Chapter 2106 - App 60

The night was a slow, suffocating beast. I had asked SERA to track Claire and her team, not expecting much at 2 a.m.—just another stretch of time to endure in the quiet hum of my own thoughts.

But SERA's response jolted me awake. Claire was inside a pub, a glass of vodka in front of her, untouched. Her team, meanwhile, was scattered across the city, guarding Andrey and scouring for the locations of every safe house tied to Nickolai. The stakes were high, the pieces moving in the dark.

An idea struck me, reckless and compelling: I would go to her.

But there was a problem. Claire knew my face—or at least, the face I wore in the world of men. Jack Reynolds, the billionaire, is the enigmatic owner of Immortal Enterprises.

If she were as vigilant as her reputation suggested, she'd question my sudden appearance. So, I set the stage. I instructed SERA to plant a digital trail—a flight manifest, security footage, anything to suggest I had arrived in Russia two days prior, just another wealthy man on business.

I didn't need a plane. I dissolved into mist, the night air rushing past me as I streaked toward the pub. Halfway there, a thought stopped me cold: What am I wearing? The answer was absurd. Pajamas. The kind meant for solitude, not for stepping into a den of intrigue. I veered sharply toward a 24-hour mall, its fluorescent lights a stark contrast to the velvet darkness outside. Inside, I moved like a shadow, selecting a black suit—tailored, understated—and a full-length coat that would swallow the light. In minutes, I was dressed, transformed, ready.

The pub was a low-lit cavern, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the murmur of hushed conversations. I materialized just outside, my body solidifying as I stepped through the door. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the cold outside, but it did little to thaw the tension coiling in my chest.

Claire sat alone at a corner table, her FBI-issued blue coat slung over the back of her chair. The white shirt she wore was pristine, untouched by the grime of the night, and her black pants blended into the shadows beneath the table.

A glass of vodka sat in front of her, the liquid untouched, her fingers tracing the rim as if it were a lifeline. Her gaze was fixed on the glass, lost in thought, her expression unreadable. Around her, a group of men drank in a cluster, their eyes flickering toward her more often than chance would allow.

I approached the bar, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath my steps. The bartender, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, looked up as I took a seat. "Wine," I said, my voice low but clear.

He nodded, reaching for a bottle without a word, pouring the deep red liquid into a glass. As I turned to survey the room, my eyes met Claire's—just for a second—before she looked away, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

Does she know?

I didn't need to wonder long. I reached out with my mind, brushing against the surface of her thoughts like a feather against silk. Her mental voice was sharp, guarded, but the words were unmistakable: [He... he's that billionaire, Jack Reynolds. What the hell is he doing here?]

So, she recognized me. And yet, she pretended otherwise. The realization sent a thrill through me, sharp and electric. This was no accidental meeting. This was a chessboard, and we were both players.

I carried my wine to her table, the glass catching the dim light as I moved. Without waiting for an invitation, I took the seat beside her. The scent of her perfume—something floral, subtle—mingled with the smoky air. "American?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I wanted to hear her voice, to see how she'd play this.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. They were a storm—gray, unyielding, searching for something. "Yes," she said, her voice steady, but there was a flicker beneath it, something unreadable. A challenge. A warning.

The men at the nearby table had gone quiet, their conversation stilled as they watched us. The air between Claire and me crackled with something unspoken, a current of tension that hummed beneath the surface.

I took a sip of my wine, never breaking her gaze. "Mind if I join you?" I asked, though I already had.

The air in the pub had been thick with the scent of stale beer and cheap cologne, but beneath it, something darker lingered—tension, like the quiet before a storm. I had barely registered the shift in the room when my instincts flared.

The men at the nearby table—six of them, rough-faced, their jackets slightly bulging at the sides—moved with a predator's stillness. Their hands twitched, fingers brushing against the cold metal of guns hidden beneath their coats. Then, the man by the door stood, casual, unhurried, and stepped outside. The click of the lock sliding into place was a death sentence in the making.

Claire had noticed too. I saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers tightened around her glass, her knuckles turning white. But she didn't move. Not yet. Her eyes flicked toward the men, then back to her vodka, her expression unreadable. Why isn't she reacting?

I wondered. Does she know them? Are they here for me? No—that was impossible. No one knew I was here. These men had been in the pub before I arrived. Which meant they were here for her.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying over the screen as I messaged SERA: "Identify the men in the pub." The reply came instantly, glowing in the dim light: "Nickolai's men."

A cold realization washed over me. Nickolai's men. Targeting Claire. That meant his network was deeper, his reach far more extensive than I'd thought. But there was a silver lining—they didn't recognize me. To them, I was just another face in the crowd, an irrelevant bystander.

Then, everything happened at once.

Claire's grip locked around my wrist like a vise. "Jump!" she hissed, her voice a razor's edge cutting through the noise. Before I could react, she yanked me forward with a strength that belied her frame.

The world blurred as she hauled me over the tabletop, our bodies crashing onto the other side in a tangle of limbs. Bottles rattled violently as we landed behind the bar, the wooden shelves groaning under our weight. The scent of spilled liquor filled my nose, sharp and intoxicating.

The first gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.

Claire moved before the echo died. Her gun was in her hand in an instant, a sleek black pistol that gleamed dully in the dim light. She didn't aim—she knew. Her arm was steady, her finger squeezing the trigger in rapid, controlled bursts. Pop-pop-pop! The muzzle flash lit up her face in stark relief, her jaw set, her eyes cold and focused. She wasn't shooting to kill—yet. She was buying time.

"Stay down!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. A bullet whizzed past my ear, embedding itself in the wood behind me. Splinters rained down like deadly confetti.

I ducked lower, my heart hammering against my ribs. Claire's eyes flicked to me, assessing. "You hit?"

I shook my head, my voice barely more than a breath. "No. But who the hell are these guys? Who are you?"

She fired another round, the gun bucking in her grip. "FBI!" she snapped. "That's all you need to know!"

A shadow moved to my left. The bartender—his face twisted in betrayal—had a shotgun in his hands, the barrel swinging toward Claire. There was no time to think. I lunged, snatching a half-empty vodka bottle from the floor and hurling it with all my strength.

It smashed against his shoulder, throwing off his aim. Claire didn't hesitate. Her shot was clean, precise. The bartender's head snapped back, his body crumpling to the floor with a sickening thud.

Claire grabbed my arm again, her fingers digging in. "We move! Now!"

She kept me in front of her, her body shielding mine as she fired behind us, the gunshots a relentless staccato. The air was thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder, the taste of it metallic on my tongue.

We crouched low, weaving through the chaos, our breaths ragged. A bullet ricocheted off the bar, sending a spray of wood chips into the air. Claire's arm was a band of iron around my waist, pulling me forward.

"We're not making it out if we stay here!" she shouted over the gunfire. She pressed a set of keys into my hand. "You know how to drive, right?"

I nodded, my voice shaking. "Y-yeah."

"Good." Her eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unyielding. "Black SUV outside. Go. I'll hold them off. They won't follow you."

I heard the whisper of her thoughts, sharp and clear: [I can't let him die because of me. Not another one.]

She kept firing, her movements a blur as she ejected a spent magazine and slammed a fresh one home. "Back door!" she yelled, nodding toward it. "Just go! Don't look back!"

I hesitated. "What about you? You're coming with me!"

Claire's gaze was steel. "No time! Go!"

I turned, my hand on the door handle—as I pretended to be a coward. Then, I spun back, grabbing a nearby shelf and yanking it down with a roar. Bottles exploded against the floor, the sound a symphony of destruction. Claire's eyes widened in shock as I dragged her toward the exit, her gun still barking death behind us.

"I'm not leaving you!" I shouted over the chaos.

We burst through the door, the cold night air hitting us like a slap. Claire didn't argue. She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the SUV.

The SUV's tires screeched as we tore away from the pub, the adrenaline still burning through my veins like wildfire. The silence in the car was thick, suffocating, broken only by the ragged rhythm of our breathing. Claire's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had turned white, her jaw clenched as if she were holding back a storm.

Claire's head snapped toward me, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and something else—something raw and unguarded. "You idiot!" she exploded, her voice a whip-crack in the confined space. "Do you have any idea what just happened back there? Those men were—they don't play games! You could've been killed!"

I met her gaze, unflinching. "But I wasn't. Because of you."

