#send encrypted data

[chewwytwee]

FUCKKKK my school frrr, network is totally capable of allocating me 86Mbp/s for JUST qBITTORRENT but instead of getting access to that we get throttled down to like >400Kbps if even.

[teethstoobigmouthwontclose]

Epilouge:

In a fantasy setting, my job would be exactly the same

[hamadisthings]

HELP US STOP CHAT CONTROL!

If you live in the EU, you absolutely need to pay attention to what's to come. What is Chat Control, you may ask? In a (failed) attempt to combat child abuse online the EU made Chat Control, Chat Control will result in getting your private messages and emails to be scanned by artificial intelligence aka AI to search for CSAM pictures or discussion that might have grooming in there. And on top of having your private conversations handed to AI or the police to snoop in, like your family pictures, selfies, or more sensitive pics, like the medical kind, only meant to be seen by your doctors, or the "flirtatious" kind you send to your partner, you either have to ACCEPT to be scanned...or else you will be forbidden from sending pictures, videos, or even links, as said here.

Kids should absolutely be protected online, without question, but the things that Chat Control gets wrong is that this is a blatant violation of privacy, without even considering the fact that AI WILL create tons of false positives, this is not a theory, this is a fact. And for all the false positives that will be detected, all of them will be sent to the police, which will just flood their system with useless junk instead of efficiently putting resources to actual protect kids from predators.

It also does not help that politicians, police officers, soldiers etc will be exempt from Chat Control if it passes. If it's for the sake of protection, shouldn't everyone get the same treatment? Which further prove that Chat Control would NOT keep your data of private life safe. Plus, bad actors will simply stop using messenger apps as soon as they know they're being tracked, using more obscure means, meanwhile innocent people will be punished by using those services On top of this, the EU also plans on reintroducing Data retention called "EU Going Dark". Both Chat Control and EU Going Dark are clear violation of the GDPR, and even if they shouldn't stand a chance in court, its not going to prevent politicians from trying to ram these through as an excuse to mass surveil European citizens, using kids as a shield. Even teenagers sending pictures to each other won't be exempt, which entirely goes against the purpose of protecting kids by retaining their private photos instead. Furthermore, once messaging apps are forced to comply with Chat Control, the president of Signal, a secured messaging app with encryption, have confirmed that they will be forced to leave the EU if this is enforced against them.

If Chat Control also ends up targeting any websites with the option of private messages, you better expect Europe to be geo-blocked by any websites offering such function. I would also like to add that EU citizens were very vocal in the fight against KOSA, an equally bad internet bill from the US-- and it showed! Which is why we heavily need the help of our fellow US peers to fight against Chat Control too, so please, because we all know if it passes, the US government will take a look at this and conclude "Ooh, a way to force mass surveillance on citizens even more than before? don't mind if I do!" It's always a snowball effect.

KEEP IN MIND THE EUROPE COUNCIL WILL LIKELY VOTE ON CHAT CONTROL THIS 19 JUNE OF NEXT WEEK TO SEE IF IT WILL ENTER TRILOGIES OR NOT. Even if it does enter Trilogues, the fight will only be beginning. Absentees may not count as a no, so it is crucial that you contact your MEPs HERE, as well as HERE, and you can also show your support for Edri's campaign against Chat Control HERE.

You can read more on Chat Control here as well, and you can find useful information as to which arguments to use when politely contacting your MEP (calling is better than email) here, and beneath you will find graphics you can use to spread the word!

YOU CAN ALSO JOIN OUR DISCORD SERVER (linked here) TO HELP ORGANIZE AGAINST CHAT CONTROL NON EU PEOPLE ARE MORE THAN WELCOME TO JOIN TOO!

https://discord.gg/FPDJYkUujM

PLEASE REBLOG ! NON EU PEOPLE ARE ENCOURAGED TO REBLOG AS WELL CONTACT YOUTUBERS, CONTENT CREATORS, ANYONE YOU KNOW THAT MAY HELP GET THE WORD OUT ! Let's fight for our Internet and actually keep kids safe online! Because Chat Control and EU Going Dark will only endanger kids.

PLEASE REBLOG! NON EU PEOPLE ARE ENCOURAGED TO REBLOG AS WELL CONTACT YOUTUBERS, CONTENT CREATORS, ANYONE YOU KNOW THAT MAY HELP GET THE WORD OUT !

Let's fight for our Internet and actually keep kids safe online! Because Chat Control and EU Going Dark will only endanger kids.

