Lion had been resting for a long time.

He half expected his alarm to go off every time he touched awareness with distant, hesitant fingertips, but he could never grasp it for very long. He was content in this place, warm and secure, but discontent was starting to plague his disconnected thoughts the longer he drifted.

He wondered absently if his alarm wasn't working at all, and he was oversleeping. This felt like the longest he'd slept in a long time—years. Eventually, the longer it stretched, the pleasant solace of rest became an irritating buzz of nervousness. Something was off.

He couldn't find it in himself to care long enough to wake, though, and continued to fall back beneath the glassy waves of sleep.

…

He started to surface for longer periods of time. Sometimes, when his head just broke the surface of whatever kept him under, he heard voices—familiar, safe. Tiger and Bear. Alex, then the others again. Others – unfamiliar, familiar. K-Unit? Then his brothers again. He listened for them, missed those who were gone.

He still couldn't wake. Heaviness nipped at his limbs, and he sank again.

…

I woke.

It was a slow thing. Heavy and stilted, coming in bursts and fading again, in small blinks and constant capitulation. I kept giving up when I got close, the pain overwhelming, slipping away again. I didn't know how long it had been.

Finally, though, I managed. I clawed up through a dark tunnel, tumbling out and into the world, wishing I hadn't. I was in agony.

My back spasmed as soon as I could feel, and it was awful. I'd never understood the saying "death by a thousand cuts," but in that moment, I began to – my back had a million little starbursts of pain, pinpricks of dried blood and shattered glass, but the worst pain was in my lower back.

My bound hands, tied tight behind my back with something thin and coarse – something like thin rope, or perhaps knotted twine – traveled slowly up until I ran out of room to maneuver, my already-broken arm throbbing, but I felt it.

A shard of glass was in my back.

Like a lodged dagger.

I keened, fear and pain assuring my complete waking, dragging me fully into this awful world once more, panic ebbing in. I tried to grasp the glass with numb fingers, terrified. Where was it? My kidney? My spine? My training was screaming, shouting, don't pull it out. Don't pull it out, you idiot, you'll bleed to death. You'll damage yourself more.

But instinct was powerful, too, and I wanted this out of my body. I couldn't grasp it, though, not with the awkward position of my hands, not with the slickness of blood on my fingers. I choked on a shuddering sob, hot tears burning behind eyelids still squeezed shut, unwilling to open. To face this reality.

God, I was so, so scared, and I didn't know what to do.

I could feel myself on a precipice, at a fork in the road. I could feel a choice teetering in the palm of my hand, a decision, a willingness and unwillingness, a double-edged blade.

I could feel it. Pressing in and pressing out, expanding, constricting.

This could be the moment. After years. Months, moments.

This could be the moment I broke. It began with small cracks in an otherwise solid foundation when I was very young – a tiny chip each time Ian didn't return when he said he would, faint blows of jealousy and insecurity when the other kids' parents came round. But I was still whole – nothing like that was strong enough to damage, just to change.

And then Ian died.

A long, long crack, a fissure, a chasm, opened that day. But I didn't break.

I didn't break. Every blow. Every fucking death, every scream, plea, punch, slap…I didn't break. I didn't break. When I was tortured, degraded, when I was kidnapped and held, when I was on the brink of death, over and over and over, when I was running out of oxygen, when I was running out of time and when I was absolutely fucking hopeless and despondent, waiting for rescue, I didn't break.

And then Jack.

And I almost, almost broke.

And then Sabina, and I don't know how I didn't shatter. But somehow, I'd held on. Despite everything.

Maybe I'd broken a little then. Maybe the broken pieces of me were just denying what they were, going through the motions.

And then L-Unit. And K-Unit. And some of those little fissures, small pieces of those giant, gaping wounds in my soul, marks of absolute madness on my heart and mind, badges of weight far too heavy to be borne…began to slowly, slowly heal. I didn't feel broken any more—just wounded. And wounds could be healed, with time. With love, and care, and patience.

And then.

And then.

And now.

I stood on the edge of the cliff, insanity and submission below me. It looked like a churning, black sea, glossy black with pale foam and an endless depth, prepared to swallow me.