"That's not the point!" she snapped, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. The car swerved slightly before she corrected it, her voice rising. "You ran back for me! You threw a shelf at them like some kind of—of action hero! Do you have a death wish? Or are you just stupid?"

I exhaled sharply, my own frustration bubbling up. "I wasn't going to leave you to die. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"A dead one if you keep pulling stunts like that!" she shot back, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You don't understand what you're dealing with! These people—they don't care who gets caught in the crossfire! You could've been another body on the floor, another statistic in this damn war!"

I clenched my fists, my voice rising to match hers. "And what if you had been the one left behind? Would you have just walked away?"

Claire's breath hitched, her eyes flickering with something—guilt, maybe, or the ghost of memories she didn't want to face. For a second, the fire in her seemed to falter. But then it roared back, fiercer than before. "That's different! I'm trained for this! I know what I'm doing! You? You're just some—some civilian who got dragged into my mess!"

I leaned forward, my voice low and intense. "I'm not just anything. And I sure as hell wasn't going to let you face that alone."

She glared at me, her chest heaving with each breath. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the distant wail of sirens—someone must've called the cops after the gunfire.

Finally, Claire's shoulders sagged slightly, some of the fight draining out of her. "You're impossible," she muttered, more to herself than to me.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to regain control. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you into this. Those men—they were after me. You never should've gotten involved."

I shook my head. "It's fine. We're both safe. That's all that matters now."

She shot me another look, her eyes still burning with leftover anger. "Aren't you angry?"

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "At you? The person who just saved my life? Should I yell at you for that?"

Claire's expression softened slightly, something almost like bewilderment flickering across her face. "You're... not like others."

I raised an eyebrow. "What others?"

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the road ahead. "Doesn't matter." She shook her head, as if physically dismissing the thought. "Right now, we just need to hide. I need to contact my people."

I nodded, watching as she pulled into the parking lot of a run-down motel. The place was the definition of forgotten—peeling paint, a flickering "No Vacancy" sign that clearly lied, and an overall air of decay. No cameras, no prying eyes. Just the kind of place you'd go if you didn't want to be found.

Claire killed the engine with a sharp twist of her wrist; the sudden silence in the car was almost deafening after the chaos of the night. She turned to me, her hand outstretched, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Your phone."

I didn't hesitate—but not for the reason she thought. Instead of handing over my real device, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a brand-new phone, identical to mine in every way.

I'd procured it from the SUDIX store, a perfect replica generated from my system storage. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been in my pocket all along.

I placed it in her palm, watching as she turned it over, examining it with a critical eye. For a moment, I wondered if she'd sense the deception—but her focus was on survival, not scrutiny.

Without a word, she rolled down the window and hurled the phone onto the asphalt. It hit the ground with a dull crack, the screen splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. A second later, her own phone followed, shattering beside it. The sound was final, irreversible—a symbolic severing of ties to the world that had just tried to kill us.

I hid my satisfaction behind a neutral expression. Good. She'll never know. If I'd given her my real phone, I would've lost access to SERA, and the thought of reinstalling her on a new device was a hassle I didn't have time for. This way, I kept my advantage—and my secrets.

Claire turned back to me, her expression unreadable in the dim glow of the motel's flickering neon sign. "Let's go," she said, her voice low and tired. "We'll figure out the next move inside."

The motel room was everything you'd expect from a place like this: forgotten, barely functional, and reeking of desperation. Claire had booked it in cash, her movements swift and efficient, her eyes scanning the parking lot for any sign of a threat.

The room itself was small—a double bed with a sagging mattress, a TV bolted to the wall with a remote that looked like it hadn't worked in a decade, and a washroom so cramped it felt more like an afterthought than a necessity.

The curtains were thin, the kind that did little to block out the world, but Claire drew them shut anyway, her fingers lingering on the fabric as if she could physically seal us off from the dangers outside.

Claire locked the door with a sharp, decisive click, the sound echoing through the cramped motel room like a final judgment.

She turned to face me, her back pressed against the door as if she were the last line of defense between us and the world outside. Her chest rose and fell with the remnants of adrenaline, her eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime assessing threats.

She was memorizing every detail—the position of the bed, the flimsy lock on the window, the way the light from the parking lot bled through the thin curtains.

I broke the silence, my voice low but steady. "So what's next?"

Claire exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing around the grip of her gun before she finally lowered it. "We wait," she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. "My team should try to contact me, but..." She hesitated, her brow furrowing. "I don't know if they're still safe. If Nickolai's men got to them, we're on our own."

I nodded, the gravity of our situation settling over me. "And if they don't contact you?"

She met my gaze, her expression unreadable. "Then we figure out another way. But for now, we stay put."

A beat of silence passed between us, thick with unspoken tension. Claire pushed off the door and moved toward the bed, her steps measured, controlled. She sat down on the edge, testing the mattress with a skeptical glance before turning back to me. "We should get some sleep," she said, her voice softer now, the sharp edges of her adrenaline fading into exhaustion. "We don't know what's coming tomorrow."

I watched as she climbed onto the bed, her movements efficient, practiced. The gun slipped under her pillow before she settled onto her right side, facing me. "Well?" she prompted, her tone a mix of irritation and fatigue. "Are you just going to stand there all night, or are you getting in this bed?"

I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the bed from the other side, shrugging off my coat and letting it fall to the floor. I lay down, turning onto my left side so we were facing each other. The mattress groaned under our combined weight, the springs protesting with every shift.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was charged, like the quiet before a storm. I studied her face, the way the dim light from the bathroom cast shadows under her eyes, the faint scar above her eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before. It made her look even more formidable, like someone who had been through hell and come out the other side stronger.

"Do you often end up in situations like tonight?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Claire's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not most missions," she admitted. "But some..." She trailed off, her gaze distant, as if she were reliving something she'd rather forget. "Some get messy. Some get bad."

I frowned. "Doesn't it ever get to you?" I pressed. "I mean, it's dangerous. What about your family? Do they even know what you do?"

Claire's eyes snapped back to mine, sharp and unyielding. "No," she said flatly. "And they never will. This life... it's not something I want them to worry about." She paused, her voice softening just a fraction. "But I love what I do, Reynolds. This is the job I chose. It's who I am."

I couldn't help but smile slightly. "You're quite the adventurous type, Agent Starling."

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And you're surprisingly calm for a civilian," she shot back. "Most people would be losing their minds after a night like tonight. But not you, Mr. Jack Reynolds."

I chuckled. "So you do know who I am."

"Who doesn't?" she retorted, her tone dry. "The famous billionaire who built an empire overnight? You're the kind of guy who makes headlines whether he wants to or not."

I waved a hand dismissively. "It's not as glamorous as it sounds. But since we're exchanging names..." I raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't I get yours in return?"

Claire studied me for a long moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. Then, finally, she relented. "Claire," she said simply. "Claire Starling."

I repeated her name softly, as if testing its weight. "Claire Starling." It suited her—sharp, unyielding, a little untouchable.

She held my gaze for a beat longer, her expression unreadable. "You're not what I expected, Jack," she admitted, her voice quiet.

"Most civilians would've run the second the shooting started. But you..." She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn't quite figure me out. "You stayed. You fought."

I met her eyes, my voice equally soft. "I couldn't just leave you behind. Not after what you did for me."

Claire's gaze flickered away for a moment, as if my words had caught her off guard. When she looked back at me, there was something new in her expression—something raw, almost like gratitude, but tinged with a vulnerability she didn't let many see. "Get some sleep," she murmured, her voice already thick with exhaustion. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

I nodded, but I knew sleep wouldn't come easily. Not after everything. Not with the weight of the night still pressing down on me. "I'll be right back," I said quietly, slipping off the bed and padding toward the washroom. The door clicked shut behind me, the dim light flickering to life as I pulled out my phone.

I didn't waste time. "SERA," I whispered, my voice barely audible, the bathroom fan humming just loud enough to mask my words. "Update me on Natalya's team. And Claire's people."

The response flashed across the screen like a blade to the ribs:

"Italian forces bombed the apartment where Andrey and Claire's team were stationed. No survivors."

Italian forces?

My mind raced. Where the hell did the Italians come from? Then SERA's analysis unfolded, piece by piece, and the brutal genius of it hit me like a freight train.