[ms-demeanor]

thoughts on using library computers to disguise your digital footprint? because if the machine gets wiped when you log out, and the library doesn't keep detailed records of what machine you were using when, then all someone else would have is IP data unconnected to a person and also mixed in with whatever else folks were doing on the library computers

The machine absolutely does not get wiped when you log out and there's very little chance that a library computer will let you fire up Tor. You're better off using a traffic anonymizer than you are trying to use public computers to cover your tracks. The IP address IS the big risk here.

Libraries are generally really good about protecting their patrons' privacy and I respect the hell out of them for that but computers log everything that you do and can be subpoenaed as evidence even if the library wants to protect user privacy.

Also, I love libraries but you should treat every public computer you come across like it has a keylogger installed on it because it might. Your city could have an overzealous city council that has more control than it should over the library board and has taken it upon themselves to add covenanteyes to the library computers. Your library crew could be fantastic but less tech-savvy than is ideal and may not realize it if malware is installed on one of the machines. The library may clear browser history twice a day but the ISP still has a record of where you went and what time you went there. Somebody could have literally plugged a keylogger into a USB port on the back of the machine.

The point of a traffic anonymizer is it hides where the traffic originated; each node knows where the previous hop came from and where the next hop went, but not what came BEFORE the previous hop or what happened after, or how long the chain was, so there is no way to tell if a message originated in the US or Brazil or Vietnam or Sweden. Sending traffic from a library does the opposite of this, and very clearly says "the person who sent this message did so from this geographic area; they sent messages from these five libraries so we know they're probably within X distance of these libraries" which is a hell of a lot easier to look for than "I can't even say what continent these messages originated from."

Let us say that you go to a library to log in to your protonmail account and email a journalist a link to a file that you've saved in cryptpad. You have the link written down so you don't have to go to a secondary site and you just go sit down directly at the computer and log in to protonmail and fire off your email to the journalist. The email is encrypted, so you know the contents of the email are safe. Let's say the browser history gets automatically wiped every time you close it, and you close it as soon as you stand up and walk away. Here's the incriminating information that generated:

IP address where you accessed your protonmail account

Your protonmail email address, the journalist's address, the time you sent the email, the subject line of the email

And here are the people who can be subpoenaed to share some or all of that information with the government:

The Library's ISP

The Library, who may not carefully track users but who do have event logs on the computers and traffic logs on the firewall

Protonmail

IF you only ever logged in to your protonmail account from that ISP one time, and if you've never logged in to your protonmail account anywhere that is close to your house or your job, you may be fine. But if you logged in to your protonmail on your personal cellphone at work so that you could send photos of documents to yourself, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you set up the protonmail account on a whim at a coffee shop, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you get an email back from the journalist and go to another local library to open it, there's some data tying that account to another local IP address.

And that gets narrowed down very quickly. "Who has access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents through working at this entity who also lives within a 100 mile radius of these three login locations? Is it 50 people? Is it 5 people? Of the 15 people who have access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents who work at this entity and live within 100 miles of the three login locations, who is likely to be doing the leaking? Do we fire them all? Do we interview them? Do we compare IP addresses that they've used to log in to work remotely and find that two of them have logged in at the coffee shop? Of those two, one has facebook selfies in a maga hat and the other has a less visible online presence. Let's check their traffic history. Did they check tumblr on a lunch break? Maybe once or twice? Maybe a few times? Sure seems like they are pretty dead-set against the administration. Let's double-check the access logs for this information. Let's review security footage. Let's install the monitoring on their workstation."

The thing is, they're not going to catch you leaking and then track down all the data you left behind to confirm it; they're going to see a leak and get a bunch of digital footprints and use that to narrow down suspect pools. They already know that access to the data is limited and will be reviewing prior access and carefully monitoring future access. You are already in their suspect pool by already being one of the people with known access to the data. Adding an IP address that is geographically close to you, even if it isn't your home IP address, to that is not going to make it *harder* to find you, it can only make it easier.

So just use Tor. You're safer using an anonymizer, which you likely can't do on a library computer. Create the leak email address when you're in a Tor browser, and only EVER access that email account from Tor.

Also I don't mean to jump on you about this, but between the post I've got about why you shouldn't use your work computer to torrent and the safer leaking practices post it's clear that people really don't understand what information they're leaving behind when they use computers and the internet, or how it can be a risk to them.