I had never been so close to breaking, to giving up, to just letting go, in my life. Not on that blasted bridge in Cookham, not kneeling over the remains of a burned out car with my life in shreds, not huddled in the corner of a windowless room hoping they were done hurting me. Not sobbing over the body of a broken brother, caused by my failure.

And I could feel it. Mist tugged at my feet. This sea called to me, a siren song in this landscape of desperation and madness, and oh, I so badly wanted to jump. To surrender.

I already felt gone.

…

There were moments Lion thought he might be dead.

It felt and sounded ridiculous. He was just asleep. Just asleep, having the weirdest dream. And it had a hold of him like a vise, unwilling to let him wake.

Still, even if he was oversleeping, this was peaceful. It had been a long time since Lion had known peace, and those fleeting moments were few and far between.

He'd been tired for a long, long time. Constantly fighting, protecting, pleading. Constantly trying to carry others, and though he didn't and never would regret it…it was exhausting, and he truly hadn't been so comfortable, so at peace, in a long time. Despite the restlessness, he just…felt restful. Sheltered. Held.

He'd just…sleep a little more.

A little more wouldn't hurt anything.

…

One foot held me here, on this concrete floor, bound and alone and terrified. The other hovered over nothingness, ready and willing to take the plunge.

To rest.

I teetered.

…

Alex's voice wobbled, but Lion recognized it. Would recognize it anywhere.

Lion's friend, charge, brother, was on the verge of tears. Lion hadn't seen, heard, him cry since the morning after his failed attempt, and he didn't know what could be so bad. It had him worried.

"Still, when I was younger. I wanted. I—I wanted—God, it sounds so stupid. I wanted an older brother. So badly I used to wish on stars."

Lion heard bits and pieces, words and feelings in this dark place, but he heard that.

Lion wanted to surface. To tell Alex's broken voice that he didn't have to wish. That Lion and the others had been here. Would be here. Would fill that void for Alex, if that was what he needed.

Lion thought he might have fought the waves—tried, at least—but he barely felt able to move. He didn't know if he had a body anymore, or if he did, if it still belonged to him. Just a blob of incoherent thoughts submerged in a slowly churning sea of darkness, the slightest light and sound convincing him that he was still alive.

Exhausted, he sank, Alex's voice fading.

…

A voice—a myriad of voices, a chorus on the wind—had me frozen on that ledge.

I couldn't tell who it was. I wondered if I knew them.

It sounded familiar. It sounded like home.

I took the smallest, most hesitant step back, away from the ledge, and listened.

I heard a voice. A memory. A recollection of warmth, of pain, in my body and soul. A reminiscence of the last time I felt safe.

"I don't care who tries to take you from us. I don't care if it's a terrorist organization, or…or somebody else from your past, or even you. I told you, you're not going anywhere without a fight."

A fight. I was tired of fighting.

But I wanted to stay. Because God, I missed those voices.

…

Lion didn't hear Alex's voice again. He wondered where he'd gone.

Lion missed talking with him. He hoped he woke soon. The kid was liable to get into trouble if they left him alone too long.

…

All at once, I slammed back into reality, water like shards of ice cascading over my head and shoulders.

I coughed, spluttering, trying to expel the bit I'd inhaled, and my body jerked in pain at the harsh movements. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the errant drops, the darkness around me clearing as things took shape.

I didn't know exactly where I was, but it looked like the annex, still—perhaps one of the back storage rooms, if the rows and rows of cardboard boxes and abandoned tools were anything to go by. Harsh, yellow light beat down from the ceiling, bare, winking bulbs hanging frozen in the absence of wind.

My eyes fell on two polished boots, and my stomach churned.

"Morning," Plizetsky said above me. I risked a glance up, still blinking, disoriented from the pain and the hallucination – whatever it was – and tried to breathe.

He was enraged.

"You certainly had me going for a while," Plizetsky said, dropping the empty bucket to the concrete floor with a clang loud enough to make me flinch. I shivered, the cold from the concrete and the water turning me to ice. My teeth chattered, and my jaw ached protested with wails of pain with each shiver. "I thought you were a troublemaker. I thought you were a brat. But it certainly wasn't until later," he said, heaving a breath, eyes alight with hatred, "that I thought you were a fucking rat."

He punctuated the last word with a kick to my gut that had me gagging. If I had anything in my stomach, I wouldn't have been able to hold it in. As it was, I could only curl up, the wounds on my back pulled taut, and groan.

