The car ride was mostly silent.

Crawley kept sending me glances in the rearview mirror. There was something heavy in his expression—guilt. Regret. I ignored him, looking out the window, watching the countryside go by. It was a couple hours to London—I'd enjoy them while I could, I supposed. I wondered how long I would get to keep my phone, if I did. Maybe they'd let me call when I got there. It took everything in me not to look at my phone every five minutes—it was on silent and tucked safely away, where I couldn't see or hear it.

I wondered if the others thought I'd been selfish enough to use the hospital as an opportunity to run for good. I wondered if they were looking for me. Was Lion alone, then? Was Snake? I hoped not. I hoped they forgot about me. And I hoped they didn't. I wondered if the Sergeant had called them yet, explained what was going on. I wondered what they would do, when they found out. I hoped they knew I didn't just leave.

A small, scared, young part of me wondered if I'd ever see them again.

I wondered if MI6 would let me. If I'd live long enough to see them. If they'd be dangled over my head like a reward, or like a threat. If I'd finally run out of luck in some foreign, unfamiliar country, and die alone, wondering if they were looking for me or not. I hoped not. That would kill them.

I refused to cry in front of Crawley. Not any of these bastards.

I had done this many times before, but now it was imperative.

I buried Matthew.

I buried the Alex who could afford vulnerability—L-Unit's Alex, K-Unit's Alex. He had no place here.

It wouldn't keep the nightmares away, and it wouldn't keep the flashbacks or the anxiety away. But it would keep me alive for just a little longer than the others might've.

"…Alex," Crawley said after an hour of silence. I flinched, and then cursed myself, and ignored him. "Alex?"

I ignored him once again.

Crawley let out something like a sigh. "I'm…for what it's worth—"

"Nothing," I said before he could finish, knowing exactly where he was going. "Your apology is worth nothing, so don't waste your breath."

The rest of the drive was silent.

I began to recognize the outskirts of London the closer we got. It was familiar but not comforting. My gut rolled more for every meter we covered.

I prayed for traffic, whatever it took to delay our arrival by even a few minutes, but unfortunately, things were progressing steadily for once. When we turned onto the street, I tried very hard not to throw up in the back of the car. When we pulled to a stop in front of the Royal and General Bank, my eyes could only go to one spot.

It was uncannily bright, the white paint on the concrete, so obviously out of the place, just barely weathered from time and foot traffic compared to the beige, cracked sidewalk around it. The spot where my blood had stained the concrete red.

I clenched the door handle and couldn't quite make myself get out of the car or open the door.

Crawley opened my door for me. It was meant to be a gesture of assistance, I'm sure, but I couldn't see it as anything other than a mockery—another choice, however small, taken. Still, I got out, shoving shivering hands into my pockets. I didn't have anything with me—everything was still at the flat or in the duffle I'd left abandoned when we'd gotten the call about Lion and Snake. Everything I owned remained with them.

I wondered if they'd send nameless agents to collect my things, or if they'd just consider it lost. Where were they going to make me live? Where would I eat? Would I at least be able to cook my own food, or would they watch my meal plans, too, since I'd been so inconsistent with feeing myself? How much would they try to control me?

I didn't have time to ponder much else as I sidestepped the patch of white, burying the fear and shoving trembling hands further into my pockets as we walked through the doors, Crawley nearby. He wasn't touching me, but he was close—close enough to be uncomfortable. Close enough to grab me if I tried to run.

I wouldn't run. Not with them in the balance. But the urge was strong.

He touched a Bluetooth in his ear, listened for a moment as we passed polished marble floors and made our way to the elevators, and said, "We'll go straight to Mrs. Jones' office."

I passed several people in the offices, several completely normal clients who had absolutely no idea that they were in the midst of MI6, and wondered if I started screaming, if anyone would help me. I doubted it. I wondered who they thought I was. Crawley's son? One of the banker's sons, come to visit their mum at the office? I didn't know. I didn't really care. I just wanted to be anyone else.

Forcing myself to step into the elevator was even harder than getting into the car. Forcing myself out of the elevator and into the familiar hallways, lined with red carpeting and packed with cubicles and cornered offices, was harder still. I trailed Crawley as we walked. I walked slowly enough that he stopped for me twice, trying not to look concerned.

