.

The seventh round opened like the previous three. Heitor pressing. Izaro absorbing. The crowd riding the rhythm of it, loud when Izaro held his ground, louder when Heitor landed clean.

Then it happened.

Heitor stepped in behind a jab and dropped his right hand by a fraction. Just a fraction. But that was enough for the former champion.

Izaro’s right hand came from somewhere low and ancient and it connected flush beneath Heitor’s jaw with a sound that cut clean through sixty thousand voices.

Heitor Vael went down.

Straight down. No stumble. The canvas received him with a loud thud, and he lay there looking up at the lights with the particular stillness of a man suffering from amnesia.

The Bernabéu detonated, and the boy was on his feet without knowing he had stood.

The referee rushed in, waving Izaro to a neutral corner, beginning his count over Heitor’s body. Seven seconds in, Heitor rolled. Eight, he found his knees. At nine, he was upright, gloves raised, eyes refocused.

The referee studied him and waved them on.

Three rows back, one of the men in the good jackets had leaned forward. His elbows were on his knees. His jaw was tight. The man beside him said something low and fast without moving his lips and the first man sat back slowly, straightening his jacket with two sharp tugs.

Izaro crossed the canvas toward Heitor and stopped.

He reset his stance and waited.

The boy watched.

Heitor found his footing over the next thirty seconds, the fog clearing by degrees. When he came forward again his eyes were sharp and his combinations arrived with renewed urgency, a man recalibrating after his first real taste of the canvas. Izaro absorbed them the way he had absorbed everything else. His corner worked the cut above his brow between rounds without comment.

The eleventh ended with Izaro against the ropes and the crowd on its feet.

The twelfth began the same way.

Heitor landed a combination that turned Izaro’s head fully to the side. Another that buckled his knees before they recovered. Heitor pressed, sensing it, youth and hunger converging at once.

Izaro covered. Absorbed. Waited.

But he didn’t go down.

When the final bell rang the sound was enormous. Both men stood. Heitor raised both arms immediately. Izaro lowered his gloves and looked toward the crowd for the first time since entering the ring.

The decision was unanimous.

Heitor Vael by points.

The arena acknowledged it with the particular sound of sixty thousand people recognizing something ending.

Izaro’s corner reached him first, pressing a towel to his brow. He waved them off gently and crossed to find Heitor. They met at the center and embraced briefly, foreheads almost touching.

Heitor said something, and Izaro nodded once, a genuine smile on his face. He patted Heitor on the shoulder, exited the ring, and motioned for his son to follow. 

The corridor beneath the stadium smelled like concrete and liniment. Strip lighting ran along the ceiling in uneven intervals, one flickering badly near the bend in the hallway. Izaro sat on a wooden bench outside the dressing room, towel across his shoulders, the cut above his brow already butterfly closed. He had changed into a plain white shirt and dark trousers. His hands rested on his thighs, still wrapped.

The boy sat beside him.

Neither spoke for a moment.

Izaro reached over without looking and pressed his wrapped hand briefly against the back of his son’s neck. A single motion. Then he withdrew it and looked at the wall across from them.

“You fought well,” the boy said.

Izaro glanced at him sideways.

“I lost.”

“But you didn’t fall.”

Something moved across his father’s face. There and gone. He turned back to the wall.

“Ro.”

The boy looked up at him.

Izaro kept his eyes forward. His jaw moved once before the words came.

“There is a school,” he said. “In the States close to where you were born. Very good school.” A pause. “You will go in September.”

Ro said nothing.

“You will live there. Study there.” Another pause. “It is already arranged.”

The flickering light at the bend stuttered twice and held.

Ro looked down at his father’s wrapped hands. At the knuckles sitting slightly wrong. At the thin red line visible through the butterfly closure above his brow.

He looked back at the corridor.

“Ok,” he said.

Izaro nodded once.

They sat there for a while longer without speaking. Down the hall voices drifted from the dressing room. Someone laughed. Water ran somewhere behind the walls.

Eventually Izaro stood.

He placed his hand on top of Ro’s head briefly, the weight of it familiar and enormous, and then he walked back toward the dressing room without looking back.