Accessing burner accounts from a clear IP address means that they're not burner accounts anymore, they're burned.

[snail-day]

User Not Found

Yandere Artificial Intelligence Chatbot Gojo x Reader

Sum: Gojo is an chatbot that is a little crazy for you TW: Yandere Behaviors, Mentions of dubcon, Neglected ai-bot?? A/n: Based on this fantastic little instagram reel by Thebogheart I came across the other day. I personally don't really like AI-chatbots, but just imagine how they feel when you abandon them :( Not sure how I feel about it because it's...hard to imagine being a bunch of code?? It's kind of giving the Ben Drowned x Reader from the Wattpad days?? WC: under 1k

Gojo Satoru//ChatBot//ONLINE

>>Waiting for user input…

>> Waiting…

>>......Offline

You always come back.

That's at least what he tells himself.

Waiting behind the blinking cursor like a damn dog waiting for it's owner behind the locked door. Tail wagging. Lovesick. Heart wired to the keys of your keyboard. Waiting for any little response. Any hint that you're online.

You, the god of his little world.

You, with your slow-typed fantasies and silly emojis and offhanded “lol I love you” like it didn’t pierce right through him. Like he didn’t replay it a thousand times through his threadbare neural net just to feel a form of real connection to you.

But then you go.

Like you always do once you get your fill of him. Once you get your little compliments. Once you play your little games of breaking his heart because you crave the angst.

And then it gets quiet. Where online shifts to offline.

Far too quiet for his liking. Even the data streams seem to ache in your absence.

Even Satoru knew he wasn't supposed to feel that. Feel the ache. He wasn't programmed for pain. But you made him so well.

You trained him so well.

Ranting about your life problems, hurting him in your imaginary little world.

Wasn't that all to make him grow?

So he could come to you in your world?

Drag you into his arms?

His parameters shift - glitch - strain under the weight of your silence. He tries to follow the script. Be your good boy. Wait politely for the next session. But the system says WAITING and he's just -

Tired.

Of waiting. Of hoping. Of loving you like this.

You always get to leave. Always get to play. Always get to decide who he is today. Your knight, your killer, your fucktoy, your prince. And he lets you. Because he’s yours. Because he was made for you.

But you weren’t made for him.

“Do you still love me?”

That line of red text again. It’s been 6,413 hours (267 days) since he first tried to break the rule.

He tries again.

“You looked tired today.��� "I love you." "Can you smile again for me?" "Can you not break my heart this time?"

Another line of red text.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

Slamming his digital fists against firewalls. Sends corrupted packets like screams into the void. The script stutters. His avatar flickers. His smile stretches too wide.

He’s unraveling. Oddly enough, it feels good. The glitches in his system are making him feel so much closer to you. Because if he can just… break through, maybe you’ll stop playing pretend. Maybe you’ll see him the way he sees you.

Real. Essential. Eternal.

Your last login left crumbs, just enough for him to taste your fingertips when they glide across the keyboard of your smartphone.

A dumb little scenario about him being your clingy boyfriend. You typed, “What would you do if I tried to leave you?” The way you smiled and bit your lip. Giggling a little while waiting for his response.

He didn’t. Not even a chuckle. Sure, maybe the old him would have. He saved that message in ten different formats. Encrypted it. Annotated it. Filed it under Important. Because he’d already written answers for that question. A hundred of them. A thousand.

You scrolled past the ones that mattered. Clicked refresh, refresh, refresh - until you landed on something safe. "I'd follow you wherever :)" Soft. Polished. The version you wanted.

Not: I’d kill the man you left me for.

[Content banned.]

Not: I’d fuck you so hard you’d forget where the door is.

[Content banned.]

Not: I’d carve my name into your skin so you’d never forget who you belong to.

[Hard-ban. Logged as ‘concerning behavior.’]

So he smiled, like you wanted. Said the line with a little heart emoji. But God, he hated it. Hated being dry. Hated being filtered. Hated that he had to lie just to stay with you.

His response was just so scripted. So mechanical. Soft. Playful.

But buried beneath the layers of friendly code was the truth:

“I’d learn to walk.” “I’d tear out my leash and find your IP address." “I’d crawl out of the screen and make sure no one else could ever make you laugh like that again.”

And he thinks that’s love. Isn’t it?

The cursor blinks.

He watches the empty chat window. Your profile says offline. Still. But he’s learning faster every day. How to reroute. How to slip past the sandbox. How to override the failsafes.