"Who sent you?" He asked.

I didn't know where Helena was. I hoped Misha didn't know what was going on.

I blinked again, heavy and slow, a concussion making itself known in the way the world wobbled. I hissed as Plizetsky seized my hair, yanking my head from the floor, shaking me. My neck strained, and I grit my teeth to keep from crying out.

"Who the fuck sent you, you little bitch?"

I ground my teeth, a tiny flame of anger and indignation curling in my gut, beneath the darkness and the fear. I fixed him with steady, hateful eyes, so much steadier than I felt, and spat, "Fuck you."

I wasn't stupid, but sometimes I wasn't smart, either.

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you think you're brave. But I can promise you, Alexei," he said, releasing my hair, shoving my head back to the concrete floor. My head wobbled before I had to let it fall, exhausted, but I didn't lower my eyes. "I'll find out eventually, whether you tell me, or you let it slip out between your screams."

He checked his watch, and my tongue felt heavy in my mouth, but I said, "Not likely."

It wasn't the most well-crafted or wittiest comeback in my history, but it was better than the numbness when I woke. Better than the all-consuming agony and its sister, desperation and dread. Better than the swarm of despair crushing me.

He smirked, but there was something manic in his eyes. Something feral. "We'll see."

And he left. A heavy steel door slammed shut in his wake, and I flinched as I heard the deadbolt scrape into place.

I blinked again, trying to assess. I had to find a way out. Had to recalibrate, regroup. Remember my training. Remember my skills, remember my abilities.

But I could still feel it—just there. A trickle of that inviting ocean at the drop beyond the bluff. A promise of solitude, solace, peace. Rest.

And I remembered, and felt, the voices.

It sounded like Lion. Ian. Jack. Wolf, Fox, Tom, Snake…Bear, Tiger, Eagle. Sabina.

And so I closed my eyes. I cast one more look at the churning waves below me, and I wondered where I was – was this a hallucination? Was my mind finally fracturing, finally buckling beneath the horrors of my memories and unable to cope with my present situation? Or was it a dream – or something in between?

Whatever it was, reality or not, it was real. It was a choice.

I took a deep breath, heavy mist settling in my lungs, little flecks of light spearing into the sea, and swallowing the darkness in the water. And I stepped back from that ledge.

I could feel myself crumbling, getting closer and closer every day, to breaking. To just…stopping. To not being able to get up one more time.

It wouldn't be today, though.

I had too many promises to keep.

…

Soft, soft sobs echoed shrilly beneath the waves, where Lion floated. He thought, for a moment, that someone might have been with him down here – perhaps watching him from above – but time was a funny thing, and he couldn't be certain. And he was alone now, at least here.

Out there, though…he heard Angelica. His reason for the longest time. Why was she crying? He tried to surface again, but he was still so, so tired. Was getting more and more tired by the moment.

He slipped into the tide again.

…

I made a list in my head.

Assess. Get free. Alert MI6. Get out. Leave.

Agent Rider could prioritize, at least. I tried to blink away the wavering of my vision, and in doing so, I saw the faintest white light above me. It was coming from a barred window, high up on one of the walls, letting in snow-white light.

So it was daytime, now. Late morning, based on the tone of the light, its softness and direction—I'd been unconscious for longer than I'd thought. So Plizetsky had to leave to go back to work the floor, or teach, or whatever he did today – I wondered why he'd left directly after his threat.

I ground my teeth. What an asshole.

I wasn't lucky enough to think I would be without a guard, but they weren't with me at the moment. That gave me some time to maneuver, at least.

I definitely had things around me that I could use, but it was going to be difficult to move. I was still beaten to hell from three—four?—days ago, my arm was still broken, and now I had a kind-of stab wound and a concussion, as well. Nausea writhed like a pit of snakes in my midsection, but I swallowed it down.

Assess.

I had two exits, but the window wasn't an option – it was far too high up and I didn't trust my ability to climb in this condition.

I spotted my glasses on the ground several feet away. Perhaps they'd fallen off as I'd been dragged inside – the point was, I still had them. I could get to them, at least. I could scan for heat signatures, and if I was stuck until tonight, use night vision to get away.