It was becoming so, so difficult to move my feet. I felt the weight of paralysis and fear cripple me.

But I moved forward, because I promised to protect them. I promised that if I couldn't be a wall, I could at least do my best to keep them safe, and I would make good on that promise if nothing else.

I looked at the carpet as eyes found me. I was one of the well-kept secrets that was no longer secret—Alan Blunt's retirement had been forced, and there was a reason, and I was sure even in MI6, office gossip was a thing. Even the Sergeant said he'd heard about me. I had no doubt that every one of the agents we passed, staring with unabashed curiosity, knew who I was.

I wondered how many of them pitied me, and how many of them were angry with me for abandoning my position. How many of them would try to help me, and how many of them would use me, given the chance.

I didn't have the time to ponder it. Before I knew it, before I was ready, we reached the familiar door of Mrs. Jones' unassuming office.

Crawley knocked, then stepped aside.

"Come in."

I swallowed. I was going to throw up. I hoped it landed on her.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I managed to hold my stomach even as I eased the door open, sending a glance at Crawley. He wasn't coming in, so without looking at Mrs. Jones, I closed the door, leaning back against it. I didn't want to take another single step into the office.

"Hello, Alex."

I smelled peppermint. It turned my stomach. I said nothing.

"Have a seat."

Aware that it was an order and not a request, keeping my eyes to her oriental rug, plush and accented with gold and crimson, I did. The chair was not comfortable. In my sight was a portion of her desktop with several notepads and open file folders, a dish of peppermints, a couple different-colored pens, and two dark-skinned hands folded together over a file with my name on it, wearing a silver ring on her right pointer finger.

"Welcome back."

I scoffed, shaking my head and looking to the side, unwilling to look at her face. Fear and anger coiled in tandem in my chest, and I was shaking with the need to flee or scream or both.

"I understand this is going to be a difficult change. I assure you, we only have your best interests—"

"We've been doing this too long for me to believe you or for you to waste your time," I cut in, folding my arms so my hands would stop clenching, looking for something to punch. "You don't give a shit about me and you never did. Get on with it."

I saw Mrs. Jones blink in her periphery. I'd never sworn at her before. That was something I'd do more. It felt kind of good. "I see."

The silence stretched for a moment as she opened the file, only the soft sound of rustling papers and the occasional crunch of a peppermint filling it. I sure as hell wasn't going to break it.

Already, I wanted to go home. The anxiety was overwhelming. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to go home.

But home was broken, and it was my fault, and the only way for it to heal was for me to keep my distance. I reminded myself with bitter confidence that I had done this before, and I could do it again.

Finally, Mrs. Jones spoke.

"I never wanted to bring you back. I'm sorry that you're here."

"Not that sorry, if I'm here," I muttered.

Mrs. Jones didn't comment on that. "My condolences, about Sabina. I visited the Pleasures after her death to speak with you, but you weren't there."

"I wasn't going to stick around when there was an assassin willing to kill an innocent teenage girl after me," I defended, straightening a little. I still kept her in my periphery.

"I know. I'm not condemning your decision, just informing you. We—I sent agents to look for you, but you hid yourself quite well. I'll admit, I didn't expect you to hide yourself in the SAS. It was a very good strategy, one that hid you much longer than was ideal."

I said nothing to that. I didn't want her praise.

She cleared her throat, reaching for another peppermint. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again—the world needs you, Alex. It needs operatives like you."

"It's still spinning and I've been gone for over a year," I countered, finally looking at her, unable to contain the hatred in my eyes. She looked older than I remembered—perhaps it was the stress of the job. In a small moment of weakness, or of strength, I hoped it killed her. "I haven't heard of any horrible catastrophes or terrorist attacks that wiped out millions of people. I haven't heard of any space hotels falling or atomic bombs wiping out whole countries. Have I missed something, or has nothing fucking happened? Or did you, I don't know, send real agents to stop it?"

Mrs. Jones took my yelling with grace, if nothing else. With dark eyes, she said, "The things you failed to stop while you were gone were not the things that make the news in England."

You. The things you failed to stop.