Ro stayed on the bench.

At the far end of the corridor, near the exit, two men in good jackets waited with their hands in their pockets.

He watched them until his father disappeared through the door.

Then he looked at the flickering light.

And he waited.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The mist sat low over the vineyard as both cars pulled out of the château’s gravel drive, tires cutting through the quiet of an April morning that hadn’t fully decided what it wanted to be yet. The fields stretched pale and green on either side of the road, rows disappearing into the fog at the edges where the light hadn’t reached.

In the sedan, Pieck, Ro, and Jean were silent.

Jean sat in the back with his elbow against the window and his chin in his hand, watching the countryside move past with the expression of a man who had been asked to leave something warm and hadn’t forgiven anyone for it yet. He exhaled through his nose. Loudly. For the third time in ten minutes.

Ro kept both hands on the wheel.

Pieck sat with her knees together and her bag in her lap, eyes on the road ahead. She hadn’t touched her espresso. It sat in the cupholder between them, cooling by degrees.

Jean exhaled again.

“Jean,” Pieck said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You keep breathing like that.”

“It’s called respiration,” Jean replied. “Forgive me.” 

Another wave of silence enveloped the vehicle. Jean shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable with the unusual quiet. His eyes eventually found the untouched latte. 

“Are you going to drink that?”

Pieck looked at the coffee cup.

“No.”

Jean reached forward and took it without further discussion.

The road curved and the mist thickened briefly before thinning again. A farmhouse appeared on a low hill to the right, its shutters still closed.

Pieck’s phone buzzed against her thigh. She glanced at it once before pressing the on the screen.

The sedan’s speakers crackled as a call connected, Zeke’s voice arriving mid breath as if he had been holding it since the yesterday.

“Both cars on?”

“I believe so,” Pieck said. "Armin?"

“We’re here,” Armin's replied. In the rearview mirror, Ro could see Reiner give his signature thumbs up from the SUV following closely behind. 

“Good.” A pause. “I’ll keep this brief because we’re moving fast on our end as well.” 

In the back seat, Jean straightened slightly, coffee still in hand.

Zeke’s voice settled. “Ro. You were right.”

Ro’s eyes stayed on the road.

“You're contact, Hitch, confirmed it,” Zeke continued. “The figure from the forum was wearing a disguise.”

Reiner's voice came through from the SUV, disappointed and immediate. 

“I should have known. They had very feminine hips.”

“Her name is Yelena Zadachin,” Zeke continued. “Goes by a few things in certain circles. The Torch. Fakel.”

Annie chimed in sardonically. “The Torch. How cute.”

“She’s well respected within her agency,” Zeke clarified. “Which is the part that complicates things.”

Pieck’s fingers pressed lightly against her bag. “Her agency. Russian intelligence, I'm assuming.”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence filled both cars simultaneously.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Pieck said. “The Russians supporting Assembly. We disproved that already.”

“I agree,” Zeke said. “It doesn’t support our intel.”

Armin’s voice came through from the SUV, measured and careful. 

“Unless Moscow is playing a longer game. They’re just as terrified of Assembly as everyone else. If they could get someone inside the inner circle, even peripherally, the intelligence value alone would justify the risk.”

“So she could be operating with Kremlin sanction,” Reiner said. “Just not on behalf of it.”

“Or,” Ro said.

The car stayed quiet.

“She’s not operating on behalf of the Kremlin at all.”

Jean turned his head toward Ro’s profile.

Ro’s thumb moved once against the steering wheel.

“Three hundred million,” he said. “Keep them happy.”

Pieck looked at him.

“Those fragments from the recording,” he continued. “We assumed it was about funding Assembly directly. But Kenny doesn't seem like the ignorant type. He knows Assembly will gladly continue to take his money and assassinate him later on.” A pause. “Funding them could be the cover. Maybe he’s trying to buy information about them. And Yelena is the one selling.”

The silence that followed was different from the one before it.

“Kenny Ackerman trying to purchase Russian intelligence on Assembly,” Armin said slowly, as if testing the weight of each word. “To find them before they find him.”

“It would explain her presence at the forum,” Mikasa said.