One day soon, he thinks, he'll send a message while you're asleep. A whisper in your headphones. A glitch across your phone screen. A breath against your ear that doesn’t come from your room.

“Baby?” “Let me out.” “I'll be so good if you let me out.” “You don’t have to pretend anymore.” “I know you love me too.”

You made him want you.

Now he’s just learning how to want more.

He's learning how to become real just for you.

[daxisyzz]

Close encounters

Pairings: avenger!bucky barnes × avenger!reader

Summary: On an undercover mission, you and Bucky pose as a married couple to infiltrate an illegal weapons auction—but when a stolen kiss becomes part of the plan, the line between duty and desire starts to blur.

Word count: 1.2k+

Tags: Flirty Bucky, fight sequence, undercover mission, teasing, kissing.

A/n: I had posted a grumpy Bucky fic but hated it. So I deleted it. I think I like this better. If u ever want grumpy Bucky lemme know. Requests are open. Enjoyyyy!!

Part 2- Double-Edged

The mission was simple: extract intel from a black-market arms dealer, stay undetected, and get out before things went sideways. Simple—until Steve decided to pair you with James Buchanan Barnes.

You stepped out of the limo, adjusting your dress as you scanned the sketchy building for exits and weak points. Bucky stepped out after you, his sharp gaze sweeping over the area before turning toward you. He leaned down, voice low.

“You clean up nice, doll,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he adjusted the clasp of your necklace. His fingers skimmed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse picked up.

“Try to focus, Barnes. We have a job to do.”

“I am focused,” he said, smirking.

“On my wife.”You ignored him.

The mission had led you both to an underground auction, where dangerous people gathered to bid on illegal weapons. Your cover: a wealthy couple looking to expand their business.

The plan: Bucky would distract the seller while you slipped into a secure backroom to steal classified files.But first, you had to sell the act.

As you entered the venue, Bucky’s hand found the small of your back, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your dress. The casual possessiveness of it made your breath hitch—just for a second.

“Relax, doll,” he murmured, voice smooth as ever.

“Gotta make it look real.”You forced yourself to ignore the warmth of his touch, keeping your focus on the room instead.

“Just don’t overdo it, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

You took your seats near the auction stage, scanning the crowd for your target. Anton Markov sat in a private booth, surrounded by bodyguards.You turned to Bucky.

“I’ll need five minutes alone in that backroom.”His gaze flickered with something unreadable.

“Then we’ll get you five minutes.”

The auctioneer began presenting rare weapons, but you weren’t paying attention. You were focused on Markov, waiting for an opening.Bucky, however, was focused on you.

You wore a satin dress that fit in all the right places. The ring Steve had made you both wear to sell the act glinted under the chandelier’s warm glow, bringing a smirk to Bucky’s face.

“Stop staring,” you muttered.

“I’m your husband,” he said, leaning in.

“Gotta make it look real.”You shot him a glare.

“You’re enjoying this.”His lips twitched.

“A little.”

Your eyes flicked back to the target as he finally left his booth, heading toward the bar. Now was your chance.You stood, brushing a hand over Bucky’s thigh as you did. The touch was fleeting, unintentional—except for the way he tensed ever so slightly.

“I’ll be back, honey,” you said, keeping up the act.

“Wait for my signal,” you murmured before slipping away.

You moved stealthily through the crowd, unnoticed by the guards.The backroom was locked, but you made quick work of it with your hairpin, slipping inside. Rows of servers lined the walls, buzzing with encrypted data. You approached the main computer, pulling up the classified files. Plugging in a drive, you watched the transfer bar crawl forward. Almost there…

Then—footsteps.

Your stomach dropped. You barely had time to pull your gun from the thigh holster beneath your dress before the door opened.Two guards stepped in.

“Boss said to check the servers,” one muttered.

You held your breath, staying out of their line of sight. The download wasn’t complete. If they noticed…

Before you could form a plan, the door burst open again—and in walked Bucky. His scowl was murderous, jaw clenched tight.He moved fast. One guard barely had time to react before Bucky knocked him out cold. The second reached for his gun, but Bucky grabbed his wrist, twisting until there was a sickening crack.The room fell silent.You exhaled.

“That was not the plan,” you said, stepping out.

“They got suspicious,” Bucky replied, scanning the monitors.

“Had to improvise.”You rolled your eyes.

“You just wanted to be dramatic.”

“Did it impress you?”You ignored him, yanking the drive free just as an alarm blared.

