You remember how beautiful she looked when you first saw her. When you were bleeding out of your neck and you were convinced you were going to die and you were so, absolutely certain that you wanted her face to be the last image you saw.

She writes to you, after. After months have passed. After you can think Alfred's name without the blood draining from your face. I'm sorry. She writes. Neil tells you she joined your side, that's how she's sending you the letters. I'm sorry. You don't write back.

You're undercover when you run into her again. It must be some cruel twist of fate, that out of all the people here, the universe has seen fit to throw you two together. Your name is Adrien, and when you see her it takes everything you have not to lose your composure completely. You wait until the others leave, until she drags you into the closet where you can smell her perfume and hear her shaky breaths. I'm so sorry, she whispers. I thought I was doing the right thing, I had no idea what they were doing to the jews -

I know, you say, because as much as a part of you still wants to hate her for what she did, you know you can't blame her forever. You stand there for a few more minutes, sinking into the hushed whispers and the moments when your hands brush hers. You hear someone calling Adrien's name, and you step out into the sunlight. I might not see you again, she whispers, her nails dragging against your palm. You don't know why this tugs against your chest, twists your lungs into a noose. You ignore every instinct telling you not to leave, and you whisper I'll write. You leave, and you do your best not to look back.

You wake up one morning whispering her name. Siobhan. Siobhan. Neil murmurs a question from the top bunk. It's nothing, you tell him. You sink back into a nightmare where she's being dragged away and you've decided not to save her.

One day, her letters stop. A week passes. Another. A month. You finally ask Sinclair about it. I'm sorry, he tells you. You think that those were supposed to be her words.