AN: It gets a lot uglier before it gets pretty again. Hang in there… trust the process!

bury a friend: Billie Eilish

The guards dragged Bella through the hallways, uncaring of the way they gripped her and hauled her forward. Her boots skidded against the slick floors as she fought them with every ounce of strength she had left. The muscles in her legs burned, her breath came in ragged gasps, but she refused to go down easy. Every time they yanked her forward, she twisted against them, her body jolting with each desperate attempt to break free.

"Let me go!" she snarled, her voice hoarse from screaming. She threw her weight back, trying to wrench herself out of their grip, but one of the guards growled in frustration and yanked her arm so hard a sharp, searing pain shot through her shoulder. Bella gasped, stumbling forward, her knees nearly buckling.

Her mind was spiraling.

Edward.

Alice.

The image of Edward collapsing, blood streaking down the side of his face, flashed behind her eyes, a fresh wave of terror gripping her chest. Alice, so fast, so smart, had been dragged away too. Bella had locked eyes with her in those final moments before they were separated. There had been no panic in Alice's gaze—just calculation. A silent promise.

But a promise meant nothing if they weren't alive to keep it.

She struggled harder, panic rising in her throat. If she could just break free, if she could just find them—

"You're making this harder than it needs to be," one of the guards grunted, his grip tightening like a vise around her upper arm.

"Go to hell," Bella spat, her voice sharp and shaking, defiance laced with pure fury.

The hallway stretched endlessly, each turn leading her deeper into the facility, farther from any hope of escape. Finally, they stopped in front of a heavy, reinforced metal door. One of the guards swiped a keycard through the access panel. A red light blinked to green and the locks disengaged with a mechanical hiss.

The door swung open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. No windows. Concrete walls. A single chair bolted to the floor.

Bella's stomach dropped.

"No," she muttered under her breath, panic crawling up her throat. "No, no, no—"

She dug her heels in, thrashing harder, but the guards forced her inside, their hands bruising against her arms as they shoved her toward the chair.

The moment her body hit the metal, she fought like hell. She kicked, twisted, tried to push off, but one of them grabbed the back of her neck, shoving her down so hard she nearly cracked her teeth against her knee. Another yanked her arms behind her back, the coarse rope biting deep into her wrists. Bella bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to let out the sound of pain clawing at her throat.

Her ankles were next, tied down to the chair legs, the rope cutting into her skin. She yanked at her restraints, her breath coming fast and uneven.

"You won't get away with this," she bit out, her voice shaking but strong. She swallowed hard, ignoring the dryness in her throat. "You think you can scare me? You have no idea who you're dealing with."

The guards didn't react. No sneers, no threats, no amusement. Just blank indifference.

That was somehow worse.

Once she was secured, they stepped back, their gazes impassive. Without a word, they turned and walked out.

The door slammed shut.

The sound of the lock engaging sent a cold jolt through Bella's spine. The silence that followed was deafening.

She yanked at the bindings on her wrists, twisting, pulling, trying to find some give—but the rope held firm, the fibers digging cruelly into her skin. Her chest heaved as she struggled, her breaths sharp and erratic. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay calm.

Think, Bella.

But thinking was hard when the weight of everything crashed down on her like a collapsing building.

Her mind spun back to Edward and Alice.

Where were they? Had they somehow managed to escape? Were they being held somewhere else in the facility? Or—her stomach turned—were they already dead?

The thought hit like a wrecking ball, shattering her composure.

No. No, they weren't dead. They couldn't be.

But Rosalie, Emmett, Jasper—she had no idea what had happened to them. The last she'd heard over the comms, they were pinned down, the charges set but unable to escape. Had they fought their way out? Had the explosives gone off? Or were they gone too, swallowed up by this place, just like she had been?

A shaky breath escaped her. Her vision blurred.

She wasn't the type to pray. She never had been. But if there was anything or anyone listening—God, fate, the universe—she needed them now.

Please, she begged, her thoughts dissolving into something desperate. Please let them be alive.

They knew going into this would be hard. They knew the possibility of running into guards, but the attack on security, on neutralizing it, was supposed to give them a leg up.