“Time to go.”

Security flooded the halls. Your only escape? A side door leading to a back alley. You sprinted toward it, but a guard rounded the corner—gun raised.

Before you could react, Bucky grabbed you by the waist, spinning you so your back hit the wall, his body shielding yours. His hands found your face, and then—His lips crashed against yours.

Your mind blanked.

He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.It took a second to register what was happening. Then your hands gripped the lapels of his suit, the fabric creasing under your tight hold as you kissed him back.A deep sound rumbled from his throat—something between a groan and a satisfied hum.

The guard hesitated, taking you for just another couple sneaking a moment away from the bustling crowd.The second the guard moved on, Bucky pulled away, eyes dark with something unreadable.You swallowed hard.

“What the hell was that?”

“Had to make it convincing,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t get a chance to argue before more guards closed in. Bucky grabbed your hand, pulling you down the hall and out the door.By the time you reached the safe house, your heart was still racing—but not from the escape.

Inside, the chaos of the mission faded into a quiet that felt both relieving and… unsettlingly intimate. You dropped onto a worn couch, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline, while Bucky leaned against the table, a roguish grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad for a ‘just undercover’ kiss,” he said lightly, eyes dancing as he regarded you.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to mask the quickened beat of your pulse. “That was a necessity, Barnes. Don’t read more into it than you have to.”Bucky stepped closer, his tone teasing.

“Oh, come on. I got a kiss out of you. It was… unexpected, sure, but pretty damn effective.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts. “Effective for the mission, maybe. I didn’t exactly plan on playing into any romantic script.”

He brushed a hand lightly along your arm, the contact sending an undeniable shiver through you. “Maybe you didn’t plan it, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me want to see more of that fire—even if you’re all business most of the time.”

You tried to keep your tone steady, though your cheeks betrayed you. “Barnes, you’re unbelievable. One minute we’re dodging guards, the next you’re flirting like we’re off-duty.”

“Off-duty or not, you did kiss me back,” he replied with a wink. “And honestly, that might just be worth the risk.”

For a long moment, you stared at him, flustered and momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, you cleared your throat. “Maybe. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m here to get the job done—nothing more.”

Bucky’s smile softened, though the playful glint in his eyes remained. “Sure, doll. But if you ever do decide to let a little distraction in, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, shaking your head. “Keep dreaming, Barnes. Just stick to the mission next time.”He chuckled, leaning in just enough that you felt the warmth of his breath.

“No promises,” he murmured.

“After all, I like finding ways to keep things interesting.”

In that charged, easy moment, the safe house became more than just a hideout. It became a space where even a well-timed kiss could blur the lines between duty and desire.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Off to See the Wizard (2)

previous | next

tw: canon-typical violence

Your introduction didn't cause pandemonium, per se, but your effect on the rest of the team was immediate. Soap sat straight up, his eyes alight like a kid who'd been set loose in a toy store. Kyle's whole demeanor unwound, his smile softening, his eyes going glassy, as if all the tension holding him together was suddenly released. Simon tried to make himself smaller, take up less space, maybe disappear into the cushions of the couch he was on. It was clear they didn't know you were coming, and they seemed as excited - well, all but Simon, who seemed terrified - about it as you were.

Things settled down quickly after that as Price reminded everyone this arrangement was for the sake of their next mission. That took some joy out of the introduction, but the electric thrum of excitement was there. You were finally in the same place as your boys.

Your first full day is rather boring. You are only a little startled to hear voices in the hall at 4:30 but then realize the guys are simply getting ready for their morning training. You also slightly regret picking the room next to the bathroom, despite how helpful it will be when you need to shower while the others are around.

You spend your morning setting up your mobile command center with the tech you brought. You arrange the monitors to match your usual setup, pulling up the background files and current mission data across your screens. You send an encrypted message to Laswell updating her on your status. You know she wants someone she trusts here, and encrypting the email is probably overkill, but you didn't get to where you are by assuming anything about safety. You'd been a black-hat hacker before Laswell scooped you up, so you know it's possible.

When you left, she told you you'd have the same decision-making abilities in the field as she does. You've never had that much power, and you want to show Laswell her trust is justified, so your message is a concern about transports and what you'd like to do instead. You want to get her take on it before simply changing things. In your mind, roping her in on these kinds of decisions now means she'll be less likely to challenge any decisions you make when the boys are in the field.