She didn't elaborate further, and I didn't ask her to. I didn't want to feel guilty for things that weren't my responsibility. I hoped they didn't tell me.

She took a second, adjusting her glasses. "My supervisor requested I bring you back. We have several cases that require your individualized skillset, but we've…made the decision to make sure you're willing to comply before we send you out. You will remain here until we are confident you will do so."

"So I'm trapped until I'll bend to your will," I summarized, feeling the hope drain out of me, but I didn't let it show. I couldn't let it show in front of her. "Did you authorize the attack on my units, too? Did you let him try to bloody kill them? After everything you put me through, you wanted to take all I had left, to convince me to come back to be your personal weapon?"

Mrs. Jones' face tightened. It was so slight that had I not been waiting for a reaction, looking for any sign of guilt, I wouldn't have seen it. "That wasn't me."

"I don't care if it was you or not!" I shouted, jumping to my feet and slamming my hands on her desk. I became even angrier when she didn't so much as flinch. "It was Fischer, the bastard you hired! It was you and Blunt who recruited me in the first place, you and Blunt who forced me overseas into warzones, into captivity and into torture, into things I may as well not have survived because they haunt me every waking minute! Don't you fucking dare say it wasn't you, Jones, it's been you all bloody along."

I seethed. I raged. I was so, so tired, and so angry. How dare she try to absolve herself of this after everything?

With quiet, infuriating confidence, Mrs. Jones looked me dead in the eye and said, "We never forced you. You agreed."

I saw red.

The last thing I remember clearly was picking up her ceramic dish of peppermints—always with the fucking peppermints—and throwing it at the wall hard enough to leave a dent. Hard enough for the dish to shatter, for peppermints to crack and scatter into the carpet. I remember going to shove everything off her desk because I needed to break, I needed to destroy, to hurt, to something.

The next thing I knew I was being forced to the ground by two or more agents, I couldn't tell, but there were hands on me. Too many hands on me. Hands I didn't know, forcing me down, keeping me down. My hands were pinned at the small of my back and someone knelt on my legs and there was another hand gripping the back of my neck and keeping my face pressed against this stupid expensive carpet, keeping my breath trapped somewhere in my chest and it hurt and I wanted them to stop and I was still screaming because I was so angry and so scared and so tired, and I wanted to go home and I wanted someone to save me—

"We'll talk when you're calmer," Mrs. Jones said quietly, and I saw someone with a syringe. I struggled, I writhed, but I couldn't move with all the hands, hands, hands— "For what it's worth, Alex, I really am sorry."

When were they going to realize an apology wouldn't fix me, nor would it save me?

It wasn't long before I succumbed to whatever they'd shot me with, falling into familiar darkness and hoping I didn't wake up.

Snake was used to being less than enough.

He'd never been old enough to help his da with bills—no more than a few quid at a time, anyways, from shoveling someone's driveway during a snowstorm or delivering groceries for an old man on their street. It was never enough to matter much. His da drank most of it away. He was never enough for the families who came to survey their options at the orphanage, and he felt like a mutt among expensive breeds at a shelter, always glanced over. He hadn't been enough for the family who'd taken a chance on him—too quiet, didn't do anything, too reserved. Too sad for their liking. He'd had his bloody reasons, but that never mattered.

He went back to the orphanage, a hellish place, and made friends. It was better after one of the caretakers left for retirement. Then he was much happier. Not happy, really, but not as sad.

Then another family took a chance, and he wasn't enough. He could have been—he just would've had to change everything about himself, and he'd been doing that for so long without any good results that he was tired of it. So he played their game until he was seventeen, almost eighteen, and ran in the night with a note of thanks and some of the money he'd saved to pay them back. It wasn't enough, but it was all he could spare.

He ran all the way the England, where his schooling wasn't enough, where his money wasn't enough, but he made it work. And then, after killing himself for a degree, his skills weren't enough. The marker wasn't enough. He was inadequate for the limited number of positions open. So he kept running to the SAS.

For the first time, he was enough.

Still, lying here in a too-small hospital bed mummified with gauze and bandages, Alex missing once again, he was distinctly reminded of the feeling of being not enough.

He couldn't go look for him. Couldn't even call him—his phone was off, or on silent. Hadn't realized his goodbye for what it was.