Everyone registered the fact that Mikasa had spoken without drawing attention to it.

“It would,” Pieck said. “Baumeister’s event was the perfect environment for that kind of transaction. Private. Internationally attended. Enough noise to cover a conversation that has no business happening.”

Jean jumped in. “So Kenny is terrified. And on top of what he's giving Assembly, he’s spending three hundred million to locate them before they decide he’s next on their kill list.”

“It's possible,” Annie added.

“We have people on Kenny,” Zeke said. “Watching his movements. If he starts traveling we’ll follow the thread.” Another pause. “As for Yelena, Hitch has been tracking her since last night. She’s been moving fast.”

“Where is she?” Pieck asked.

A beat.

“Madrid,” Zeke said.

Ro’s hands tightened on the wheel. Both of them. The leather compressing beneath his grip for just a second before he consciously eased the pressure. His eyes stayed on the road but something behind them had moved, shifted, settled somewhere private and unreachable.

Pieck noticed, but she didn’t say anything. Jean glanced at them both before returning his gaze to the window.

“Madrid,” Reiner repeated from the SUV. “That is a long drive.”

“You’re not driving,” Zeke said. “There’s a private charter out of Bordeaux-Mérignac. That's where I have you heading. Wheels up in three hours, so I need you moving fast.”

Jean groaned softly.

“What’s the approach when we find her?” Annie asked.

“A careful one,” Zeke said. “She’s Russian intelligence. Former or current, it doesn’t matter. You do not want to make an enemy of that agency on top of everything else.”

“So we catch her,” Jean said. “Politely.”

“You catch her alive,” Zeke said. “Whatever diplomatic fallout that follows is my problem. Just make sure there is something left to have a fallout over.”

“And if she runs?” Mikasa asked, almost eagerly.

A pause from Zeke’s end that lasted precisely long enough to be its own answer.

“Don’t let her,” he said.

The mist had begun to thin as the road widened ahead, the morning light finally committing to itself in long pale strips across the fields. Bordeaux was an hour away. Madrid was waiting beyond with its early spring air, and its wide boulevards.

Ro moved his thumb once more against the wheel and said nothing.

“That's all for now,” Zeke said. “Pieck. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Pieck looked out at the road.

“We always do.”

The line went quiet.

Jean picked the latte back up, found it cold, and drank it anyway.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The street outside the hotel was narrow enough that the buildings on either side left only a strip of sky above it, pale blue and cloudless. A bar two doors down had its shutters open but nobody inside yet. Somewhere further along, someone was frying something in oil and the smell drifted up through the stairwell window as Ro climbed past the first floor landing and stopped at the second.

He had checked the room first. The way he always did. Corners. Closet. Under the bed. The window latch. The vent above the bathroom door. When he was satisfied he had set his bag on the chair, unzipped it, and removed a gun and holster. He strapped it on without looking. The weight of it settled against his ribs as he pulled his jacket over and exited back into the stairwell.

Through the window, Madrid arranged itself in pieces. A rooftop cluttered with satellite dishes. Laundry strung between two windows across the way, shirts and sheets moving faintly in the air. A church spire at the end of the street catching the morning light at an angle that made the stone look almost gold.

Strange how a place could look like nothing had ever happened in it.

The door below him opened.

Pieck came around the turn of the stairwell and stopped when she saw him. She was already dressed for the street. Dark jacket. Hair down. Bag over one shoulder. She looked up at him and climbed the remaining steps to the landing.

Neither spoke for a moment.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said.

“About the operation?”

She held his gaze.

“No.”

Ro looked at her briefly then turned back to the window.

“I know things have been,” she started, then adjusted. “These past few days have been a lot. Being in close proximity. The cover.” She paused. “I just want to say that I feel really comfortable around you and—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.”

Pieck stopped.

Ro’s eyes stayed on the church spire at the end of the street.

“What happened between us makes sense given the circumstances,” he said. “Two people maintaining a cover. Close quarters. It’s not unusual for lines to feel like they’ve moved.” A pause. “They haven’t.”

The laundry shifted again. A blue shirt catching more wind than the rest.