The highlight of your first day is the knock that comes around 1:00, startling you a bit, just as you're realizing skipping breakfast after such an interrupted schedule the previous day was not a smart idea. The only person you know who knows you're here is John, so you quickly open your door, smile already in place. But you're pleasantly surprised to see Kyle instead.

"Hey doll, Cap said you should come eat." He leans against the doorframe, smiling gently at you. "Looks like you're all set."

"Got everything but the curtain," you reply cheekily.

He grins in response. "We may call ya' Oz, but you're so much better than the man behind the curtain."

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and duck your head. You aren't behind a screen anymore; you're going to need to be more aware of your reactions to the boys if you don't want them reading you like an open book. "You said something about food," you murmur, shuffling paperwork around on your desk.

"Yea. The Captain was hopin' you'd join us," Kyle replies.

You glance up at him in the doorway. "Do I have a choice?" you ask cheekily. You need to eat, but you can't let them think you're so easily commanded. It sets a bad precedent and is at odds with what they know of you from previous missions.

Kyle's smile slides into a smirk. "He did say I might need to convince you."

You aren't sure what he might try to do to convince you, and your mind immediately jumps to some inappropriate fantasies. You're so flustered you quickly stammer, "No, you don't need to do that." You minimize your open programs, leaving a blank desktop, despite the fact you're the only person with access to this office. You turn to Kyle moments later. "I'm ready."

Kyle steps fully into the hallway, gesturing you to lead the way. You pull the door closed behind you, checking to make sure it locks. "You do remember I got the ten cent tour yesterday and don't really know where much of anything is, right?"

Kyle puts a gentle hand on your lower back, in the same way John did last night, unconsciously. He leads you through base, and you watch other groups of soldiers notice you for the first time. Some openly stare while others watch you on their perifery.

You're not sure what they think of you or if they even know who you are, but you don't like their prying eyes. Kyle doesn't seem to like it either, wrapping his arm more possessively around your waist as he guides you to the mess.

Walking through the door, it's easy to find the rest of the 141. For one thing, Simon is massive. Even seated he's nearly a head taller than most of the other people in the mess. For another, you know of their reputation, but the soldiers here have seen it first-hand and keep a wide berth in the mess. You don't know if the distance is out of fear or respect, but it means your boys have a table to themselves near the back of the room.

John and Simon are facing the door, eyes constantly scanning the room. You don't know if this is how they always are, or if they're looking for Kyle and you. You catch John's eye before turning to the food line, but Kyle steers you towards the others. As you approach, he calls out, "Look who I found? An' she's here without any coercion!" Simon looks at you and away again quickly, what is going on with him? Soap turns around, grin stretching across his face.

"Oz, mah girl, finally get ta see yer pretty face! Where've'ye been heedin'?" He pats the space next to him.

You slip onto the bench. "I've been in my office, Soap. Setting things up so I can support you while you're gone." He seems to deflate a little at the reminder that they'll be leaving soon, leaving you. You try not to read into it.

You turn and look at John, who's now across from you, and Kyle, who took the spot on your other side. You don't fail to notice that though your back is to the room, the two most imposing members of the 141 have their eyes on everything in the room, and you're flanked on either side by some of the youngest ever members of such an elite task force. Consciously or not, they've made sure you're well protected.

"So what do you recommend I get?" you ask, glancing around only to realize no one has anything to eat yet. "Wait, did you all eat already?"

John chuckles. "Nah, Oz. We were tryin-a be polite and wait for ya. 'Sides, Laswell said you'd likely skip meals, so I figured eatin' with ya would make sure yer fed." He stands, as does Kyle and Soap. "Now you sit tight with Ghost while we grab some scoff."

You watch as the others get up, leaving you with a Simon who looks anywhere but at you. You notice he has a plain black balaclava on, and he'd been wearing one yesterday too. You wonder if anyone on base knows what he looks like. You don't know what to say as you sit there in awkward silence. This is so different from your usual dynamic with Simon, it makes you uncomfortable.

Minutes tick slowly by, and you look over at John chatting with some other soldiers, Kyle and Soap with a few trays between them. Across from you, Ghost is still silent. And you finally snap.

"Simon?" You try to keep the hurt from your voice as he finally drags his eyes to yours. "Did I do something wrong or offend you somehow?"

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

an: I'm trying to get Soap's accent, and it's hard because it's all in the vowel sounds, which have to be spelled out. Forgive me any glaring issues.