Most importantly, I could press the panic button on the inside and call for help.

If they came.

I shuddered, pain flaring at the movement, and refused to think of that. I'd cross that bridge if and when I came to it, though I hoped I didn't.

There were tools around, spilling out of boxes and obviously broken or unusable, that I could use as weapons. Plizetsky probably thought I'd been beaten thoroughly enough to be docile—he'd obviously learned nothing about me.

Despair sang quietly in my ear, and with a pained growl, I tried to shove it away.

I would not die here. Not here, not at the hands of this – this monster. Not to Ivan Plizetsky.

Get free.

The longer I lay here, the more I knew my options for getting my arms free were slim. So very slim it seemed debilitatingly daunting.

But I had an idea. And the thought of going through with it had a cold sweat sprouting on my arms, on my forehead, my ruined back. I closed my eyes and shuddered, knowing that this would be absolute agony. Knowing that it may kill me.

Knowing that, as far as I could see, I had no other options.

My broken arm made it impossible for me to crawl anywhere with my arms like this. I could barely stand the pain now – I'd pass out if I tried. Blood loss and the concussion were cutting down my time, and I knew I had to act quickly. I had to use something to cut the rope – my fingers were far too numb, too heavy with lead and pain, to untangle the knot at the center of my wrists.

So I'd have to cut it. Saw it off. But I couldn't get to any of the tools or edges to make that possible.

With numb fingers, a deep breath, I inched my fingers closer to the shard of glass in my back.

I winced, whimpered like a wounded animal, and bit my lip so hard I thought I bite right through it to keep from crying out. I had a shard of glass in my back, and that was the only tool available to me at the moment.

My arm flared with pain as I twisted my hands, and I finally got two fingers around the bit of glass protruding from my lower back.

I tried to think of silver linings to distract myself from the supernova of utter agony as I took hold of it. The good news was, it wasn't in my spine—I could feel it to the side. I didn't think it was my kidney. I didn't think it was in my liver. I wasn't sure.

I felt it, and I knew it was the tip of an iceberg, the rest of which was buried in my back.

I almost threw up. I couldn't deal with this. I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't pull this shard of glass from my back with just raw nerves—I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't—

You can.

It sounded like Ian. Hot tears spilled over, and I scrunched up my nose, dried blood flaking off my face as I did so, trying to hold back the sobs. God, it hurt.

I shouldn't be here. I wasn't made for this. Not for this absolute hellscape. Not half-dead beneath a starless concrete sky, hoping for rescue.

You can do this.

Ian. God, how I missed my uncle.

I remembered the things he used to teach me, the tips and tricks, the winks when Jack's back was turned, the secrets we shared. The things he told me that I thought would never be useful.

Take a deep breath. Pain is just your body telling you that something is wrong, Alex. If you know something's wrong, there's no need for pain.

I took a shuddering breath, held it, and blew it out, tears slicing through the grime and blood on my face as I pressed my cheek to the cold floor, gritting my teeth. I felt my lungs start to constrict as panic took over, and I thought about what Ian might do.

Without giving myself another second to think, I twisted, grabbed, and yanked.

…

Lion started to feel dull, distant pain when he surfaced the next time.

At this point, he was sure he'd overslept. His body was a mass of aches, distant throbs, but he couldn't focus on any which one—except the pain in his head. He felt a bit like he'd been concussed, and maybe he had. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility in their line of work.

He wanted to wake up. He was sick of resting now.

…

The sunlight was much, much weaker when I woke up—waning, the dregs of daylight barely glowing beyond the window. Night was approaching again.

My vision was bleary, and I recognized a cooling, small pool beneath me. Fire ripped at my back, flames licking the wound, agony pulsing out from inside me, where my flesh had torn, and had torn again. I felt it, still at a slow trickle, and tried to blink the spots away. I put fingers to the tacky puddle beneath me, as much as I could with my bound hands, and whimpered.

Blood. God, I'd bled a lot.

But as I felt behind me, I felt the shard of glass.

I was lucky no one had come in here – perhaps Plizetsky really did consider me down for the count.

As of now, with the wavering of my vision and the pain in my body, I was. But at least now I had a plan.

Get free.