Andrey wasn't just a double agent—he was a triple one. The Italians had known. They'd known he was playing both the FBI and Nickolai, that he was positioned to betray them all when the time came. So they'd acted first. Not just to eliminate a traitor—but to frame Nickolai.

A bomb in the heart of the city. No survivors. The FBI would blame Nickolai. The Americans would hunt him down with everything they had. And while Nickolai was busy running—or dying—the Italians would swoop in, taking over his empire without firing a single shot of their own.

Brilliant. Ruthless.

I leaned against the sink, my reflection staring back at me in the cracked mirror. The man looking back wasn't just Jack Reynolds, billionaire. He was a storm waiting to break. A force that didn't just play the game—it rewrote the rules.

I pulled up Natalya's contact, my fingers flying over the screen.

"Natalya," I typed, my message sharp and direct. "I handled the FBI. Stand your people down. And tell your father to leave Claire alone. I will handle her."

I hit send. No reply. Of course not—it was the middle of the night. Natalya was asleep, oblivious to the bloodbath unfolding around her. But she needed to know. Needed to understand.

I hesitated only a second before making my decision. If Natalya was going to trust me, she needed to see the truth about my powers. I decided to show her my abilities in the morning.

When I stepped back into the room, Claire was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady, her gun still tucked beneath her pillow like a promise. I stood there for a moment, watching her—the woman who had saved my life without hesitation, who had fought like a cornered wolf. She had no idea how deep the conspiracy ran. How much darker the game had become.

The faint scent of her perfume—something sharp, floral, unyielding—filled the air. I let myself breathe it in before lying down, the weight of the night pressing down on me like a tombstone.

When I woke, the room was bathed in the eerie glow of the TV. Claire was already awake, her back rigid as she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes locked on the screen. I rubbed my eyes, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, and turned to see what had her so transfixed.

The news anchor's voice cut through the silence like a blade:

"Breaking news: A terrorist attack has leveled an entire building in the heart of the city. Authorities are still investigating, but early reports suggest no survivors."

Claire's hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned bone-white, her entire body trembling with a rage so deep it seemed to vibrate in the air between us. "Fuck," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief.

"That's my team. That's Andrey." Her breath hitched, her shoulders shaking as she turned to me, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. "Nickolai did this," she said, her voice raw, broken. "He bombed them. He killed them all."

The pain in her voice was a physical force, a blade twisting in my chest. I could see it—the way her world was crumbling, the way the loss was carving something out of her. She wasn't just angry. She was destroyed.

I reached for her, my hand hovering over her shoulder before I let it rest there, gentle but firm. "Claire," I said, my voice low, steady. "Look at me."

She didn't. Her gaze was locked on the TV, on the images of the smoldering ruins, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, the reporters speculating about casualties. "They're gone," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Just like that. Gone."

"I know," I said, my grip tightening slightly. "And I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for this. But you can't do this alone. Not like this."

Her head snapped toward me, her eyes burning with a fury so intense it was almost terrifying. "I can do this alone," she spat. "I have to. Because if I don't, who will? The FBI? They don't even know yet. They're still scratching their heads, trying to figure out what the hell happened. By the time they do, Nickolai will be long gone, laughing while he sips his fucking vodka in some safe house halfway across the world."

"And what if he's not?" I countered, my voice calm but unyielding. "What if he's waiting for you? What if this is exactly what he wants—for you to come at him blind with rage, so he can finish the job?"

Claire's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. "I don't care," she snarled. "I don't care if it's a trap. I don't care if I die. I just—" Her voice broke, the raw emotion in it cutting her off.

She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the gun she'd pulled from beneath her pillow. "I just need him to hurt the way I do right now."

I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. Instead, I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I get it. I do. But you're not thinking straight. And if you go out there like this, you will die. And then what? Nickolai wins. Everyone wins except the people who deserve justice."

I didn't try to correct her about Nickolai. Not now. The truth—that the Italians had orchestrated the bombing, that Nickolai's men had tried to kill her just hours ago—would only complicate things.

Right now, her rage was a wildfire, and if I tried to redirect it too soon, she'd shut me out completely. But I would guide her toward the real enemy. The Italian Mafia. They were the ones pulling the strings, the ones who needed to burn.

She glared at me, her chest heaving with the effort to keep herself together. "So what do you suggest, Jack?" she snapped, her voice raw with grief and fury. "That I just sit here while he gets away with it? That I wait for the FBI to maybe do something while he's out there, living?"

"No," I said firmly, stepping closer so she could see the resolve in my eyes. "I suggest we do this smart. We find him. We make him suffer. But we do it together."

Claire let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "You don't get it," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she'd lost. "This isn't your fight."

"It is now," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "Because I'm not letting you walk into a slaughterhouse alone. Not after last night. Not after this." I gestured toward the TV, where the smoldering ruins of the bombing played on a loop.

She stared at me for a long moment, her expression a storm of grief, fury, and something else—something fragile, almost like hope. But then she turned away, her jaw clenching so tight I could see the muscle twitch. "You don't know what you're asking," she said, her voice quieter now, the fight draining out of her. "This isn't some boardroom negotiation. This is war."

I stepped in front of her, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I know exactly what I'm asking," I said, my voice low and steady. "And I know what I'm offering. You're not alone in this, Claire. Not anymore."

She searched my face, her eyes flickering with something unreadable—distrust, maybe, or the first cracks in the armor she'd built around herself. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why would you do this? You don't owe me anything."

"Because I can," I said simply. "And because no one else will."

For a long moment, she just stood there, her grip on the gun loosening slightly. The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but the blind fury had faded, replaced by something colder. Something deadlier.

Finally, she exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging just a fraction. "Fine," she said, her voice steadier now, though no less lethal. "But we do this my way. No heroics. No stupid risks. We find him, we make sure he pays, and we get out alive."

I nodded. "Your way."

She wiped the last of the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, her jaw setting with lethal determination. "Good," she said, her voice a blade once more. "Because Nickolai doesn't get to walk away from this."

Then, her expression darkened further. "We're on our own," she said, her voice hollow. "According to protocol, the FBI will assume I'm dead, too. So no one's coming to save us now."

She looked at me, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Do you have money?"

I pulled out an international bank card—no limits, no questions—and handed it to her. "Use what you need."

Claire took it, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second. "I'll be back soon," she said, already moving toward the door. "I'm getting weapons. You stay here." She paused, her voice softer. "I'll repay you once this is over."

"It's okay," I said, but she was already gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

I didn't waste time. "SERA," I murmured, "monitor Claire's movements. Alert me if she's in danger or if she's being followed."

The response was instant. "Affirmative."

I checked the time—7 a.m. The city was waking up, unaware of the storm brewing beneath its surface. I had to move. Natalya needed to know the truth.

I teleported back to the room where Natalya was still sleeping, her face soft with a sweet, untroubled smile. I took my phone, asking SERA to delete every message I'd sent earlier. If I were going to explain this to her, it would be in person. No miscommunications. No doubts.

I changed back into the pajamas and bandages I'd worn before, slipping into bed beside Natalya. She stirred slightly, her body warm against mine as she nuzzled into my arms with a contented sigh.

I held her tightly, my mind racing with everything I needed to tell her—the truth about the Italians, about Claire, about the war that was coming. But for now, in this quiet moment, I let myself pretend the world outside didn't exist.

Natalya murmured sleepily, "Husband...", her eyes fluttering open. I kissed her—slow, deep, possessive—before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "There's something you need to see," I said, my voice low, charged with something electric.

Her eyes widened as the air around us hummed with energy. Then, with a flick of my will, telekinesis surged to life. Natalya gasped as her body lifted from the bed, floating effortlessly across the room.

The sheets slipped away, leaving her bare, suspended in midair as if gravity itself had surrendered to me. Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists as she hovered, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and exhilaration.

Natalya jolted awake as I materialized beside her, her eyes flying open in shock. "What the..?" she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and confusion.

She scrambled back slightly, her gaze darting over me as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing. "What is going on?!"

I didn't hold back. Not anymore. "I'm an Incubus," I said, my voice low but steady. "And I have powers—telekinesis, teleportation, a healing factor," I told her about all my abilities.

Her eyes locked onto me, wide with disbelief. Then, hearing about the details of the healing factor, she surged forward, her fingers flying to my chest.