The only explanation is they'd known they were coming. Or, suspected it at least, and was ready for them.

The cold of the room pressed in on her, the concrete walls seeming to shrink, suffocating. The fluorescent light above her buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow that made everything feel even more clinical, more inescapable.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She had to get out of here.

She had to find them.

Bella forced herself to breathe, to slow the erratic thudding of her pulse. She had allowed herself a moment of emotional collapse, had let the fear and anguish flood through her system like a toxin. But that was over. That part of her—the part that could be ruled by panic, by grief—had no place here anymore.

Now, she had to think.

She had to be rational, clinical. She had to do what she did best—analyze, predict, adapt.

The first variable: the room itself.

The walls were concrete—smooth, no visible cracks or weak points that she could immediately see. The door was reinforced steel, likely soundproofed, and given the facility's security, it was probably operated via an external control panel. That meant brute force was out of the question. She wouldn't be able to break her way out.

The second variable: her restraints.

Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back with thick, coarse rope. Not plastic cuffs, not steel—rope. That detail mattered. Plastic zip ties could be snapped with sudden force if she created enough tension against them. Steel cuffs would've required picking the lock or finding a weak hinge. But rope? Rope had flexibility. Rope could be worked loose if she could find the right leverage.

She tested the knots, twisting her wrists subtly, cataloging the tension points. It was tight, but not perfect—whoever tied her up was efficient, but not meticulous. There was some give. Not much, but enough that if she had time, she could work at it, fray the fibers, weaken them.

Her ankles were similarly bound to the chair legs, though these knots were tighter. She flexed her feet experimentally, feeling the rough bite of the fibers against her skin. She wouldn't be able to kick out, not yet, but if she could free her hands first…

Third variable: her captors.

She replayed the moments before she was thrown in here—the guards who had dragged her in. Two men, both built like trained operatives, efficient in their movements, but not overly cautious with their handling of her. They'd secured her quickly, likely under orders not to waste time. No unnecessary cruelty, but no concern for comfort either. That told her something: she wasn't just another prisoner. They weren't looking to break her, at least not yet.

Which meant they wanted something from her.

And that meant Victoria would be coming. Probably soon.

That thought alone sent a wave of revulsion through her, but she shoved it down. If Victoria wanted something, she had leverage. That gave her options.

Bella inhaled sharply, forcing herself to go back through the details of her capture. How many steps had they taken to get here? How much time had passed between the moment she was dragged from the hallway to the moment the door shut? She closed her eyes, retracing each second.

Approximately forty-five seconds of walking.

Their pace had been quick but not at a sprint, meaning they had traveled about sixty feet. Factoring in that they had taken at least two sharp turns, that meant this room wasn't at the heart of the facility, but closer to the outer corridors. Good. That was a shorter distance to escape—if she could get out of the chair.

She took another slow breath, mentally mapping out the possibilities.

How many guards were outside? At least two, maybe more.

She hadn't heard any distant voices, which suggested they weren't standing right outside the door—probably at a monitoring station, watching her through a camera. That was standard protocol in high-security labs. If she assumed there was at least one visible surveillance feed, she would have to act carefully.

If they were watching, she could use that. She could feign weakness, let them think she was breaking down. If they underestimated her, she could create an opportunity.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

This is just another experiment. That's how she had to treat this. Like a problem to be solved, like a hypothesis to be tested. If she panicked, she was dead. If she stayed ahead, if she controlled what her captors saw, what they expected from her, she had a shot.

Bella's jaw tightened. She would give them what they wanted—or at least, she'd make them think she was.

And then she made a promise—to herself, to Edward, to Alice, to the rest of them, wherever they were.

She was going to get out of this.

And she was going to burn this place to the fucking ground.

…

The room had swallowed her in darkness, time stretching into an endless void as she fought the weight of exhaustion. Her body ached from sitting in the same position for hours, the tight restraints sending sharp pulses of pain through her limbs, most notably her arm with the stitches—but she refused to let herself break.

She replayed her escape possibilities over and over in her mind, mapping out every variable, keeping her thoughts occupied so she wouldn't spiral.

But then the door creaked open.