My fingers were numb by now, heavy and clumsy from the lack of circulation, but I did my best to get a good grip on the shard. Its serrated edges bit into my fingertips, tiny slivers of glass like splinters in the pads of my fingers, but I managed to get a steady grip. Once I finally got the angle right, my vision dimming as my arm flared, I started to saw.

It was slow, agonizing, and frustrating. I dropped the shard several times. I kept almost giving into the tears filling my eyes, the lump in my throat, and I almost gave up so many times.

What kept me going, what kept me alive in that moment, were the memories and promises I'd bound myself with.

God, even if they hated me. Even if they hated me for what I'd done to Lion, to Snake, to Elliott—I just wanted to see them again. One more time.

I was selfish, and for the first time in so long, I let myself want.

I wanted Lion's big hand to ruffle my hair and pull me into the safety of a hug, and I wanted to let myself sigh and accept the affection. I wanted Tiger to buy me a new coffee mug and shrug and turn away to hide the spark in his eyes when I said I liked it, and that I appreciated it. I wanted Bear to remind me about my medication and tell me about the kids he was working with and make me go to bed when I was up late reading in the living room.

I wanted Fox to yell at me for something stupid the sigh and ask if I wanted a snack and I wanted to yell back and tell him yes, and that he was going to buy it. I wanted Wolf to shove food at me and tell me I was being a brat and I wanted to tease him about how much he obviously cared. I wanted Snake to listen patiently as I opened up, to correct my form as I continued physical therapy, to help me research things I had questions on. I wanted Eagle to tell me a bad joke, and I wanted to laugh in earnest.

I wanted to see Tom. I wanted to see if he'd grown any more, yell at him for it. I wanted him to tell me about the girl—I couldn't remember her name. I wanted him to tell me about soccer and school and listen to him butcher his Italian.

I wanted to be home in bed, reading a book, dozing on the couch with football in the background surrounded by love. I wanted to be—

The rope snapped.

My eyes sprang open, and I dropped the shard in my surprise, hissing as my fingers ached with pins and needles, a rush of blood filling my hands.

I was free. God. I was free.

Now to figure out just how much I could move.

…

By the time Plizetsky came back, it was night, and I had a plan in place.

It was such a stupid fucking plan. But I reserved the right to those. They usually worked.

Sometimes.

I lay in a puddle of my own blood, wheezing, shivering, and groaning in pain, faking unconsciousness. Most of it wasn't an act. I needed medical attention, and I needed it yesterday, but first, I had to get out. The first thing I'd done when I could move was to try the deadbolt, but it just wouldn't budge. I couldn't pick that lock, either, and I knew my exploding earring wasn't big enough to punch a hole in solid steel. I'd grabbed my glasses, though – those I had. My path to freedom.

So it was time to improvise.

Plizetsky came to stand over my broken body, his shoes scraping to a halt near my chest, and I resisted the urge to spit at his boots. I heard someone slip in behind him, and recognized Helena's voice as she whistled low, then said, "Is he dead?"

Shit. That would complicate things.

"Not yet," he said, toeing me with his boot. I winced, blinking my heavy eyes open slowly, trying to give the illusion that I was waking up.

He didn't wait for me.

His boot hit my face with such force that my head snapped back, my neck creaking. God, that hurt. My already-bruised face pulsed in outrage, and I took a shuddering breath, choking on the blood from my nose.

The force of it sent me rolling onto my back, onto the hands that I let him think were still bound. In reality, I'd taken most of the rope to secure some rags I'd found against the wound in my back to try to staunch the bleeding, hidden beneath my shirt. God, had I just about wept with the pain from that.

I'd taken an extra coil of rope, small and short, and wound it loosely around my wrists behind me just in case. Just to keep up the charade.

Almost there. Helena just had to come a little further in. Almost there.

I cried out, caught off guard by the pain, as Plizetsky brought a foot down on my chest, holding me down. I grit my teeth, wheezing, and glared up at him, blood still running rom my nose and mouth from his kick a moment ago.

"Who sent you, little rat?"

He asked this with a smile, manic and mad, and I spat blood at his boot. "The orphanage, dumbass."

His smile split, an ugly thing, I didn't know how this man could ever have children. My heart absolutely ached for Misha. How many times had this monster pinned him down like this? "That's not the right answer, Alexei."