“The kiss. The basement,” he continued, “Those are just normal responses to an abnormal situation. That’s all it is.”

Pieck was quiet for a long moment.

When she spoke her voice had found its footing again, smooth and even.

“Right,” she said.

She adjusted the strap of her bag.

“I just wanted to clear the air before we went out there.”

“It’s clear,” Ro said.

She nodded once and moved past him up the stairs. Her shoulder passed close. He didn’t turn.

Her footsteps climbed to the next floor.

A door opened. Closed.

Ro’s fingers found the windowsill and pressed into the painted stone. The church spire held its position at the end of the street, pale and patient and indifferent to everything below it.

He stayed until the sound of the team moving through the floors above him pulled him back. He straightened, adjusted his jacket, and took the stairs down.

They had decided to split into pairs and spread through Lavapiés. Dense enough neighborhood to lose someone in.

Ro and Jean traveled east along the Calle del Mesón de Paredes, keeping to the right side of the street where an awning threw shade across the pavement in a long uneven strip. The morning was warm enough that jackets felt like a decision rather than a necessity. Around them the neighborhood was waking up in stages, shopkeepers pulling back shutters, a woman hosing down the pavement outside a bakery, two old men already occupying chairs outside a café that had barely opened its doors.

Jean had acquired a sandwich somewhere between the hotel and the first corner.

Ro hadn’t seen him buy it.

“You want some?” Jean asked, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

Jean took an enormous bite and chewed with visible satisfaction, eyes moving across the street ahead with the same casual efficiency he brought to everything. His earpiece was invisible. His jacket was unremarkable. He looked like a man enjoying his breakfast in a city that suited him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jean said.

“About the operation?”

Jean glanced at him sideways.

“About you and ATLAS.”

Ro sighed. “So no one wants to talk about the operation, huh?”

Jean ignored him and took another bite.

“She was very quiet this morning,” he observed, mouth full.

“She’s always quiet in the morning.”

“Non.” Jean shook his head and swallowed. “There is her normal quiet and then there is a different quiet. This was the second kind.”

They crossed a narrow intersection, pausing briefly as a delivery truck ground through the turn ahead of them. An old woman watched them from a first floor window, arms folded on the sill.

“MUSTANG.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah. I know what you’re saying.”

Jean finished the last of the sandwich and folded the paper it came in with surprising neatness before dropping it into a bin as they passed.

“You know what I learned the hard way,” Jean said.

Ro glanced at him.

Jean kept his eyes on the street ahead. “There’s a difference between taking something and actually having it.” A pause. “Taking is easy. I’m very good at taking.” He shook his head once. “But having something. Letting yourself have it.” Another pause. “That’s the part that costs you.”

They turned onto a wider street. A market was setting up along one side, stalls coming together in various stages, canvas awnings being cranked open, crates of fruit and vegetables arranged with the particular pride of people who do it every morning. The smell of it reached them before the noise did. Fresh bread from somewhere nearby underneath everything else.

Jean’s eyes moved across the market without stopping on anything.

“She’s good for you,” he said, quieter now. “You can't tell me you don't see it.”

Ro watched a man arrange oranges into a careful pyramid at the nearest stall.

“She’s a colleague. This is a job.”

“Oui,” Jean said. “And tell me what law prohibits two consenting adults from engaging in some naked judo?” He closed his eyes. “Take it from me. You will never regret getting out of your own way.”

The orange pyramid reached its apex. The man stepped back and examined it with satisfaction.

“I’m not you,” Ro said.

“You're right,” Jean agreed easily. “I'm much better looking.”

Ro exhaled through his nose.

Jean smiled and looked away down the market, eyes resuming their quiet professional sweep of the street.

They walked in silence for a moment. Around them the market continued assembling itself, voices rising and falling in Spanish and at least two other languages Ro could identify without trying.

“For what it’s worth,” Jean said eventually, his voice carrying none of its usual performance. Just the words. “I think you already know what you want.”

Ro said nothing.

Jean nodded once as if the silence had confirmed something he suspected.

Armin’s voice arrived in both their ears, quiet and focused.

“I’ve got something. Northeast corner. There’s a woman who matches the description. Moving fast.”