Fuck. After everything. After everything, they'd failed.

It hurt to admit, it bloody stung, but they had failed him.

S-Unit arrived half an hour after Alex left. By this time, Tiger had come looking for Alex, Bear remaining with Lion, and they very quickly realized he'd never gone back to Lion's room. They put out a call over the hospital intercom, blew up his phone, even tried to track it, but the location services were off.

At a loss, Tiger called Tom, Alex's friend, and put him on speaker despite the rule against cell phones in patient rooms when he couldn't seem to understand him.

The lad was sobbing.

Tiger was far too angry to be patient, and Wolf wasn't in the right headspace to be calm. Eagle nervously took the phone and, after coaxing some intelligible words out of Tom, it wasn't hard to put the rest of the pieces together.

Alex—the boy, the child, the fucking wee lad—had walked out of the hospital and into a car sent for him by the people he'd been running from for months because Snake and Lion had been hurt, and would be hurt again if he didn't go.

Snake had always held a higher degree of empathy than those around him. It wasn't something he tried to brag about, or that he tried to show off—it was simply that he could read the people around him, could look at a situation and empathize with someone, and it helped, as a medic, and as a friend. It helped a great deal, and it allowed him to help those around him, when they needed him.

Snake was nearly crippled by the fear he imagined Alex was feeling, the guilt.

He wished he could take it from him, but he wasn't there to do so.

Then S-Unit arrived and put the whole situation on its head.

Snake knew S-Unit distantly, but through lidded eyes, he watched as two of them entered his room, the other two having gone to Lion's. Cobra, Snake remembered him from a lecture he gave and from the mess, and—Owl? He was new. Snake wasn't thinking very well.

Still, he had enough faculties left to understand the most important thing.

MI6 was bloody sadistic.

To injure your own country's soldiers to get one boy? How mental could they be? They had other operatives! They'd done enough damage, and fuck, this poor lad.

Snake's inadequacy resurfaced when his breathing became audibly labored, his ribs aching and his head reeling from the pain and from the information and the loss. Wolf, neck-deep in fury and trying to come up with some kind of a plan with S-Unit was at his side in an instant, all harsh lines and angles.

"Snake? Breathe. Bloody calm down. Eagle, get a doctor—"

"M'fine," Snake tried to argue on the end of a shallow breath, but it was obvious he wasn't, and that was just infuriating. Not enough. Never enough. Never strong enough. "Alex—"

"You're important too, you bloody arse," Wolf muttered, sending Eagle out to fetch someone as S-Unit watched, reserved by the door, keeping an eye on the hallway. "We'll deal with Alex. We'll find him."

Snake didn't have to heart or the breath to tell him that they couldn't find someone who didn't want to be found.

He knew what it was like to walk into danger so someone you cared about didn't have to. He knew. He'd never told anyone, not even Wolf, but fuck, he knew, and he never wanted Alex or anyone else to know that feeling. It was a horrible, horrible weight, a heaviness of self-imposed responsibility and fear that wouldn't abate.

The difference was Snake didn't have anyone who cared enough to stick up for him, to fight for him. Alex did.

Snake wouldn't be able to look for him for six months, easy, but he could run logistics from home or from Brecon Beacons. He could collaborate with other units, put out searches with the Sergeant's contacts. He wasn't dumb—he could do something, even if he couldn't get up and go looking himself.

He just had to hope it would be enough, and that they would find him in time.

The weight of protecting others by yourself, left alone for too long, was a burden likely to fold him in half.

I woke.

The anger, even after however long I slept, remained.

It burned. It left a hole where my heart should be, like acid in my chest.

Still, it wasn't time for the hurt. The hurt, I was sure, would come later.

I blinked fuzzy eyes at a white ceiling, my limbs heavy with fatigue and numb with the remnants of the sedative. I wondered how long I'd been asleep. How long I'd been gone. Surely they knew by now—knew I hadn't just abandoned them. I hoped they did.

Without moving anything else, I used clumsy, uncoordinated fingers to pat my pocket, but sure enough, my phone was gone. So were my keys.

That—that. That hurt. More than I thought it would.

I'd only just gotten that key, at Christmas. Why did I get to keep precious things for so little time?