Her head snapped up, the muscles in her neck stiff from the strain. A figure stepped inside, backlit by the dim hallway. The light framed the sharp angles of her face, the sleek ponytail, the tailored suit that clung to her lithe frame like a second skin.

Dr. Victoria Greene.

Bella's stomach twisted in disgust, but she didn't flinch. She forced herself to meet Victoria's gaze with steady, unblinking defiance.

It had been weeks since she last saw her—the day Victoria had ordered her assassination. And now, here she was, stepping into the room with an air of composed indifference, as if none of it had ever happened.

It was crazy to think she had admired this woman before.

"Dr. Swan," Victoria greeted, her voice velvety smooth, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "It's been far too long."

Bella stared at her, unmoving. "Not long enough."

Victoria's smile widened slightly, as if she were amused by Bella's hostility. She shut the door behind her with a quiet, deliberate click, her heels echoing lightly against the concrete floor. Every movement was calculated, controlled. She exuded power—not the kind that needed to be shouted or flaunted, but the kind that suffocated.

She stopped a few feet away, clasping her hands in front of her in a gesture of faux-sympathy. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you," she said softly, her tone almost gentle. "You've been through so much. And yet, here you are—still fighting."

Bella's fingers curled into her palms, her nails biting into her skin. This was the game. Victoria was steering the conversation, setting the stage, luring her into a narrative where she was the concerned benefactor and Bella was the stubborn, misguided asset.

Bella wouldn't play along.

"Spare me the act, Victoria," she said, her voice cutting. "I know exactly what this is."

Victoria tilted her head, as if genuinely curious. "The act?" she repeated, her voice light, coaxing.

"I know why I'm here," Bella said coldly. "I know why you tried to kill me. And I know exactly what you're trying to do."

Victoria's expression remained unreadable, but Bella caught the faintest flicker in her eyes—interest.

She liked this. The challenge, the back-and-forth. She thrived on control, and Bella refusing to fold was making her work for it.

"You misunderstand," Victoria said smoothly, her voice carrying that same infuriating warmth. "I'm here because I want to help you, Bella. You're a brilliant scientist. Your work has the potential to change the world. To save lives."

Bella let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Save lives?" she echoed, her tone dripping with venom. "Don't insult me. We both know what you're doing. You want to use my research to create a weapon. A plague toxin that could wipe out entire populations."

For the first time, Victoria's mask faltered. Just a crack—barely noticeable—but Bella saw it. A split-second tightening of the lips. The slight narrowing of her eyes.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

She let out a soft sigh, as if Bella's accusation pained her. "I see you're still clinging to your biases," she murmured. "Bella, what we're doing here—it's bigger than you. Bigger than me. You see an atrocity. I see progress. Necessary, inevitable progress."

Bella's stomach turned.

"Necessary sacrifices?" she spat. "Is that how you justify it? Is that how you sleep at night? Convincing yourself that you're not a murderer, just a forward-thinker?"

Victoria's expression finally sharpened. The softness drained from her features, leaving behind something much colder. Calculated.

"You've always been sharp, Bella," she said quietly. "I should've expected you'd see through the façade." She stepped forward, the air between them turning charged, suffocating. "But here's the problem—you're still under the illusion that you have a choice in this." Her voice dropped, her words razor-sharp. "You don't."

Bella forced herself to hold her gaze. She refused to let Victoria see even a flicker of fear.

"I'll never help you," she ground out. "You can threaten me, torture me, kill me—but I won't give you what you want."

Victoria exhaled slowly, like a disappointed mother, and shook her head. "I was hoping we could avoid this."

She turned toward the door, giving a small, precise nod.

"Bring her in."

The words sent an immediate jolt of alarm through Bella's system.

The door opened again, and Bella's heart dropped to the floor.

Two guards entered, dragging a limp, familiar figure between them.

Angela.

Bella's breath seized in her throat. The carefully built wall of control, the strategic calm she had been clinging to, cracked down the middle. She felt the rupture in her bones.