Ro’s posture shifted.

Jean’s jaw set.

They turned northeast and moved without a word. The market opened around them as they went, stalls and bodies and noise, and somewhere inside all of it a woman was already deciding her next move.

She was good.

Yelena Zadachin moved through the market like someone who knows they’re being followed and has decided not to show it. She stopped once at a produce stall to examine something she had no intention of buying, her eyes doing their actual work behind the gesture. A cursory scan. Left to right. Then back to the vegetables in her hand.

She set them down and moved on.

Armin’s voice came through quietly.

“She made RASTRO and MUSTANG. Changing direction.”

Ro didn’t slow. He turned left at the next stall and disappeared into the crowd’s interior, putting bodies between himself and Yelena’s sightline without breaking stride.

Jean peeled right.

Yelena moved faster now. She cut between two stalls and emerged on the far side of the market where the crowd thinned and the street opened briefly before narrowing again.

She went into the middle of it and slowed, letting bodies close around her, using the mass of it as cover.

“She’s in the crowd on the western side,” Armin said. “Losing visual.”

Annie’s voice came through flat and immediate. “I have her.”

A beat.

“She’s going for the northern exit.”

Mikasa was already there.

She stood at the mouth of the northern street with her hands in her pockets, looking at nothing in particular. 

Yelena came out of the crowd’s northern edge and stopped. She looked at Mikasa for exactly one second.

Then she turned and went back into the crowd.

“She’s reversing,” Annie said.

“Eastern exit,” Armin said. “MUSTANG.”

“On it,” Jean said.

The crowd thinned at the eastern edge and deposited Yelena onto a quieter street running south. More space here. Less noise. 

The street behind her was empty.

She faced forward.

Ro was standing at the far end.

Yelena stopped.

She looked behind her. Then left. Then right. The buildings on either side were residential and closed, their doors shut, their windows returning morning light without interest.

A door stood open on her left. Old building. Former industrial something. The smell of old metal drifting out into the air.

She looked back at Ro, straightened her jacket, and stepped inside.

The door closed behind her and the market noise disappeared entirely, swallowed by walls thick enough to have been built for exactly that purpose. The depot opened around her as her eyes adjusted. High ceiling lost in shadow above. Iron pillars running the length of the space in two rows, their paint long surrendered to rust. Maintenance pits cut into the concrete floor at intervals, deep and lightless. High narrow windows along both walls let in strips of light that fell halfway down the stone before giving up. 

The rest of Wartime was already inside.

Yelena stopped in the center of the space and took it in. Her eyes moved across each face in turn. Armin near the far wall with a tablet. Annie beside him. Jean behind her now, his back against the closed door. Mikasa somewhere in the peripheral dark her eyes hadn’t adjusted to yet.

Then her gaze found Pieck.

It settled there a moment longer than the others.

Something moved between them. A recognition. Yelena filing something away behind her composed expression before letting her eyes move on.

Pieck held the center of the space. She stood with her hands loose at her sides and let Yelena finish her assessment before she spoke.

“You remember me,” Pieck said.

Yelena’s mouth curved slightly. “Mrs. Everly.” Her English was precise and lightly accented. “Nice to see you again.”

“Sit down,” Pieck said.

A chair had been placed in the center of the space. Yelena looked at it for a moment. Then she sat, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands in her lap with the composure of someone who understood that composure was the only currency worth spending right now.

Pieck reached into her jacket and produced the small recording device. She set it on the ground between them and pressed play.

The cane recording filled the depot’s silence.

“…keep them happy…”

“…family first…”

“…able to kill…”

She stopped the playback.

Yelena looked at the device. Then up at Pieck.

“You were at the forum,” Pieck said. “We heard what we heard.” A pause. “And we know about Kenny Ackerman.”

Yelena said nothing.

“So,” Pieck continued. “You are going to tell us everything you know.”

Yelena looked at her for a long moment. The calculation behind her eyes doing its quiet work.

“I don’t think I will,” she said.

The depot was very still.

Pieck held her gaze for a moment longer. Then she glanced toward the wall where Reiner stood, arms crossed and head down. 

