The golden light of Budapest's sunset filtered through the grimy windows of the safehouse, casting long shadows across the room. Amir Al-Raisani stood at the kitchen counter, methodically unpacking containers of takeout, the rich aroma of paprikash filling the air. His eyes darted to the closed bedroom door for the umpteenth time that evening.
"Jaz?" he called out, his voice tinged with poorly concealed worry. "Food's here."
Silence greeted him. Amir's frown deepened as he made his way to the bedroom. It had been weeks since their relocation to Hungary, tasked with investigating the brutal murder of a British Special Ops team. Weeks of tension, of navigating a delicate undercover operation as a married couple, and of watching Jaz slowly... change.
He knocked softly. "Jaz, you okay in there?"
When no response came, Amir's training kicked in. He pushed the door open, his heart racing as he scanned the room. His blood ran cold at the sight before him.
Jaz lay crumpled on the floor, her body wracked with violent tremors. Sweat glistened on her forehead, her usually sharp eyes unfocused and glassy.
"Jaz!" Amir rushed to her side, cradling her head gently. "Can you hear me?"
Her only response was a low moan, her fingers weakly grasping at his shirt. Amir's mind raced, cataloging symptoms: high fever, muscle cramps, delirium. This was bad, very bad.
With careful movements, he lifted Jaz onto the bed. Her skin burned against his, and he could feel the rapid, erratic beat of her heart. As he reached for his phone to call McG, Jaz's eyes suddenly focused on him, wide with terror.
"Dad, no!" she cried out, her voice small and frightened. "Please, don't..."
Amir's heart clenched. He knew bits and pieces of Jaz's troubled past, but to see her reliving it now... He gripped her hand tightly. "It's okay, Jaz. You're safe. It's me, Amir. You're safe."
Her gaze shifted, tears streaming down her face. "Elijah?" she whispered. "Oh god, Elijah, there's so much blood..."
Swallowing hard, Amir dialed McG's number. As it rang, he used his free hand to grab a washcloth, dampening it with cool water from the bedside pitcher. He gently wiped Jaz's forehead, murmuring soothing words in Arabic.
"McG," came the gruff voice on the other end.
"It's Amir. We have a situation. Jaz is... she's really sick. High fever, muscle cramps, hallucinating. I need you here, now."
There was a beat of silence. "Shit. Okay, I'm on my way. Start cooling her down, push fluids if she's conscious enough. I'll contact Patricia and Noah, we'll figure out a cover."
As Amir hung up, his gaze drifted to the window. Across the street, a figure stood in the shadows, watching. He squinted, recognizing the silhouette of Mia, their new team member. A chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cooling evening air.
Something was very wrong here, and Amir had a sinking feeling that Jaz's condition was just the beginning.
Back in the bedroom, Jaz's fevered mumblings continued, painting a heartbreaking picture of pain and loss. Amir settled in beside her, prepared for a long night ahead. As he wiped her brow and whispered reassurances, his mind raced.
What had happened to the British team? Who had killed Hannah? And why couldn't Top see what was right in front of him?
The shadows lengthened, and somewhere in the Budapest night, a clock began to tick.