I shifted, rough sheets coarse against my bare arms—my coat was gone—and tried to sit up so I could stand, my vision swimming. I could only put my feet on the ground and lever myself up a bit before I collapsed next to the bed, heaving a breath.

It might have been that whatever they'd given me was too strong, but if I had to guess, it was everything my body had been through in the last couple days finally taking its toll. Rohypnol, shock, an emotional shitshow, and then this…no wonder. Still, it felt like weakness, and it would look like weakness, so I had to get rid of it.

I…had to get up. I wasn't going to let them find me like this. I had dwindling pride, if nothing else.

Somehow, I levered myself so I was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame taking heavy breaths, observing what I could of the room.

It was…pretty bare, really. A bed with white sheets and a threadbare blanket folded at the foot of the bed, a three-drawer dresser, a square nightstand barely a half meter in diameter. That was really it. The floors had rough carpet, uncomfortable against my bare feet, and nothing hung on the walls but the camera. The door was weird—instead of standard wood, it looked like steel that had been painted white to match the walls. There was no doorknob.

Good. So now I was a bloody prisoner here, trapped in a fucking bare room.

I saw a camera in the right corner of the room, above the door, and made a mental note to make a stalking joke sometime today. Maybe it would bring out some of the old Alex.

They had to know I was awake now, if someone was watching me. I hoped they wouldn't mention my fall. I could feel blood returning to my extremities, the numb tingling fading to tentative feeling, but I didn't trust my ability to stand just yet.

I wondered how Lion and Snake were doing. I knew Snake was expected to make a full recovery, but he'd still looked so bad. Broken and splintered. Snake was so kind. He didn't deserve that.

And Lion.

I felt my face fall as soon as I thought about it, apathy replaced with guilt that spiraled into regret.

I should never, never have joined the SAS.

Maybe it was selfless, maybe it was selfish, but I would have rather died alone in America or in some distant, meaningless future in a back alley or on another sidewalk than have Lion or Snake or any of them suffer for me even for a moment. I would have rather never met them, never let them save me. I would have rather spent the rest of my days alone and let those people I didn't know exist in peace and happiness than this.

Another family broken. But I couldn't change it.

God, if I could turn back time just once. If I could just go back to that moment in Blunt's office and give Jack up, let myself be hurt or worse in an orphanage far away and fade from everyone's minds. I would. In less than a heartbeat. I would. They had to know that I would. I hoped they did.

But I couldn't.

I didn't know why they were so hellbent on getting me back to be this amazing operative, this special project, because I couldn't save anything.

Everything slipped through my fingers like the sand through an hourglass. Unemotional and unstoppable, no matter what you did to try to stop it.

I heard the click of the door.

It sounded like a lock in a key. I glanced up, angry and numb all at once, detached and enraged. Still, I sat and waited, because what use was pride, in the end? If begging couldn't save anything, why would pride?

After a few seconds and the mechanical twitter of a keypad, the door opened. It was, indeed, steel. Mrs. Jones came through, followed by Fischer.

Mrs. Jones had her usual blank stare, regarding me with emotionless eyes. Fischer, on the other hand, was smiling.

Did he take pleasure in rending my life into pieces?

"Hello again, Alex," he said. I took pleasure in the thought of punching the mustache off his face. "How are your accommodations?"

"Service sucks," I said without missing a beat. I was a little surprised but pleased. Maybe the old Alex was in here somewhere—enough to be a sarcastic shit, anyways. I was going to cooperate. I knew I would. For them, I'd do anything. That didn't mean I didn't have to be a pain in the arse while I did.

I made to stand, forcing my feet to hold me when the lingering drugs threatened to pull me back down, sitting on the bed. Pride was useless. "Why wasn't there room service waiting for me when I woke up? You've lost your knack. The SAS had much better amenities."

Fischer's eye twitched. Jones was used to my lip—he wasn't.

Still, Jones simply said, "I'm glad to see you're calmer than before. That was quiet the emotional outburst."

I shrugged, leaning back on my hands. Despite my words, I could feel the bite of my gaze, the tension in my body despite the drugs. I was still livid, and they knew it, just too tired to throw anymore peppermints. Too tired and unwilling to do anything to jeopardize the others. I had to tread carefully. "You know what they say about teenage hormones."