Angela's head lolled forward, her glasses knocked askew, the delicate frames clinging desperately to the bridge of her nose. A thin trickle of blood ran from a gash at her temple, disappearing into the fabric of her sweater. Her wrists were bound, the skin beneath them raw and angry, evidence of struggling she'd never had a chance of winning.

She was barely conscious.

Bella clenched her jaw so tight she thought it might break, but her body betrayed her. She jerked forward, the rope around her wrists biting deep as she fought against it. It burned, but she didn't care.

A strangled sound climbed up her throat, but she swallowed it. She had to swallow it.

Because this was what Victoria wanted. A crack. A slip. An opening.

Victoria's expression shifted into something almost reverent, as though she were watching the inevitable unfold exactly as she had foreseen it. "You were always so goddamn friendly," she mused, shaking her head, voice lilting with manufactured sympathy. "So trusting. That was your first mistake." Her lips curled. "But this? This is what happens when you forget what kind of world we live in."

Bella barely heard her. She was looking at Angela. At the faint rise and fall of her chest, at the fragile way she trembled, at the way her unfocused eyes finally landed on Bella.

"B-Bella…" Angela's whisper was barely a breath, fractured and weak.

Something inside Bella shattered.

Her vision blurred for half a second before she forced herself to focus. She couldn't break. Not now.

The guards stepped aside, and behind them, he walked in.

Bella knew who he was instantly.

Aro Volturi.

The same man she had seen through the window of Victoria's estate before this all began—the man Emmett had described in grim detail. Bella hadn't made the connection that this was the man she saw what feels like a lifetime ago, but it all made sense.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, the fabric smooth and pristine, unbothered by wrinkles or dust. His black hair was slicked back, his sharp, angular features as composed as if he were attending a business meeting instead of stepping into a hostage negotiation. His entire presence was deliberate. From the way he carried himself to the way his fingers rested against the grip of the gun in his hand—loose, almost careless. But Bella knew better.

There was nothing careless about Aro.

His dark eyes flickered to her, his gaze dissecting, appraising. Measuring.

Bella forced herself to meet his stare. Forced herself not to flinch. Not to show weakness. But it was impossible with Angela in the room, her soft sobs barely audible over the roar of Bella's own pulse.

She turned her gaze to Victoria, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Leave her out of this."

Victoria, who had been watching her carefully, finally let her smile slip. The feigned warmth drained from her expression, replaced by something sharper, something real."You say you'll never help us," she mused, her tone quiet but laced with amusement. "Let's see if we can change your mind."

She turned to Aro, giving him the slightest nod. "Aro?"

Aro sighed, long and low, as if the entire situation was an exhausting inconvenience rather than the brutal execution it was about to become. He tilted his head, regarding Angela like one might inspect a fly caught in a web—an unremarkable, disposable thing.

"You know," he mused, almost conversational, "I was against this at first. Leverage is such a useful thing. But then I thought—" He paused, glancing at Victoria with something that might have been amusement, though his eyes remained cold. "Well. I thought it might be fun."

Bella's breath caught in her throat.

Aro turned his gaze back to her, a glint in his eyes—something sharp, cruel, delighted. "You see, Dr. Swan, you assume I make threats because I want something from you." He smiled slowly. "That's where you're wrong. I don't make threats. I make decisions."

He stepped forward smoothly, a shadow stretching across the cold floor.

Angela whimpered.

Bella barely had time to process before Aro raised the gun.

And pressed it against Angela's temple.

The world dropped away.

Bella snapped.

"NO! STOP!" she screamed, her entire body twisting against the restraints. Her wrists burned, her shoulders strained, but she didn't care. She couldn't care. Her voice was raw, desperate, almost incoherent. "Please—don't do this! Please—I'll do anything, anything—just don't hurt her!"

Aro sighed, as if exhausted by the theatrics. He didn't look at Angela. Didn't even seem to acknowledge the weight of what he was about to do. His finger rested on the trigger, his expression utterly detached.

"Help us, Dr. Swan," he murmured. "Or your friend dies."

The words weren't a threat. They were a certainty.

Bella's thoughts scrambled. This was a bluff. It had to be a bluff. They needed leverage. If they needed leverage, they wouldn't just throw it away.

But something was wrong.