She yanked at the bandages, her breath hitching as she found no wound beneath. "You were acting this whole time?" she demanded, though the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement. "All those bandages, all that pain—it was all a lie?"

I dropped to my knees in front of her, my voice a mix of playfulness and sincerity. "Forgive me, boss," I pleaded, pressing my forehead against her stomach. "I just wanted you to love me."

She laughed, the sound rich and warm, before tugging me back up to face her. "Oh, I do," she murmured, her fingers tangling in my hair. "But you're still in trouble for lying to me." Her eyes sparkled with excitement, her pulse quickening as she traced her thumb over my lips. "Quickly, tell me what else you're hiding."

I grinned, but then my expression sobered. "There's more you need to know."

Her smile faded, sensing the shift in my tone. "Tell me everything."

I took a deep breath. "My real name isn't Viper," I told her the truth about my real identity. She was shocked, her mind racing as she realized her people had never found a single flaw in my cover.

Then I told her about SERA.

Natalya's eyes widened, her breath catching. "An artificial intelligence?" she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. I also gave her the watch and installed SERA in it using her laptop.

I told her about Claire and her team's situation.

Natalya's grip on my hands tightened, her nails digging into my skin just enough to ground herself in the moment. "Claire," she repeated, her voice a blade honed by years of survival. "The FBI agent who came with Andrey." Her eyes narrowed, the pieces clicking into place. "So she's out there, right now, hunting my father—thinking he's the one who killed her team."

"Exactly," I confirmed, my voice low. "And the Italians are counting on it. They want her to take the fall for this, or die trying. Either way, they win."

Natalya exhaled sharply, her mind already racing ahead. "We can't let her throw her life away on a lie." She released my hands, standing up with the fluid grace of a predator. "But we can't just tell her the truth, either. Not yet. She's too far gone on rage. She won't believe us."

I followed her lead, rising to my feet. "Then we show her."

Natalya turned to me, her dark eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "How?"

"We give her a target," I said, my voice steady. "Not your father. Not yet. Someone else—someone connected to the Italians. Someone she can sink her teeth into without realizing she's being led."

A slow, predatory smile curled Natalya's lips. "You mean... we feed her the truth. Piece by piece."

"Exactly," I said. "We let her follow the breadcrumbs. Let her think she's hunting Nickolai, but every step she takes brings her closer to the Italians instead. And when she finally sees the truth for herself?" I let the implication hang in the air.

Natalya's smile widened. "She'll burn them all for it."

"And we'll be right there to make sure she doesn't get burned in the process," I finished.

Natalya nodded, already moving toward her desk where a sleek laptop lay open. "Then we start now," she said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'll pull up every Italian asset in the city. We find the weakest link—the one Claire can break without setting off alarms."

I stepped beside her, watching as she cross-referenced names, locations, and connections. "What about your father?" I asked. "He's still a target. If Claire gets to him before we can redirect her—"

"He won't," Natalya interrupted, her voice firm. "I'll make sure of it. My father's been surviving wars since before I was born. He'll go underground until this blows over." She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. "But you're right. We can't leave him exposed. Not with Claire out there."

I nodded, my mind already racing ahead. "Then we need to move fast. Claire's not the type to wait. She's already out there, and she's not stopping until someone's blood is on her hands."

Natalya's fingers paused over the keyboard, her gaze locking onto mine. "Then we make sure it's the right blood." She turned back to the screen, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Starting now."

I watched as she pulled up a file, a name highlighted in red: "Marco Rossi. Mid-level enforcer for the Italians. Cocky. Reckless. And right now, he's holed up in a warehouse near the docks, overseeing a shipment of weapons meant for the Italian Mafia."

A slow grin spread across my face. "Perfect. He's the kind of target Claire won't be able to resist."

Natalya shut the laptop with a sharp snap, her eyes meeting mine. "Then let's set the trap." She reached for her phone, her voice cool and calculated as she began issuing orders. "And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

Her gaze was steel. "Make sure she doesn't get herself killed before she realizes who the real enemy is."

I smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Natalya's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good. Because if she dies before she takes down Rossi, I'm holding you personally responsible."

I chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Understood."

She tossed me a burner phone, her expression all business. "Use this to feed her the intel. Anonymous tip. Untraceable. Make it look like it's coming from one of Nickolai's men—someone desperate to save their own skin."

I caught the phone, my mind already crafting the message. "And what are you going to be doing while I'm playing?"

Natalya's smile turned razor-sharp. "Me? I'm going to make sure the Italians don't see us coming until it's too late." She grabbed her coat, her movements fluid, lethal. "Now go. Claire's running out of time—and so are we."

The familiar hum of energy coursed through me as I shifted back into the suit and coat I'd worn when I first met Claire. The fabric settled against my skin like armor, a reminder of the role I needed to play.

With a thought, I teleported back to the motel, the dimly lit room materializing around me. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee, old carpet, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline that still clung to the walls from the night before.

"SERA," I murmured under my breath, "Where's Claire?"

The response flashed across my mind instantly, sharp and precise like a blade unsheathed.

"Claire visited an internet café downtown. Purchased weapons and ammunition from the dark web—two handguns, extra magazines, and a tactical knife. She also contacted a hacker under the alias 'GhostByte' for intel on Nickolai's known locations."

I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around the edge of the sink. Of course she did. Claire wasn't the type to sit idle while her enemies breathed. She was already three steps ahead, arming herself for a war she didn't even fully understand yet.

"She has also contacted her Russian friend named Yelena," SERA continued, "using the dark web message system. Now she's on her way back. ETA: seven minutes. She stopped to pick up breakfast."

I smirked. Of course she did. Claire wasn't the type to let chaos disrupt her routine. If anything, she'd use it as fuel.

Exactly seven minutes later, the door creaked open. Claire stepped inside, her sharp eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who expected an ambush. Satisfied, she locked the door behind her with a sharp click and turned to face me. Without a word, she tossed a brown paper bag onto the bed.

"Here," she said, her voice clipped but not unkind. "Have some breakfast. You look like you need it."

I reached for the bag, peeking inside to find a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a container of what smelled like a cheese omelet, and a small carton of orange juice. Claire pulled out a sandwich for herself, unwrapping it with practiced efficiency before taking a bite.

I followed suit, grabbing my own sandwich and the omelet. The food was surprisingly good—warm, fresh, the kind of thing you'd find at a 24-hour diner that catered to night-shift workers and fugitives.

Claire chewed thoughtfully, her gaze flicking to the window before settling back on me. "We can't stay here," she said, her voice all business. "This place is compromised. We need to find another location—somewhere off the grid, somewhere they won't think to look."

I nodded, taking a bite of my sandwich. "Yeah, I get it," I said between chews. "I've seen it in movies—once you're targeted, you've got to keep moving. Stay one step ahead so the enemy can't lock onto your location."

Claire let out a short, humorless chuckle, shaking her head as she swallowed another bite. "You and your movies," she said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips.

"This isn't some Hollywood thriller, Reynolds. This is real life. And in real life, there are cameras everywhere. Face recognition, license plate readers, traffic cams—you name it. You think you're being clever by moving around? All you're doing is giving them more breadcrumbs to follow."

She took a sip of the juice, her eyes never leaving mine. "The second you step outside, you're being tracked. The second you use a credit card, a phone, hell, even a loyalty card at some gas station, they've got you. And trust me, Nickolai's got people who know how to exploit that."

I wiped my hands on a napkin, feeling the weight of her words. "Yeah, you're right," I admitted, setting the sandwich down. "I guess I shouldn't trust my nerd brain to handle real-world espionage."

Claire's smirk deepened, but it didn't reach her eyes. There was no real amusement there—just the exhausted acknowledgment of someone who'd seen too much to find humor in our situation.

"Stick to what you're good at, Jack," she said, finishing her sandwich and crumpling the wrapper into a tight ball. "And right now, that's staying alive and letting me handle the rest."

I took a sip of the juice, the sweetness cutting through the tension in the room. "So what's the plan?" I asked, keeping my tone light but my focus sharp. "Another motel? A safe house? Or are we going full fugitive and hiding out in an abandoned warehouse like a couple of action movie clichés?"

Claire's expression turned serious, her mind already working through the logistics. "Somewhere without cameras," she said, her voice low and deliberate. "Somewhere we can disappear for a few hours while I figure out our next move. Somewhere clean—no ties to me, no ties to you, no digital footprint."

She leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as she considered the options. "I've got a place in mind. But we'll need to move fast. Nickolai's men aren't stupid. They'll be scanning every motel, every cheap rental, every back-alley hideout in the city by now."

I set down the juice, meeting her gaze. "Then let's not give them the chance," I said, my voice steady. "Lead the way, Agent Starling. I'm right behind you." I knew she was going to meet Yelena.

Claire studied me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine as if trying to decide whether to trust me. Finally, she gave a sharp nod, her jaw setting with determination. "Good," she said, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. "Because we're running out of time. And I'm not letting Nickolai slip through my fingers."

I didn't argue. I didn't remind her that Nickolai wasn't the real enemy—not yet. Instead, I stood up, brushing the crumbs from my hands and grabbing my coat. "Then let's go," I said, my voice firm. "But Claire?"

She paused, turning to look at me with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"We do this together," I said, holding her gaze. "No lone-wolf heroics. Promise me that."

Claire's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I can't make that promise, Reynolds," she said, her voice quiet but unyielding. "Not after what he did. Not after what I've lost."

I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I get it. I do. But if you go in blind, if you let rage cloud your judgment, you're going to get yourself killed. And then what? Nickolai wins. Everyone wins except the people who deserve justice."

She held my gaze for a long moment, the conflict playing out behind her eyes. Finally, she exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging just a fraction. "Fine," she said, her voice gruff. "But if I see an opening, I'm taking it. No hesitation."

I nodded, accepting her terms. "Fair enough," I said, grabbing my coat and slipping it on. "But we stick together. No splitting up, no disappearing acts. Deal?"

Claire's eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. "Deal," she said, though there was a hint of reluctance in her voice. "But if things go south, I'm not waiting around for you to catch up."

I smirked, despite the gravity of the situation. "Wouldn't dream of it, Agent Starling," I said, gesturing toward the door. "After you."

Claire grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder with a practiced ease. "Stay close," she said, unlocking the door and stepping out into the dimly lit hallway. "And for God's sake, try not to look so much like a billionaire. We're supposed to be hiding."

I followed her out, pulling the hood of my coat up to shadow my face. "No promises," I muttered, falling into step beside her. "But I'll do my best."

Claire shot me that sideways glance again, her lips twitching like she was fighting back a smirk. "That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered, already scanning the parking lot with the sharp eyes of a predator. Her gaze locked onto a nondescript silver sedan—nothing flashy, nothing memorable, the kind of car that would blend into traffic like a ghost. Perfect.

She didn't hesitate. With a fluid motion, she stepped closer to me, her body pressing against mine in a way that was very deliberate. "Nickolai's men are looking for two people on the run," she murmured, her voice dropping into a sickly-sweet tone that didn't match her at all.

"But they won't be looking for a couple." Her hands slid around my arm, her fingers digging in just enough to sell the act, and—oh—her body was definitely pressed against mine in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.

"Honey," she cooed, batting her eyelashes in a way that was so over-the-top it had to be a joke, "let's go."

I exhaled through my nose, playing along despite the fact that this was not how I'd expected my morning to go. "Yeah," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Lead the way, darling."

Claire's smirk deepened for half a second before she turned us toward the sedan. She didn't head straight for it—no, she sauntered, her hips swaying just enough to sell the act, her grip on my arm tight enough to make it look like we were lovers out for a morning stroll.

When we reached the car, she leaned against it, her free hand sliding into her pocket.

"Watch the corners," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled out a slim, black tool—some kind of lockpick gun—and pressed it against the driver's side door. A quiet click, and the door unlocked.

I raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

Claire shot me a look, her fingers already working on the ignition. "You sound surprised."

"I am," I admitted, watching as she hot-wired the car in under ten seconds. "I didn't take you for a car thief."

"It's borrowing," she corrected, the engine roaring to life. "And it's part of the training. You'd be surprised what they teach you when you're in the FBI."

I buckled my seatbelt as she peeled out of the parking lot, my voice dry. "Remind me never to park my car near you."

Claire laughed—a real, genuine sound that cut through the tension. "Too late."

The drive was a maze of detours, Claire taking us through back alleys, circling blocks, and even doubling back once just to make sure we weren't being followed.

After nearly two hours of evasive maneuvers, she finally pulled into the shadow of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place looked like it had been forgotten by time—rusted metal, broken windows, the kind of spot that screamed hideout to anyone who knew where to look.

She killed the engine, and before I could even unbuckle, the warehouse door groaned open. A woman stepped out, her sharp features and dark hair marking her as Russian before she even spoke. She broke into a run, throwing her arms around Claire the second she was close enough.

"I thought you were dead," the woman—Yelena—said, her voice thick with relief.

Claire hugged her back just as fiercely, though her tone was all dry humor. "I'm not that easy to kill, bitch."

Yelena pulled back, her gaze flicking to me with a smirk that was all mischief. "Claire," she purred, "I didn't expect you to be in such a... heat. Couldn't help but bring a man along even when you're on the run?" Her eyes raked over me, assessing, amused. "Or is this a new tactic? Distract the enemy with your charm?"

Claire groaned, shoving Yelena lightly. "This is Jack," she said, her voice flat. "He's a friend. A civilian."

Yelena's smirk only deepened, her gaze lingering on me with open curiosity. "A civilian, huh?" She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a teasing purr. "And here I thought Claire only worked with professionals." Her fingers tapped her chin, her eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Jack—how does a civilian end up mixed up in this?"

I crossed my arms, matching her smirk. "Lucky, I guess."

Yelena barked out a laugh, looping her arm through Claire's as she led us inside. "Oh, I like him," she declared, shooting me a wink. "He's got spirit."

Claire rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't fall out. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, you missed me," Yelena shot back, her grin unrepentant. She turned to me, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "She always misses me."

Claire shoved her again, though there was no real heat in it. "We don't have time for this."

Yelena sobered slightly, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. "Fine, fine. Business first." She gestured toward the warehouse's interior, where a small, makeshift living space had been set up—cots, a table littered with maps and weapons, a generator humming in the corner. "You two look like hell. Sit. Eat. Then we talk."

Claire didn't argue, though she shot Yelena one last warning look before turning to me. "You. Stay close."

I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of wandering off."

Yelena's laugh echoed through the warehouse as she tossed me a bottle of water. "Smart man." She leaned in, her voice a teasing whisper. "But if you do wander off... let me know. I'll show you the real fun parts of this city."

Claire made a sound that was half-growl, half-exasperated sigh. "Ignoring her is the best strategy," she muttered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

I grinned. "Noted."

Yelena winked. "Liar."

Yelena leaned against the rusted metal table, her dark eyes glinting with mischief as she studied Claire. "So," she drawled, her voice dripping with amusement, "do you even know who's really behind this attack?"

Claire's jaw clenched, her fingers tightening around the water bottle in her grip. "It can only be Nickolai," she said, her voice sharp with conviction. "We came here to target him. This is his style—brutal, direct, no subtlety. He's the one who blew up my team."

Yelena's smirk deepened, her gaze flicking to me before returning to Claire. "Or," she purred, stepping closer, "it could be someone else trying to stir things up. Make you chase shadows while the real enemy slips away."

Claire's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know something?"

Yelena shrugged, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. "I don't know anything," she admitted, her voice dropping into a teasing whisper. "But things don't seem that simple, dorogaya(dear). Nickolai's a monster, but he's not stupid. If he wanted you dead, he would've done it himself—not blown up a building and painted a target on his own back."

Claire's fingers twitched around the bottle, her knuckles turning white. "I've already contacted GhostByte," she said, her voice clipped. "We'll have all the information we need by tonight. I gave him your message address on the deep web—check if he's replied."

Yelena nodded, pulling out a burner phone and tapping at the screen with long, manicured fingers. "Fine. But if this is bigger than Nickolai, you're walking into a trap." She looked up, her expression shifting into something far more dangerous. "Do you need weapons? I can contact—"

"Already bought them," Claire interrupted, her voice dry.

Yelena's eyebrows shot up, her lips parting in mock surprise. "The FBI didn't assume you were dead? How the hell did you get approval for that?"

Claire's smirk was all teeth. "I didn't."

Yelena burst out laughing, shaking her head. "Bullshit. You? Spend your own cash? Please. I know you better than your own panties, Claire. You'd never—"

"It's Jack's money," Claire said, her voice laced with annoyance.