The look caught Ro’s attention. Reiner’s file had one word that appeared more than any other. 

Interrogation. 

A specialty refined through years with German intelligence.

Yelena was his to unravel.

Reiner moved into the center of the space without hurry, without announcement, filling it the way the depot’s silence filled its corners. He pulled the second chair from somewhere behind him and placed it directly across from Yelena, close enough that the distance between them was uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t easily justify objecting to. He sat. Leaned forward. Elbows on his knees.

He looked at her.

Yelena looked back.

Reiner let the silence build until it had weight.

Then he said, quietly and without emphasis:

“Natasha.”

Yelena’s composure cracked.

It was small. A single involuntary shift in her expression, there and gone in under a second. But it had been there. And everyone in the room had seen it.

Reiner didn’t react to it. He simply continued looking at her with the same patient expression.

“That’s not—” she started.

“Nine years old,” Reiner said. “She goes to school in the Petrogradsky district. She wants to be a marine biologist.” He paused. “She has your eyes.”

Yelena’s folded hands tightened in her lap.

“You have no right—”

“Budapest,” Reiner said.

The word landed like a door closing.

Yelena went very still.

“Three years ago,” Reiner continued. “The Hartmann operation. Your agency celebrated the outcome. They never knew the method.” He lifted his head slightly. “We do.”

Yelena’s breathing had changed.

“What do you want,” she said.

“The forum,” Reiner said. “Kenny Ackerman. Three hundred million. The terms of the preliminary agreement. All of it.”

Yelena looked at him.

“I have nothing to say about that.”

Reiner reached forward and took her left hand.

She pulled back immediately but his grip was already complete, fingers wrapped around hers with a calm and total authority that left no room for resistance without escalation. He held it without squeezing. Just held it. 

“The three hundred million,” he said. “Was that his opening offer?”

Yelena’s jaw was tight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Reiner’s thumb moved against her index finger. A single slow rotation that described the joint with anatomical precision.

“We don't think it was his opening offer,” Reiner continued in the same unhurried voice. “It was his third. The first two you rejected.” A pause. “You wanted something else in addition to the money. Something Kenny took three meetings to agree to.”

Yelena looked at him.

“They will kill—”

“What did you want from Kenny Ackerman,” Reiner said.

Yelena breathed through her nose.

Reiner broke her index finger.

The sound it made was clean and precise in the enormous space. Yelena’s breath left her in a single sharp compression, her body pulling forward involuntarily, the instinct to protect the hand fighting against his grip. Her free hand came up and stopped mid-air, the calculation completing itself before she could act on it.

Jean winced.

Armin pressed his lips together.

Reiner held her broken finger with the same patient grip and waited.

“Access,” Yelena said finally, her voice controlled but operating under entirely different conditions than before. “I wanted access to certain financial records that Kenny controls. Information about Assembly’s funding channels that we had been unable to reach through our own means.”

“So the transaction ran both ways,” Reiner said.

“Yes.”

“You gave him intelligence about Assembly,” Reiner said. “He gave you financial access.”

“Yes.”

Reiner released her hand. Yelena pulled it back and held it against her chest.

“Tell us what you gave him,” Reiner said.

Yelena looked at her broken finger. Then at Reiner. Then across the space at Pieck who stood watching with her hands loose at her sides and an expression that gave nothing away.

“Assembly is not what your governments think it is,” Yelena said. “They believe it is still a fringe ideology. A collection of online spaces and radicalized individuals.” She paused. “It isn’t. Not anymore.”

Reiner waited.

“It has been growing inside legitimate institutions for years,” she continued. “Politicians who have never posted a single word online but who vote in ways that align with Assembly philosophy. Athletes with enormous platforms whose public statements have shifted the conversation in ways that serve this new agenda without ever naming it. Artists. Journalists. Class traitors.” She paused. “This anarchy isn’t knocking on the door of power anymore. It is already inside.”

“How far,” Armin said from the wall, his voice carefully even.

Yelena looked at him.

“Further than any of your agencies have confirmed,” she said. “Further than most of them are prepared to accept.”

Ro’s arms tightened across his chest.