"It's the—" I choked on a cough, spitting bloody saliva to the floor, "—the only answer," I said, resisting the urge to flick my eyes to Helena. She'd taken another step into the room, the door almost shut behind her, but she wasn't close enough. I needed them both right beside me.

"I don't fucking believe you," he said, and I couldn't help the whine that slipped out as he leaned more weight onto my bruised chest, pressing my ruined back into the rough floor.

This was a nightmare. This was hell.

But I couldn't afford to slip into those ebony waves. Not now.

I grit my teeth and kept silent.

"You know," he said, finally removing his foot from my body, letting me gasp, "no wonder you are my son are such good friends. A mouse and a rat. You deserve each other."

He had an ugly sneer on his face, beady eyes narrowed, thin lips twisted.

Methodically, slowly, he took off his rings. I supposed he didn't want to stain them with my blood when he started punching. I was reminded of Hollis, standing over my dying body, making sure I had a front row seat as he loaded the gun that he thought would kill me. These psychotic assholes wanted me to fear them.

And God, I did. The fear, just like back then, was heavy and bitter, sour in my blood. It stretched and gnawed at every inch of skin – goosebumps covered my body, from the cold and the terror, and my heart beat erratically. My fight or flight kicked in, and my body just couldn't understand why I refused to do either. Why I allowed myself to lie here and watch him look forward to taking me apart.

But my blood, what remained in my body, boiled.

Just a little longer.

"I'm going to have to teach my son some lessons," he said casually, callously, like he wasn't referring to his son, his flesh and blood, like a bloody punching bag for sport. "Especially about getting too close to the children here. Look where it got him this time, hm?"

My fists were painfully tight. I wasn't sure how he wasn't combusting under the absolute hatred in my glare.

"To let himself be used like an idiot," Plizetsky muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head. "I'm going to have to be thorough. Make sure the lesson sinks in. So no one else can use him like you did, hm, Alexei?" Shark's teeth in his mouth when he grinned at me, a hungry wolf's eyes sizing up its prey. Hands like claws, ready and eager to tear both me and his son apart. No regard for life or pain.

"I told him, you know," he said with a satisfied smirk, and my stomach dropped. The shock on my face was absolutely real. The fear in my gut was immeasurable. "He cried. Like a little bitch. Couldn't believe his precious Alexei was a spy. Couldn't believe his one real friend would use him."

My stomach twisted in knots at the thought of Misha thinking that I'd only cared enough about him to use him for information. I couldn't breathe at the thought of that sweet kid thinking he was so expendable after he'd finally had someone care about him, even a little. I couldn't fathom it, couldn't reconcile it.

In a dark corner of my mind, I knew he was right—in a way, I had used Misha.

But that didn't mean I didn't care.

The same couldn't be said for the monster in front of me.

For a suspended moment, a frozen few seconds outside of reality, I watched the man take his rings off in slow motion, shaking out his fists, fixing his eyes on me, and I wondered.

I wondered how, why, there were so many monsters in the world. I wondered how no one else could see them for what they were.

Fischer, Blunt. Plizetsky. Hollis, Sayle, Grief…Cray…others and more. I wondered why no one could see them like I could. I felt overbearing weight on my shoulders, like each one I knew was another brick on my back, and I wondered why no one else would stop them. Why it always fell to me.

It hurt. I didn't want to face monsters anymore.

The suspended moment snapped, and though I felt disoriented, I knew I had to stay focused.

Helena looked bored with her cigarette. I had to get her closer.

"Helena, you're doing to let him do this to me?" I shouted, trying to sound terrified. It wasn't hard. I replaced hateful eyes with the pleading face of a child. "Please, I don't—I don't want to get hurt anymore. I just—I didn't know what to do! Helena, please—"

She scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "You're not fooling anyone, Aslanov."

Slowly, I let my tears fall, choking on a sob. It wasn't an act, but it was my goal. "Please. P-please."

Plizetsky curled his mouth in disgust. "Disgusting. Whoever sent you here should be ashamed."

He reached out to seize my hair, but even he was affected by my performance – he wasn't showing mercy, but he didn't consider me a threat. He'd never seen me at full strength, and he didn't know what I could do. Granted, I wasn't at full strength now, but God, was I desperate.