Aro didn't need leverage.

If he was here, if he was the one holding the gun, it meant the decision had already been made. Like he said—he didn't make threats.

He made decisions.

Victoria had been the face of this operation. She had been the voice. But as Bella looked at her now—really looked—she saw it.

She wasn't the one in control.

Aro was.

And the moment Bella realized it, the moment her stomach lurched with the sheer horror of it, Aro exhaled, long and deliberate.

A judge passing his final verdict.

He flexed his fingers around the grip of the gun, as if testing the weight of it. "And before you convince yourself this is some impulsive reaction, let me assure you—I decided Angela's fate long before I walked through that door."

Angela sobbed, a broken, helpless sound.

"Please! Stop!" Bella screamed, still fighting in vain against her restraints. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen.

She turned back to Victoria, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Her voice wobbled brokenly as she begged, "Please, Victoria. Please, please, please."

Victoria, standing to the side, ignored Bella and watched it unfold with an air of expectation—like she was waiting for a scripted scene to play out exactly as she'd planned.

Bella's throat went dry. "Please," she tried again, her voice hoarse, desperate. "She has nothing to do with this. You don't need to do this."

Aro didn't even blink. He didn't look at Angela, and he didn't look at Bella. His finger merely rested on the trigger, a stillness in his expression that was even more terrifying than outright malice. His voice was gentle, almost soothing. "I apologize, Dr. Swan. But this is necessary, I assure you."

The gunshot was deafening.

Bella's entire world fractured.

The sound ripped through her like a blade to the gut, sharp and final. The flash of the muzzle flared against her vision, searing the moment into her brain.

Then Angela crumpled.

Lifeless.

Like a puppet with its strings severed.

The breath left Bella in a violent, shuddering scream. Raw. Animalistic. Her body convulsed, her vision tunneling as she thrashed against the chair, against the ropes, against the brutal, unforgiving weight of what just happened.

Aro exhaled, lowering the gun with a faint huff, as if bored by the entire display. He stepped back, watching Bella break, and a slow, satisfied smile curled across his lips.

"There it is," he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. "The moment where hope dies."

At the gunshot, Victoria's head had snapped toward Aro, her lips parting slightly—shock. Just for a moment, but undeniably there.

She hadn't expected him to actually do it.

Bella saw it in her eyes, the half-second where even Victoria had lost control of the situation.

But she covered it quickly. Her face smoothed over, her expression turning sharp, cruel.

She turned back to Bella, stepping closer, her heels clicking against the concrete. She crouched in front of her, leaning in, her voice eerily soft.

"This is on you."

Bella's sobs quieted into shallow, gasping silence. Her mind wasn't working anymore—it was scrambling. Everything she had so carefully built inside her head had just collapsed.

Angela was dead.

Not just a colleague, but her friend. Her friend.

Bella had never felt more powerless in her entire life.

Aro was still watching her. Studying her.

Then, in a voice that sent a fresh wave of terror through her, he said, "Shall we visit your parents next?"

Victoria exhaled, a slow, patient breath, as if she had all the time in the world. And then, she leaned in closer, her lips just inches from Bella's ear.

"Or what about your friends, right down the hall?"

Bella went completely still.

"The little fairy girl and that handsome NSA agent?" Victoria mused, tilting her head. "Or, hmm. How about Jake?"

A pause.

A cruel smile.

"Yeah. Your little stunt was cute. James and your sweet puppy will never see it coming."

Bella's entire body locked. Her breath hitched, her stomach twisted, her vision somehow blurred even more.

The world closed in on itself as they threatened everyone she loved and cared about.

Her voice barely worked. "No," she choked out. "Please, no."

Victoria pulled back, her satisfaction unmistakable. She had won.

She had shattered every last piece of Bella Swan.

She straightened, smoothing a hand over the front of her suit, and when she spoke again, her voice was almost gentle.

"Then you know what to do."

Bella's head dropped, her breath shuddering out of her in something that wasn't a sob, wasn't a gasp—just hollow silence.

There was no winning here. Not today.

Not yet.

She closed her eyes.

"I'll help you."

Victoria smiled, stepping back. "Good girl."