“Ideas always come from somewhere,” he said. “Especially something as organized as this. Someone built Assembly.”

Yelena glanced at him, her eyes narrowing briefly.

“That is what took us the longest to confirm,” she said. “Because they are very good at being invisible.” 

She paused. 

“Yes. The ideology did not spread by accident. It was cultivated. Deliberately. By a small number of people who understood exactly what they were building and have since removed themselves from any visible association with it.”

“How many,” Reiner said.

Yelena looked at her broken finger.

“It's difficult to say for sure,” she said. “They utilize expendables to make it seem larger than it really is. In reality, the real decision power likely rests with just a handful of people. We believe no more than five.”

“The group behind Assembly,” Reiner said. “Do they have a name.”

Yelena was quiet for a long moment. Something in her expression shifted. The last calculation completing itself behind her eyes.

“They call themselves the Apella.”

The word landed in the enormous space and stayed there.

Armin looked up from his tablet slowly. Annie went completely still. Jean turned his head toward the center of the room, the remnants of his usual expression gone entirely. Reiner held Yelena’s gaze without moving a single muscle.

”…a pella…”

The cane recording fragment arriving at last.

No one said a word.

“And that is what Kenny wanted,” Reiner said. His voice carrying the same unhurried patience since he took control of the room. “Some information that you discovered about the Apella specifically.”

Yelena looked at him. Then at her broken finger pressed against her palm. Then back at Reiner.

“Their rendezvous point,” she said. “The location they travel to when face to face deliberations are necessary.”

Yelena sighed. “A place called—”

The window exploded inward.

Glass descended in a long glittering cascade and then the sound arrived, enormous and immediate, filling the depot’s high ceiling and bouncing back down from the iron pillars in fragmented echoes. The next shot came before the first had finished traveling. Then another. The air changed quality entirely, becoming something that moved fast and took up space and left no room for anything else.

Yelena’s head snapped sideways, and she fell from the chair before anyone understood what had happened.

Ro was already moving. He went left, putting the nearest iron pillar between himself and the windows before the second shot came. It punched through the air where he had been standing and sparked off the concrete floor in a bright flat crack. Then the third. The fourth. The depot filling with sound that had nowhere to go but back.

Yelena was on the floor. A dark line ran from her temple across the concrete beneath her, slow and certain, spreading into the dust without hurry. 

She was gone.

Reiner had taken a bullet through the upper abdomen, the impact folded him forward before his body straightened itself through pure refusal, one hand pressing hard against the wound, the other already reaching for his weapon. 

Blood came through his fingers immediately, dark and fast, spreading across his shirt in a way that said everything about what was happening underneath it. He made it to the nearest pillar and put his back against it, jaw set, breathing through his nose in slow measured intervals.

Armin reached him and pressed both hands against the wound without being asked.

Floch’s people came through three points simultaneously. The high windows on the western wall where the first shots had originated, three men rappelling down on lines. The large rolling door at the northern end grinding open from outside, four more pushing through before it had fully cleared. And a personnel door on the eastern wall that Annie had been standing closest to, which opened inward and fast and caught her across the shoulder before she could clear it, sending her flying backwards.

She hit the ground in a diagonal roll and came up shooting in one fluid motion, killing two men in the entryway.

Ro put down the first rappel man with two shots before the man’s feet touched the floor. The body swung briefly on the line before going still.

The second had made it to ground level and was moving toward Annie’s position. Ro tracked him.

“Left,” he said.

Mikasa came around the pillar’s left side at the same moment Ro came around the right. The man between them swung his weapon toward Ro. Mikasa’s knife opened his forearm to the bone. The weapon dropped. Ro drove his elbow into the man’s jaw and released two gunshots to the head. The man went down between the pillars and stayed there.

The third rappel man’s feet hit the floor.

Mikasa was already turning. She crossed to the western wall and drove her knee into his chest before he had fully released the line. He folded. She caught his head on the way down, snapping his neck.

Jean was at the northern entrance, two of Floch’s people pushing through the rolling door toward him. He took a grazing hit across the forearm that spun him half a step before he caught himself against a pillar and kept firing.