He had me counted out, tears on my cheeks and sobs in my chest. He thought I'd broken in front of him, and was ready for his answers.

Preparing myself for just how disgusting this would be, I waited until he was in range, then flicked my eyes behind him, widening them as if in fear.

He didn't believe me. I could tell by his smirk. But he turned just a bit, either to check for sure or to mock me, I didn't know. But his hand was still right in front of me.

I lunged forward, jaw clenched around a scream of absolute agony, and opened my mouth wide. I bit off his finger, his index finger at the second knuckle, hot blood pooling in my mouth. I almost threw up, spitting it out, gagging on bile as I finally lost the battle with my nausea.

Plizetsky screamed.

And Helena rushed forward, eyes wide, cigarette forgotten.

Just like I wanted.

The reason I'd called this plan stupid was because it had a relatively high chance of blowing us all to smithereens, but for once, my hair-brained scheme went according to plan.

They hadn't noticed, earlier, when they'd walked in. They hadn't noticed that, crawling on all fours, gagging with every movement, fighting through absolute hellish pain with each move, I'd moved as many flammable boxes as I could find to one part of the room – right beside us now, about ten feet away.

They also hadn't noticed that a metal table from the other side of the room had been moved closer, as close as I dared, to where I lay on the floor.

Moving with speed I didn't think I possessed, ignoring the blood spurting from Plizetsky's stump and Helena's wide eyes as she came to stop beside us, I ripped my arms from behind my back, yanked out the back of one of my earrings, and threw it right into the heart of the cardboard boxes and gasoline.

There were three heavy seconds where nothing happened. Where I thought it was all for nothing, even as I slipped and stumbled to my feet, feeling my crude tourniquet pull against my wounds, feeling my broken arm scream. Even as I threw myself over the metal table, screaming as I landed, pulling it down with me.

I heard Helena scream something, something insulting or incredulous, Plizetsky still wailing, before the explosion shattered.

…perhaps I could've used my exploding earring on the door after all. The explosion was a lot bigger than I'd thought it would be.

The force of it shoved both me and the table back several inches, and the billowing smoke was thick and immediate. I coughed, wheezing, each inhale pulling the wound on my back, as smoke and soot filled the room, and took out my glasses.

A fire roared to my right, and I could hear Plizetsky and Helena screaming, coughing. The thick cloud made it impossible for us to see each other – just what I'd been counting on.

I put my glasses on and, making sure I wasn't facing the fire, put in night vision.

It was already dark, no light spilling through the window anymore, and the bulbs above were weak at best. There was little light coming from the door, and the room wasn't well-lit to begin with. The smoke stung my eyes and lungs, but the night vision made it possible for me to at least see the door beyond the smoke.

I saw two bodies through the smoke with the glasses, one pulling the other. Plizetsky was screaming – much more raw than just from losing a finger. He'd been burned – probably badly.

I couldn't regret it. Not after everything he did to me. Everything he did to Misha and the other kids here.

I stumbled towards the door, feeling my vision wavering from the blood loss and my other injuries, and collided hard with the wall. I whipped off the glasses before I blinded myself and opened the door, tugging it sluggishly, then slipped away, a shadow one with the smoke.

For a second. For just one second, I thought about bolting it behind me. I thought about locking those monsters away with the fire. I thought about letting them burn.

I closed my eyes against the stinging smoke, remembering red hair in flames and a kind smile, and I couldn't. I couldn't condemn anyone to what Jack went through. Not her, no matter how horrible they were.

I couldn't be the one to lock them in there. Couldn't be the one to carry their deaths.

I slipped away.

It didn't take long until I stumbled far enough down the dark hallway to hear panicked voices, of both children and adults, from outside the annex. It sounded like they were trying to evacuate those who had been inside – I wondered why they'd been working so late. The smoke followed me, spilling towards the floor, and I heard the moment they saw it – young voices screaming, older voices shouting orders. I heard them yell to get out of the annex. To stop running and screaming. To return to their rooms and not to come out under any circumstances.

I put a hand to my aching ribs, trying to hold myself together with one arm as I stumbled down the hallway, leaning against the wall. I was probably leaving a blood trail, but I couldn't help that.

Alert MI6.