Jones blinked, but didn't respond.

"Our supervisor requires your presence," Fischer said, grinding his teeth together. I could tell my mouth was getting the best of him, and for the first time, felt like smiling a little. "Get up. Your shoes are in the hallway."

"What, you're not going to put them on for me? I thought I was a long-lost princess. You sure tried your best to get your hands on me."

To my surprise, Fischer's face morphed into a tight smile—more like a grimace—and he picked up something from outside the hallway. My shoes. He walked with purposeful steps to me, and I fought the urge to shrink on instinct, instead looking up at him with all the blaze I could. He dropped them by my feet.

"Put them on."

"No," I said, leaning my head back a little more so I could look up at him.

I wanted to see just how far I could go. How much I could do before they threatened them again. I would fold immediately, but until then, how much leverage did I have? How much leeway could I take? How much of myself would I get to keep?

The answer became startlingly clear—nothing at all—when Fischer, in the blink of an eye, backhanded me hard enough to knock me off the bed.

I didn't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.

I knelt in shock, knees scuffed on the carpet even through my jeans, hand hovering above my stinging cheek as I tried to reconcile reality with what had just happened.

They'd never—they'd never.

They'd let me be hurt. They'd forced me into situations that left me bleeding and bruised and injured.

But they'd never hurt me themselves.

A part of my brain, foggy as I knelt on the uncomfortable carpet with a hand on my face, shocked by the action, expected Jones to say something. She'd always—she was a bitch, a manipulative, awful bitch, but she'd always spoken up when they'd gone too far. After I tried to shoot her, she even told the agents not to hurt me, when they were detaining me. She spoke on my behalf when Blunt said something a little too far. She.

I'd thought, if nothing else, she was human.

But she remained silent, and when I met her eyes at her silence, there was nothing there.

Perhaps it was stupid to feel betrayed by someone who had never cared about me, but I did.

Blood found my fingers. I'd cut my lip on my teeth.

"Put them on," Fischer repeated, and I flinched, unprepared for anything to break the silence but my breathing. My blood was loud in my ears, loud on my fingertips.

And I knew, very quickly and very suddenly, that this was not the same as last time.

Back then, they rented me. I still had Jack. I had my home, I had Tom, I had school. I had a life outside of them, people waiting for me to come home, and they called me when they needed me or loaned me out. I was something to be rented and used and returned a little worse for wear.

Now, I had nothing to return to. Nothing I was willing to return to right now.

They owned me, and they didn't have to take care of things they owned.

"…no."

Fine. If they owned me, I didn't have to play nice thinking one day they'd let me go, either.

"No."

I was expecting it, but it didn't make it any better. Fischer's hand found my upper arm and wrenched me up, holding me in place as he yanked me to stand in front of my shoes, one hand on the back of my neck forcing my head down so I could see my feet and my trainers. One of them was on its side.

"Put. Them. On."

His voice was ice. It was right next to me ear, and every muscle in my body was wound so tight I thought I'd snap. I wanted him to let go. I wanted him to let go.

It was so stupid. Such a stupid thing to say, such a stupid hill to die on.

But I'd said no, and if I gave in to everything else, I wanted to keep at least some of my choices.

If I didn't, I wouldn't survive.

"No."

I locked my jaw to keep from crying out as his fingers dug further into my arm, the back of my neck, and clenched my fists with the need to fight back, Alex, why aren't you fighting back

"Enough," Jones said, voice lisped by the peppermint in her mouth. I supposed she'd had some more stashed away somewhere. I wondered what her obsession with them was. "He'll just go barefoot. This is not a choice that will affect anything, Alex. Your pride and defiance are only going to hurt you."

I could tell Fischer wasn't happy with this, but Jones seemed unaffected. Maybe she viewed it as too small a victory to matter in the long run.

But it was mine. If nothing else, this choice was mine.

I stumbled as Fischer shoved me forward, keeping firm, thick fingers locked around my arm as he dragged me out into the hallway behind Jones. The further we went, the more I wondered, the more my mind wandered to escape the reality of this, the pain in my arm, the impending weight.

I wasn't a wall.