Yelena's eyes lit up, her gaze snapping to me with sudden, predatory interest. "Oh?" she purred, stepping closer, her hips swaying with deliberate seduction. "Is he rich?"

Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't even think about it."

Yelena's smirk deepened, her voice dropping into a husky whisper as she sauntered over to me. "What? Is he your boyfriend?" She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear, her body pressing against mine in a way that left no room for misunderstanding. "Or are you just jealous?"

I cleared my throat, my pulse kicking up despite myself. "I'm right here, you know."

Claire shot me a look before turning back to Yelena, her voice flat. "No, he's not my boyfriend. You can have him if you want."

Yelena's grin turned downright wicked. "Oh, thank you," she purred, her fingers trailing down my arm before she pressed her body fully against mine. "Tell me, Jack..." Her voice was a velvet whisper, her scent—dark, spicy, intoxicating—filling my senses. "Do you like older sisters?" Her hand slid up my chest, her nails grazing lightly over my collarbone. "Or do you prefer younger ones?"

I swallowed hard, my mind racing as her body molded against mine. "I—"

Claire's hand shot out, grabbing Yelena by the shoulder and yanking her away with a force that made it clear she was done with this game. "Leave him alone," she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation.

Yelena laughed, unrepentant, as she stumbled back. "Oh, someone's territorial."

Claire's glare could've melted steel. "I'm not."

"Sure, sure," Yelena said, her smirk never wavering. "Keep telling yourself that, darling." She stepped closer again, her gaze locked onto me with open hunger. "But if you change your mind, Jack..." She leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, "You know where to find me."

Claire groaned, rubbing her temples. "I hate both of you."

Yelena laughed, looping her arm through Claire's again, though her eyes never left mine. "No, you don't." She shot me one last, lingering smirk. "But after this? We're drinking."

Claire muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "I'd rather shoot myself."

I couldn't help but laugh, though my pulse was still racing from Yelena's little performance—her fingers trailing over my arm, her body pressed against mine, the way she'd whispered in my ear like she was sharing a secret meant only for me. It was intoxicating, dangerous, and entirely too distracting.

Yelena's eyes sparkled with mischief, her smirk never fading as she leaned against the table, watching Claire with the kind of amusement that only came from years of pushing each other's buttons. "See? He gets me," she purred, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Claire pinched the bridge of her nose again, her voice tight with frustration. "I need a gun and magazines," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I've run out."

Yelena didn't miss a beat. She sauntered over to the kitchen cabinet, her hips swaying with deliberate slowness, every movement calculated to draw the eye.

She pulled out two sleek, black handguns and four extra magazines, tossing them onto the table with a clatter that echoed through the warehouse.

"I just have these," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "And I want them back." She slid one of the guns toward Claire, her fingers lingering on the grip for a second longer than necessary, her eyes flicking up to meet Claire's with a challenge.

Claire caught it, checking the chamber with practiced ease. "Thanks," she muttered, though her tone made it clear she wasn't thrilled about owing Yelena anything. She didn't look up, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened around the gun like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

The hours dragged on as we waited for nightfall. Yelena's teasing never let up, her energy a constant hum in the background, filling the silence with jokes and innuendos that kept Claire on edge and me caught between amusement and the creeping sense that we were all playing with fire.

She flirted with Claire, with me, even with the idea of the three of us teaming up like some kind of dysfunctional heist crew. Claire endured it with increasingly thin patience, her responses growing sharper, her glare more pronounced every time Yelena pushed a little too far.

"You're insufferable," Claire snapped at one point, after Yelena had made yet another suggestive comment about the three of us sharing a bed.

Yelena just laughed, unfazed, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You love me," she shot back, her voice light but her gaze sharp.

"I'd rather shoot myself," Claire muttered, though there was no real heat in it. She was too focused, too wired, her mind already on the mission ahead.

Yelena just winked at me, as if to say, See? She's already mine.

Finally, as the clock ticked past midnight, Claire stood abruptly, her expression all business. The playful banter, the tension, the teasing—it all fell away, replaced by the cold, hard focus of someone who knew exactly what she was walking into. "It's time," she said, her voice firm. "I'm going to get the weapons. I asked them to be delivered at 12:30 A.M. Both of you stay here."

Yelena didn't hesitate. She was already on her feet, grabbing her coat and slipping it on with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. "I'm coming with," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "In case something goes wrong."

Claire's jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she nodded. "Fine. But we move fast."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Claire cut me off before I could even get a word out. "No," she said, her voice sharp. "You should stay here."

Yelena, however, had other ideas. She turned to me, her gaze assessing, her voice smooth and persuasive. "Maybe we should bring him along," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "He'll be safer with us."

Claire shot her a look, her eyes narrowing. "He's a civilian."

Yelena countered, her voice firm. She turned to me, her expression serious for once. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

I nodded, meeting her gaze. "I know. I've practiced at shooting ranges."

Yelena's smirk never faded as she tossed me one of the guns, her fingers brushing against mine just long enough to make it clear she was enjoying this a little too much. "Good," she said, her voice laced with approval, "then you're coming with us."

Claire exhaled sharply, her frustration clear, but she didn't argue. Instead, she handed me the second gun, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made it clear she wasn't happy about this. "Stay close," she said, her voice low and firm, "and do not do anything stupid."

I nodded, and we piled into the car—Yelena behind the wheel, Claire in the passenger seat, and me in the back. The engine roared to life, and we pulled out of the warehouse, the city lights blurring past us as Yelena drove with the confidence of someone who knew every backroad and shortcut in the city.

Claire directed her to the pickup spot, her voice tight with tension. "Twenty minutes," she said, her eyes scanning the streets like she expected an ambush at every turn.

Yelena glanced at her, her smirk turning into a teasing grin. "You sure have to choose these scary places for pickup points," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Couldn't just meet at a café like normal people?"

Claire shot her a look. "We're on the run, idiot," she snapped, though there was no real heat in it. "We don't get the luxury of 'normal.'"

Yelena just laughed, steering the car into the shadow of an abandoned building. The place was a shell—crumbling concrete, broken windows, the kind of spot that screamed trap to anyone with half a brain.

She parked the car, killing the engine, and turned to us. "Both of you stay here," Claire ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument. "If anything goes wrong, provide backup. If we get separated, we meet at Yelena's safe house."

Yelena and I nodded, though my pulse was already kicking up. Claire shot me one last look—something unreadable in her eyes—before stepping out and shutting the door behind her.

Yelena turned to me, her expression shifting into something almost playful. "Don't be nervous," she said, her voice light. "Your wife will be fine. Don't worry about her."

I frowned. "She's not my wife."

Yelena's smirk deepened. "Do you want her to be?" she asked, her voice dropping into a teasing purr. "Because if you do, you'll have to work hard for it." She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"But..." she drawled, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel, "if you want me to be your wife..." She grinned, her voice dropping into a husky whisper. "You don't have to work hard at all. Haa."

Even in this situation—with Claire outside, with the weight of the night pressing down on us—Yelena was in the mood to chat and laugh. But I knew it was a front. Her fingers were resting on the trigger of her gun, her eyes sharp, her body coiled like a spring. If Claire needed help, Yelena would be there in a heartbeat.

I watched through the windshield as Claire approached the other car, her steps cautious, her hand hovering near her weapon. She reached the back trunk, her fingers gripping the handle—

And then I saw it.

A figure emerged from the shadows, a gun pressed against the back of Claire's head. My breath caught.

"Come out, both of you!" a female voice shouted, sharp and commanding. "I know you're in the car!"

I recognized them instantly.

Irene and Alisa—Natalya's bodyguards.

And the woman holding the gun to Claire's head?

Polina.

Irene and Alisa moved like shadows, positioning themselves on either side of our car, their shotguns leveled with practiced precision. "Come out," Irene ordered, her voice cold and unyielding. "And don't play any tricks."

I exchanged a glance with Yelena, whose usual smirk had vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. She didn't move, her fingers still resting on the trigger of her gun, but the tension in her body was unmistakable. "Seems like we're outnumbered," she muttered under her breath, her voice low and dangerous.

I noticed something else, too—Irene and Alisa didn't look surprised to see me. Not even a flicker of recognition or shock. That meant one thing: This was Natalya's plan.