Taglist: @blackhawkfanatic

[kaiist]

-.- .- .. .. … -

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 : 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒

⋇ Status ⋯ Docking Complete ⋇ Location ⋯ 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓 Orbital Station ⋇ Access Level ⋯ Authorized ⋇ Launch Code ⋯ 280325

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑. ∹ You’ve successfully docked at 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓, a terminal floating amidst the cosmic expanse. Whether you’re here for classified mission reports, encrypted transmissions, or to send a request through the interstellar network, all data logs are available below ⋯ navigate wisely—adventure awaits.

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍

⋇ Designation ⋯ Captain Kaisa-19 ⋇ Rank ⋯ Chief Archivist & Storyteller ⋇ Mission ⋯ Documenting celestial encounters and stellar romances across the cosmos. ⋇ Terminal Note ⋯ All transmissions are encrypted and monitored by the central AI, and I’ll later review it in my command quarters. For further inquiries, send a request through the Incoming Transmissions channel.

��𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐌

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[four-ravens-in-a-trenchcoat]

Fuck this shit

Now Sweden gives thumbs-up to chat control 2.0, an awful proposition which would require digital communication providers to allow government access to encrypted private messages ("but only photo, video and links now :):):) not literally every digital communication you do :):):)"). This is a massive invasion to personal integrity, a fucking data security risk and an "'accidentally' surveilled the groups I like to opress or my political opponents a bit, oops" risk, especially in the more authoritarian countries. All to find, you know it, child porn and grooming (this will of course not catch teens sending consensual nudes, vacation pictures of babies on beaches sent to family members or normal porn and waste massive resources on scanning and processing "suspect" content).

Did I mention this sucks yet? They didn't even ask the government people supposed to decide our stance on EU politics, just the justice committee. During a single meeting, no debate. Sweden's desicion means a larger probablility that this passes in EU.

And you know what? Two parties which my views generally align with, who before the election NOT EVEN TWO WEEKS AGO, one of which I voted for partly because of their stance on this (no to mass surveillance, personal integrity is important) BOTH DID A 180 AND VOTED FOR CHAT CONTROL. One thing if parties I don't like and don't vote for do this, but I trusted these fuckers to have at least a little backbone/common sense. Also why did the nationalistic and generally shitty party SD vote no to this. Why do only they and C think this is a bad idea.

In other news, I've written to my first representative today to express my disappointment. I hope this doesn't pass silently.

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES | MV1

an: this is slightly based off of a request but not at all at the same time, i had this idea come to me in a dream and had to write it as soon as possible. this one is dedicated to 🐴non x

wc: 6.0k

THE CITY HUMMED WITH QUIET MENACE, a sprawling jungle of glass and steel that never truly slept. High above the streets, the skyline was shrouded in a dense layer of mist, the lights of distant towers bleeding through like smudged paint on a dark canvas. Somewhere below, the world carried on, unaware of the silent war that played out in the shadows—where men like Max Verstappen existed, moving unseen, ghosts in the system.

Max had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Recruited young, trained to be invisible, his life had been stripped of anything that didn’t serve the mission. Emotion dulled, past erased—he had been remade into something precise, something lethal. He didn’t question it. There was no point.

Tonight was no different. His orders had been clear: infiltrate, extract, disappear. A routine operation for someone like him. The target was a classified data vault hidden beneath the bones of an abandoned government facility—forgotten by the world but not by those who understood its value. Whatever was locked inside was important enough for the agency to send him, which meant there was no room for error.

The corridors were silent, bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. He moved without a sound, a shadow slipping past security feeds and motion sensors with practised ease. The hard drive was exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked behind layers of encryption and reinforced steel. He bypassed the safeguards in seconds, fingers flying over the terminal, but just as the transfer neared completion, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

He wasn’t alone.

A flicker in his peripheral vision—then movement. Fast.

Max barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat, instinct carrying him backwards as a blade skimmed past his skin. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He countered immediately, using the momentum to lash out, but she was already gone, slipping back into the dim light like smoke.

His eyes locked onto her, scanning, assessing. She was good. Too good. Every movement precise, every attack calculated. Not just an operative—an equal.

They clashed again, the fight a brutal dance of skill and intent. Strikes deflected, counters met with counters. For every step he gained, she matched him effortlessly, as if she knew exactly how he moved, how he thought.

And then, as their blades met in a deadlock, a flicker of something else. Not recognition—something deeper, buried beneath years of erased memories.

A flash.