Ro scanned the space.

Southern end. A figure moving fast through the shadows between the last row of pillars and the southern rolling door. Rust-brown hair catching the low light.

“South,” Ro said.

Pieck was already gone.

He saw her cross the depot floor at the edge of his vision and went after her.

The southern rolling door was partially open, enough to slip through sideways. Ro went through and found a narrow connecting corridor, low-ceilinged, strip lighting dead, a single grimy window at the far end admitting weak light. Doors on both sides.

The second door on the left was ajar.

Ro pushed through it.

The office was small and cluttered with decades of disuse. A rusted desk shoved against one wall. Filing cabinets empty and open. A chair on its side on the floor. One window set high in the wall admitting a single strip of light that cut diagonally across the room.

Floch had Pieck against the far wall.

His forearm was across her collarbone, her back against his chest, his weapon pressed beneath her jaw. Her hands were at her sides. Her face was controlled but her jaw was tight and her eyes found Ro the moment he came through the door and stayed there.

Ro stopped.

His weapon came up. The sightline was there above her shoulder and he knew the shot. But the margin was too close.

Both weapons stayed where they were.

The strip of light fell between them across the dusty floor.

Floch looked at him over Pieck’s shoulder. His expression carried no cruelty. Just the assessment of someone taking inventory.

“I was tracking that Russian for days,” he said. “So imagine my surprise when I find she’s already been picked up.” He tilted his head slightly. “By people who were at the forum a few days ago.”

Ro held the gun steady, finger on the trigger.

“Let her go,” he said.

Floch ignored it.

“You guys are good,” he said. “The forum footage never once indicated you could have been the ones to plant those bugs.” A pause. Something like genuine appreciation in his voice. “That kind of coordination takes serious resources.”

“Let her go,” Ro said. “Or I will put a bullet through your fucking head.”

Floch looked at him.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” he said. “None of us are.” His arm shifted slightly against Pieck’s collarbone. “Those men you killed today. There are hundreds more ready to take their place. Thousands. People who have dedicated their hearts to this.”

The strip of light hadn’t moved.

Pieck’s eyes hadn’t moved from Ro’s face.

“You’re fighting for something real,” Floch continued. “I can see that. But think about what you’re protecting.” His eyes stayed on Ro’s. “These governments. These systems. The institutions that have been grinding people into nothing for centuries.” A pause. “Think about whose side of history you want to be standing on when this is over.”

The room held its breath.

Something moved through Ro’s face. There and gone before it could be named.

Floch studied him for a moment longer. Then something settled in his expression. A decision made entirely on his own terms.

He pushed Pieck forward.

She stumbled two steps and caught herself and turned, weapon already rising, but Floch was through the door before she had the angle. His footsteps moved fast down the connecting corridor and the southern rolling door scraped open and the city swallowed him.

Ro was beside Pieck before she had fully steadied. His hand found her arm. He checked her over fast, eyes moving across her throat and face and shoulders.

She was fine.

She looked up at him.

Neither of them spoke.

Ro turned toward the door, and she followed.

They went back through the connecting corridor and into the depot. The shooting had stopped. What was left in its place was a different kind of silence. Jean near the northern entrance, one hand pressed against his grazed forearm. Annie covering the eastern wall. Mikasa near the center of the space, scanning.

Reiner was against the far pillar. Armin knelt beside him, jacket dark and soaked against his abdomen, both hands pressing with everything he had. Reiner’s head had dropped slightly. His eyes were open but somewhere else entirely.

His lips moved.

“Kaya.”

Armin pressed harder. “Stay with me.”

“Kaya.”

Ro crouched beside Reiner. He looked at the wound. Then at Armin’s face.

“How long.”

Armin’s jaw was tight. “Too long already.”

Ro stood.

“We have to go.”

Nobody argued.

They moved toward the northern door in a tight formation, Reiner between Ro and Jean, his weight distributed between them. His feet found the floor one at a time with the grim determination of a man who had decided he was not going to be carried. Annie covered the rear. Mikasa was already outside.

The light hit them as the door opened. Clean and indifferent. The city moving around them as if nothing had happened at all.