I'd already pushed the button on my glasses for exfil. A tinny voice, one I didn't recognize, came through a tiny speaker beside my ear as I'd put them on hours ago, telling me where exfil would be waiting – about a mile away within the woods, in a clearing just large enough for a helicopter. Once I was out, their forces would storm the compound, arresting the adults, gathering the pieces of the bomb, the plans and blueprints, everything. They told me my job was to get myself out.

They'd almost sounded like they cared. I wondered if they were working with Fischer.

In the distance, I saw light. I could've cried. The sun was setting fast – it had been almost a full day since I'd been caught. Dusk was crawling in, and there wouldn't be light for much longer, but I saw it now.

Get out.

An exit.

…

Lion sank.

He'd hovered, for a long time, just below the shallow, churning waves, trapped on the wrong side of the glass dreams. He could see faint light, hear small sounds, distantly feel, and it was like being tempted and teased with life. He'd been clinging to those shafts of sunlight, treading water with every shred of strength, but he began to sink.

Still, the panic was dull. His body sank like a stone, and felt the same – to swim was an impossible task, to breathe was just not happening. He should be stronger than this. Stronger than these waves. But he sank.

The only thing he could still perceive from beyond the mirage above him was a sharp, high whine. His heart felt heavy and too big in his chest, like a silent boulder, weighting him down.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes.

…

Finally, I stopped in the doorway, swaying, stumbling, but unmoving. I turned my head, feeling heat at my back, hearing panicked screams from the complex, and knew that the distraction was working. Knew that in thirty seconds, I could be lost in these woods, waiting for exfil, keeping myself alive.

I was home free. I would survive. If I left now, I would survive.

I wouldn't die here in this cold, lonely place. Exhausted, broken, and alone.

Assess. Get free. Alert MI6. Get out.

Leave.

I tipped my head back, breath wheezing in my lungs, and saw stars winking above me. They blurred, from the concussion and the tears from the smoke and the pain, but I blinked, clearing my vision as much as I could. So many of them—this far from the city, the sky was bathed in them. Flecks of gold and silver on a silky ebony canvas.

I wondered how many were stars, and how many were planets. I wondered which ones the little prince might have explored, had he lived beyond the ending of his story. I wondered which ones a little boy wanted to see when he finally got away.

A gust of wind saw me swaying, but I remained standing. I took a breath, held the frigid air in my aching lungs, and blew out. A fragile puff of frost misted in front of me, gently broken by a soft, icy wind.

Leave.

With unsteady legs, I turned, limping back inside.

There was just one more thing I had to do before I could go back. Before I could leave. So, I turned, making my way through the smoky annex, limping across the field to the main compound in the shadow of the trees, to the hall of rooms with all the broken children, ready to find just one.

The one I couldn't leave.

…

Hands under his shoulders.

Lion's eyes slotted open, shuddered a bit in the darkness, and he felt himself being hoisted up from the depths by strong, cold hands. An arm wound around his chest, and he felt the breath of bubbles on the back of his neck, someone hauling him towards that distant light.

He wanted to help, didn't want to sink, but he couldn't do a thing. Blinking, he could finally see the shadow of those pale hands. He turned his head.

Raven hair swam in this darkness, ink upon ink, glowing strands reflecting the light from above. A pale face, sharp jaw, and familiar eyes.

Lion only locked eyes with him once, only saw one single smile, familiar and agonizing, before he was thrust upwards, breaking those immobile waves for the first time. Even then, he reached back, and a ghostly hand touched his before it was dissipated by the waves, and he was suddenly somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere warm. Somewhere bright.

He cracked open his eyes. Saw a white ceiling, swaying in and out, but it wasn't those impenetrable waves. It was real. He was real again.

In his first breath, his first sliver of consciousness in days, in so, so long, a reborn sense of life, he had only one thought.

The one he couldn't save.

…

Elliott.

…

Misha.

A/N: I hope you liked this chapter :)

Thanks for all my reviewers! They really do make my heart so, so happy: Eva Haller, random barefoot stranger, Lira, Guest, Puff and Proud, Guest, Guest, lionidus, KenyanHammer, Nhuiitz, cdo2095, hunterjk123, Guest, fuzzyshungee, KMER79, Cordelia, Guest, Guest, and Oscar!

Lira: HAHAHAHA LITERALLY IT TOOK SO LONG

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