But why hadn't SERA warned me?

My mind raced, but there was no time to dwell on it. Polina, still holding her gun to Claire's head, called out, "We don't mean any harm."

Claire's voice was sharp, her body rigid with tension. "What do you mean by all this?"

Polina's lips curled into a cold smile. "My boss wants to meet you."

Claire's eyes narrowed. "Who is your boss?"

"You'll find out soon," Polina replied, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Irene stepped forward, her shotgun never wavering. "Guns. Now."

Yelena exhaled sharply but didn't resist as Irene reached in and took our weapons, her movements swift and efficient. "Smart choice," Irene muttered, her voice devoid of warmth.

Polina gestured with her gun. "Get in the car. We're taking a little drive."

The ride was silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Claire sat rigidly in the back with me, her jaw clenched, her eyes burning with barely contained fury.

Yelena, ever the wildcard, leaned back in her seat, her expression unreadable, though I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

Irene and Alisa flanked us, their shotguns never far from reach, while Polina drove with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she was going.

And then, the familiar outline of Natalya's safe house—the cabin—came into view.

Irene and Alisa moved with cold efficiency, separating us without hesitation. Claire's voice cut through the tension like a blade as they dragged her and Yelena toward a different room. "Where are you taking him?!" she demanded, her voice sharp with fury.

Polina didn't flinch. "The boss wants to meet both of you," she said, her tone calm but final. "He isn't needed. So he needs to wait."

I met Claire's eyes, forcing a reassurance I didn't entirely feel into my voice. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Claire's glare could've melted steel, but she didn't fight as Irene and Alisa led her away. Yelena, ever the wildcard, shot me a look that was equal parts I'll kill them all and don't do anything stupid. Then she was gone too, disappearing down the hallway with the two bodyguards.

Polina gestured for me to follow her, her grip firm but not unkind as she guided me into a separate room. The door clicked shut behind us, the sound final.

"Where's the boss?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm of questions in my mind.

Polina didn't look at me. "She's in that room with them."

She.

My pulse spiked.

Polina turned to me, her expression unreadable. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softer than before. "I mean... your injuries. Are they fine now?"

I met her gaze, my voice even. "I'm fine."

She nodded, then moved to the far wall, where a flat-screen TV was mounted. With a press of a button, it flickered to life, revealing a live feed from the room where Claire, Yelena, and Natalya now stood.

Polina didn't look at me as she spoke. "The boss placed cameras in the room. She wanted you to watch this."

The room on the screen was tense, the air thick with unspoken threats and simmering rage. Claire stood in the center, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into her own skin as if she needed the pain to stay grounded.

Yelena was beside her, her usual smirk replaced by a sharp, calculating focus, her eyes darting between Natalya and the door like she was already planning three different ways to kill everyone in the room if things went south.

Natalya leaned against the desk, her posture deceptively relaxed, but there was something in her eyes—a cold, calculating gleam that made my stomach twist. Diana was standing behind Natalya with a gun in her hand.

"You're Natalya," Claire said, her voice low and lethal, each word clipped with barely contained fury. "Why have you brought us here?"

Natalya's lips curled into a slow, mocking smile, her fingers tapping idly against the desk. "I just wanted to have a little chat," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "After all, we have so much to discuss, don't we?"

Yelena's patience snapped like a wire under too much tension. "Quit stalling," she hissed, her voice sharp as a blade. "Get to the point, or I swear to God, I'll make sure you regret wasting our time."

Natalya didn't even flinch. Instead, she reached into her coat with deliberate slowness, pulling out a thick file and tossing it onto the table between them. The sound it made as it hit the surface was loud in the silence. "We share a common enemy," she said, her voice suddenly cold, all traces of amusement gone. "And if you're smart, you'll listen to what I have to say."

Claire's eyes flicked to the file, then back to Natalya, her expression guarded, her body coiled like a spring. "How do I know this is true?" she demanded, her voice tight with suspicion. "How do I know you aren't just playing another one of your games?"

Natalya's smirk faded, her expression darkening into something colder, something that made my skin crawl. "Because, Agent Starling," she said, her voice dropping into a tone that was almost conversational, "I don't have time to waste on children." She paused, her gaze locking onto Claire's with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Not when the Italians are circling like vultures, ready to pick our bones clean."

Claire didn't react outwardly, but I could see it—the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the way her jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. She wasn't buying Natalya's act. Not yet. But she wasn't dismissing it, either. The file on the table was still there, untouched, like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Then, without warning, Claire turned to Yelena, her voice sharp and decisive. "We're leaving." She looked back at Natalya, her expression unreadable. "I'll verify this," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "If it's true... I don't mind working with you to deal with those Italians."

Natalya's lips curled into a slow, calculating smile. "As you please," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "And as a gift, I've prepared a car for you. Loaded it with all kinds of guns and ammunition." She gestured lazily toward the door. "Think of it as a gesture of goodwill."

Claire nodded, her expression still guarded, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—hope, maybe, or just the desperate need for answers. She took a step toward the door, then paused, turning back to Natalya. "Where is Jack?"

Natalya's smile didn't waver, but her eyes gleamed with something cruel. "Oh," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "he was useless. I asked my people to kill him." She shrugged, as if she were talking about the weather. "He would've just been baggage. And you don't need to thank me."

The words hit like a gunshot.

Claire's entire body went rigid, her face draining of color. "What?" she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Natalya's smirk was pure venom. "Jack," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Such a shame, really. He was... useless to me. So I had him taken care of."

Claire's breath hitched, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "No," she said, her voice breaking, "tell me it's not true." Her eyes were wide, her expression crumbling, the carefully constructed mask of control shattering in an instant. "No... Jack..."

Natalya's laugh was cold, mocking. "Why are you crying?" she said, her voice laced with amusement. "He was just no one. A civilian who got in over his head. What did you expect?"

Claire's voice was raw, her body trembling. "I'll kill you," she snarled, her words trembling with fury and grief. "He was my.... my..... my friend."

Natalya's smirk deepened, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Just friends?" she taunted, her voice dripping with disdain. "Or friends with benefits?" She waved a hand dismissively. "Either way, it doesn't matter. He's already dead. Don't waste time talking about dead people."

Claire's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, her entire body shaking with barely contained rage. "You bitch," she hissed, her voice a blade. "I'll end you."

Natalya just laughed, her voice cold and unfeeling. "Oh, Agent Starling," she said, her tone dripping with mock pity, "you really think you're in any position to make threats?"

The way Claire was reacting—the way her face had crumpled, the way her voice had broken—it felt like she had some feelings for me after all.

Polina didn't look at me, didn't react at all, her expression carefully neutral. But I could see it—the way her fingers twitched, the way her breath hitched just slightly.

Claire's body tensed like a coiled spring, her muscles locking as she prepared to lunge at Natalya. But before she could move, Diana stepped forward, her gun leveled at Claire's chest with lethal precision. "Don't," Diana warned, her voice cold and unyielding.

Yelena's hand shot out, grabbing Claire by the shoulder and yanking her back with a force that left no room for argument. "Not now," Yelena hissed, her voice a low, deadly growl. "We're outnumbered, and she's baiting you."

Claire's voice was raw, her eyes burning with tears and fury. "This is not over," she snarled, her body trembling with barely contained rage.

Natalya's smirk was infuriating, her voice dripping with mocking amusement. "Wait," she said, her tone sickeningly sweet. "I was just kidding." She turned to Diana, her expression shifting into something almost bored. "Bring him in."

Diana's finger twitched near the trigger of her gun, but she didn't lower it. Instead, she touched the Bluetooth device in her ear, her voice barely audible. "Bring him in."

A crackle of static, and then Polina's earpiece lit up with the same command. She didn't look at me, but her voice was firm, her grip on my arm tightening just slightly. "Let's go."

Polina's hand pressed firmly against my back, propelling me forward into the room. The second the door swung open, Claire's head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto me—alive, unharmed, whole. For a heartbeat, she just stared, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps, her lips parted as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Then, with a choked sob, she lunged.

Her body crashed into mine with a force that nearly knocked me off balance. Her arms wrapped around me like steel bands, her fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt, clutching at me as if I were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. "You're fine," she gasped, her voice breaking, her breath hot against my neck. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

I could feel every inch of her pressed against me—her chest heaving, her body trembling, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. And God, her breasts—full, heavy, crushed against my chest as she clung to me, the softness of them molding to the hard planes of my body.