I wasn't a wall at all. I didn't know why I thought I could be.

But…I could be a distraction. I could be a spy. I had been before. I had to be whatever I could be to keep them safe.

Distantly, I wondered if Lion had heard anything I'd said to him. I knew sometimes people in comas could hear. I wondered. I hoped. I hoped he knew how much he'd done for me, if I never got to see him again, or speak to him. I wondered if my shrouded goodbye to the others was adequate. I knew it wouldn't be enough, and I knew they'd look for me, but they couldn't go against MI6. No one could, it seemed.

But I knew they'd try, and even if they couldn't save me, the thought that they were trying for me was enough.

I hoped they knew it wasn't their fault. That they hadn't let me down.

I stumbled trying to keep up with Fischer—who took outrageously large steps; that was a little much—and was thrust so violently back into reality that it gave me whiplash when we stopped in front of a nice wooden door, dark brown polished wood, Mrs. Jones standing in front of it and glancing back at me.

For the first time today, I saw an apology in her eyes, and for the first time I consciously wondered.

…who the fuck would be the supervisor of the Head of MI6?

My heart started to pound as she knocked on the door, and I straightened as much as I could, wiping my face clear of any emotion. I thought I still had blood on my lip, but I didn't have the presence of mind to wipe it away.

I had to do something to keep myself sane. The—surveillance joke. Yeah. That would be a good start. Something the old Alex would do. If I was just intentional about my words, if I kept fighting as much as I could, in ways that wouldn't compromise the others, then—

Maybe. Maybe I could do this.

Maybe I could push the trauma and the fear back just enough to hold on for a miracle.

Mrs. Jones opened the door, and Fischer dragged me through, and any hope for a miracle died immediately.

Everything in my body stilled, so much so that Fischer had to more or less drag me the rest of the way into the office, and when the door closed, I was entombed in the fear.

My blood stilled in my veins, and my throat closed with fear.

I felt myself shake.

Alan Blunt sat behind a desk, expressionless, in his stupid fucking familiar charcoal suit that was just so gray, everything about this man was so gray and drab and gray but the fear he instilled in my was vibrant and so vivid.

"Hello, Alex," he said. His voice was infuriatingly toneless.

In that moment, I accepted that I was never escaping MI6 again.

A/N: Well. That happened. That's…one of the secret characters that would've ruined a big plot twist, so I'll update that tag, lol. Oops. Yeah. Sorry.

Happy kind of canon birthday, Alex.

Thanks so much for the reviews! Love you all: otterpineapple06, PuffandProud, Cakemania225, Padfoot's Marauder, marthecaterpillar, Fox, Guest, DudeTrusttheCloak, MillieM04, OnlyABookworm, , Guest, Wraith and Demjin, Guest, jeps, Guest, agent potter, Swirling Starlight, KMER79, IshaIsha666, Guest, Jess, Guest, Guest, Vara, Akira Makkuro, Alex Rider 123, Guest, Guest, Guest, and BBCLove!

Fox: You're fine! Haha sorry. You too!

Guest (No! By the way…): Haha thank you so much! I appreciate it! That's the goal :)

Guest (And now I am broken): Me too bestie

Guest (DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT TAKES): NO I'M SORRY I DON'T BUT THANKS FOR THE REVIEW

Guest (oh my gosh, oh my gosh!): Thank you so so much! I'm going to try not to haha. Next chapter is here :)

Guest (YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE IT LIKE THAT): HERE YOU GO I'M SORRY

Jess: THANKS I'M SORRY

Guest (oh nononono): Sorry! Hehehehehehehehehehe

Guest (MAH HEART): Hahaha thank you! I appreciate you :)

Vara: Not with me lol. Thanks!

Alex Rider 123: Omg thank you so so much! I'm glad you're enjoying!

Guest (I WILL START A RIOT): PLEASE DON'T RIOT

Guest (I WILL JOIN THE AFOREMENTIONED RIOT): THERE IS NO NEED TO RIOT . And thanks!

Guest (MORE!): HERE YOU GO

I know this is getting dark. It will get better eventually, but not for a while. Thank you for sticking with me. Lots of genuine love. You guys are the only thing right now that make me think I can still be a writer. Love you all.