The pressure was intense, her nipples firm against me even through the layers of clothing, as if her body was reacting to the relief, the fear, the need to confirm I was real. I could feel the way they shifted slightly with every ragged breath she took, the way her body seemed to melt into mine, like she was trying to fuse us together.

I forced my expression into one of confusion, my hands instinctively lifting to her shoulders as I gently pushed her back just enough to look into her face. Her cheeks were wet, her lashes clumped with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and wild. "Claire, what's happening?" I asked, my voice carefully bewildered as I reached up to wipe the tears from her face with my thumbs. "Why are you crying? Did she do something to you?"

Her breath hitched, her hands still gripping my shirt like she was afraid I'd vanish if she let go. "She—she said you were—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, her throat working. "She said you were dead."

I let my eyes widen in shock, my voice carefully controlled. "What? No, I'm right here. I'm fine." I cupped her face, my thumbs brushing away the last of her tears. "I'm not going anywhere."

Natalya's chuckle cut through the moment like a blade. "Oh, don't thank me just yet," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "It was really a good show, wasn't it?"

Claire's grip on me tightened, her body tensing as she turned her glare on Natalya. "What the hell was that?" she demanded, her voice shaking with fury. "Some kind of sick joke?"

Claire's body went rigid against mine, her grip tightening almost painfully as she pulled back just enough to glare at Natalya over my shoulder. "What do you mean by this?" she demanded, her voice shaking with fury, her chest still pressed flush against mine, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

Natalya waved a hand dismissively, her smirk infuriating. "Relax. It was just a joke," she said, her tone mocking. "No need to be that serious."

Claire didn't let go of me. Not even for a second. If anything, her hold tightened, her body still molded to mine like she was afraid I'd vanish if she loosened her grip. "You bitch," she snarled, her voice raw, her breath hot against my skin.

I could feel the way her heart pounded against my chest, the way her body trembled—not just from anger, but from something deeper, something primal. The way her breasts pressed into me, the heat of her, the need—it was almost too much. Too real. Too intimate.

The heavy door of Natalya's safe house clicked shut behind us, the sound echoing like a final judgment. The night air was cool, biting, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiled in my chest.

Claire walked ahead, her shoulders rigid, her steps sharp and unyielding. Yelena followed, her usual swagger replaced by a quiet, lethal focus. I brought up the rear, my mind still reeling from the twisted game Natalya had just played.

We piled into the car—Yelena behind the wheel, Claire in the passenger seat, and me in the back. The engine roared to life, and we pulled away from the cabin, the tires crunching over gravel as we disappeared into the night.

The city lights blurred past us, but inside the car, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken words, with rage and relief and something darker, something that felt like betrayal.

Claire was quiet.

Too quiet.

She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles white. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, but I knew she wasn't seeing it.

She was lost in thought, turning something over in her mind—something that terrified me. Her breath came in slow, controlled inhales, like she was fighting to keep herself from unraveling. Every so often, her fingers would twitch, as if she were imagining wrapping them around Natalya's throat.

Yelena drove in silence, her grip on the wheel so tight her knuckles were bone-white. She didn't speak, didn't glance back at me, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched every time her eyes flicked toward Claire. The car hummed beneath us, the engine a low, steady growl as we cut through the empty streets, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon and shadow.

Finally, Yelena broke the silence, her voice low but sharp. "Claire..." she said, her tone careful, like she was testing fragile ground. "Are you okay?"

Claire took a deep, shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of the seat. "Yeah," she said, her voice too steady, too controlled. "I'm fine."

But she wasn't.

I could hear it—the thoughts she didn't voice, the fear she didn't let herself acknowledge. Her mind was a storm, and I reached out with my telepathy, just enough to catch the edges of her turmoil.

[I... I don't know what's happening...] [Why do I feel so afraid to lose Jack...?] [Even though we've only known each other for a few days...] [But this feeling is so... annoying.]

My chest tightened. She wasn't just afraid. She was terrified. Not of Natalya, not of the Italians—of losing me. And she didn't understand it. Didn't want to. Because it didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. It wasn't her.

We drove back to Yelena's safe house, the warehouse looming in the darkness like a fortress. The car rolled to a stop inside, the engine cutting off with a final, exhausted sigh. We unloaded the guns and ammunition Natalya had sent—boxes of rounds, sleek black pistols, even a few rifles wrapped in oilcloth. Claire moved mechanically, her hands steady, her expression distant. Yelena worked beside her, her usual smirk replaced by a quiet, deadly focus.

The warehouse was quiet except for the hum of Yelena's laptop and the distant drip of water from a leaky pipe. Claire sat rigidly at the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate like she was memorizing its shape. She hadn't touched her food. Hadn't looked at me since we left Natalya's. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, with the kind of tension that made my skin prickle.

Yelena, on the other hand, was anything but quiet.

She leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her dark eyes flicking between Claire and me with a smirk that promised trouble. "You're both so tense," she purred, her voice dripping with amusement. "Like a couple of wound-up springs. Or maybe just wound up in general." She let out a low, throaty laugh, her fingers tapping idly against the table. "Claire, dorogaya, you look like you're about to snap. And Jack—" Her gaze slid to me, slow and deliberate, like a caress. "You look like you're about to combust."

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "It's been a long day."

"Mmm, I'll say," Yelena hummed, her lips curling into a smirk. She stood, stretching like a cat, her body arching just enough to make it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. "But you know what they say about stress, yes?" She stepped closer, her hips swaying with every movement, her fingers trailing along the back of my chair. "The best way to relieve it is to let go."

Claire's jaw clenched, but she didn't look up.

Yelena's smirk deepened as she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. "Or maybe you just need a distraction," she murmured, her voice a velvet whisper. "Something to take your mind off things." Her fingers brushed against my shoulder, slow and deliberate, before sliding down my arm. "Or someone."

I tensed, my pulse kicking up despite myself. "Yelena."

"Hmm?" She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Just offering, solnyshko," she purred, her voice dropping into something darker, something that sent a shiver down my spine. "You look like you could use it."

Claire's fingers twitched against the table, but she still didn't look up.

Yelena's laughter was soft, knowing. She stepped back, her gaze sliding to Claire. "Or maybe she's the one who needs it," she said, her voice teasing but edged with something sharper. "You've been avoiding him all night, Claire. Like he's going to bite." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or maybe you're just afraid he will."

Claire's head snapped up, her eyes burning with something raw and furious. "Shut up, Yelena."

Yelena just grinned, unfazed. "Or what?" she taunted, her voice light. "You'll shoot me?" She laughed, stepping back with a flourish. "Please. We both know you'd miss."

Claire's breath hitched, but she didn't deny it.

Yelena's gaze slid back to me, her smirk turning wicked. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into something slower, something that felt like a promise, "if you ever get tired of playing the knight in shining armor..." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, "My door is always unlocked."

Then she pulled back, her laughter ringing through the warehouse as she sauntered away, her hips swaying with every step.

Claire's fingers curled into fists on the table.

I exhaled, my pulse still racing.

Yelena turned back, her smirk never fading. "Let me tell you a secret," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "She's divorced." She stepped closer, her fingers brushing against my arm again. "Her husband was a professor. Very smart. Very boring." Her lips curled into a smirk. "And very unfaithful."

Claire's breath hitched, but she didn't react.

Yelena's voice dropped into something softer, something almost sympathetic. "She came home early from a mission once. Found him in their bed with one of his students." She shook her head, her expression darkening for just a second. "Men like that don't deserve women like her."

Then her smirk returned, her voice turning teasing again. "But you?" She leaned in, her gaze locking onto mine. "You might have a chance." She stepped back, her laughter ringing through the air. "If you can keep up."

Claire finally looked at me, her expression unreadable.

Yelena winked. "Or, if you can't hold out..." She gestured toward the hallway, her voice dropping into something darker. "My room is unlocked." Then she laughed, stepping away with a chuckle. "Just kidding."

But the way she looked at me made it clear she wasn't.

Not entirely.

The warehouse was quiet except for the distant drip of water from a leaky pipe. Claire sat rigidly at the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate like she was memorizing its shape.

She hadn't touched her food. Hadn't looked at me since we left Natalya's. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, with the kind of tension that made my skin prickle.