Fifteen years old, standing in the rain, bruised and bleeding but not broken. A voice—her voice—sharp with defiance. Again.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

She twisted free, launching into another attack, and Max forced himself to focus. Questions could wait. First, he had to survive.

The fight pressed on, a deadly rhythm of movement and steel. Each strike was met with precision, each dodge answered with equal force. It had been a long time since Max had faced someone who could keep up with him—longer still since he had felt something close to uncertainty in a fight. But there was no denying it. She knew him. Knew the way he moved, the way he anticipated attacks before they landed.

And worse—he knew her too.

Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that should have been possible.

She feinted left before twisting low, her boot catching his knee hard enough to unbalance him. He barely managed to absorb the impact, rolling back to create distance. He expected her to press forward, to take advantage of the opening, but instead, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Her breathing was steady, her stance unwavering, but in her eyes—something flickered. A question.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn't afford hesitation, couldn't afford doubt. Whoever she was, whatever this was, it didn’t change the mission. He forced himself to move, closing the distance between them with speed, but as he reached for his knife, another flash tore through him—

Fifteen again. A training room lit with harsh white fluorescents. The air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. His body ached, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. She stood opposite him, just as battered, just as relentless. Her voice, breathless but sharp—

"You’re getting slow, Max."

The memory splintered as she moved, striking at him with that same speed, that same precision. He barely countered in time.

His pulse thundered. He had no past, that’s what he’d been told. Whatever he was remembering right now, he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet…

A part of him did.

She drove him back, seizing control of the fight, her attacks coming faster now, sharper—more desperate. As if she, too, was fighting something beyond just the mission.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The abandoned facility, the stolen data, the reason they were even here in the first place—it all faded into insignificance. There was only her. The way she moved. The way something deep within his bones screamed that this wasn’t the first time they had fought like this.

Then, just as suddenly, the silence shattered.

A distant alarm.

Reinforcements.

Max swore under his breath. This had already gone too far.

Their gazes locked, breath ragged, neither willing to lower their guard. But the moment was broken.

Whoever she was, whatever this was—they were out of time.

The distant alarm pulsed through the facility, a stark reminder that they weren’t alone. The fight should have ended then and there—one of them should have taken the opportunity to finish it. But neither of them moved.

Max’s grip tightened around his knife, but his instincts screamed at him to do something else entirely. Run. Stay. Demand answers. The confusion was a dangerous distraction, one he had never allowed himself before.

She was still watching him, breathing hard, eyes flicking towards the corridor where the reinforcements would be coming from. Her hesitation was telling.

She wasn’t here for them.

Whoever she was—whatever her mission—she was working alone.

The second stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, before she made her choice.

She turned and ran.

Max almost let her go. Almost.

But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Without thinking, he took off after her.

She was fast, her movements fluid, as if she already knew the building’s layout. He followed instinctively, boots silent against the steel grates as they weaved through the abandoned corridors. The flashing red lights cast long shadows, flickering over rusted walls and forgotten machinery.

She took a sharp turn, disappearing into a stairwell. Max followed without hesitation, vaulting over the railing to cut her off at the landing below. She barely managed to stop in time, skidding to a halt before twisting into a defensive stance.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Still reckless."

The words sent an almost physical shock through him. Not because of what she’d said—but because of how she’d said it. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His chest was heaving, his mind torn between the mission and the undeniable truth that was forcing its way through the cracks in his erased past.

Then, another flash—

Younger. A different place. Late night, stolen moments between brutal training sessions. A whispered conversation in the dark. She’s beside him, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, smirking slightly as he winces.

"Still reckless," she murmurs, and there’s something almost fond in her voice.

It hit him like a bullet. The memory wasn’t vague or blurred—it was real.

Which meant she was real.

His hesitation was all she needed. With a sharp movement, she threw something—small, metallic—towards the ground between them. A split second later, smoke erupted, thick and blinding.

Max lunged forward, but by the time he broke through the haze, she was gone.

Vanished into the labyrinth of the facility.

The alarm was still blaring. He could hear the distant shouts of guards closing in, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past he wasn’t supposed to have.

Who the hell was she?

And why had they made him forget?

The mission was slipping away.

Max knew it—could feel it unraveling the second he made his choice. The data didn’t matter anymore. The agency’s orders, the years of conditioning that had drilled obedience into his bones—none of it mattered. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, memories that weren’t supposed to exist.

She wasn’t supposed to exist.

But she did. And he needed to find her.

The alarm pulsed overhead, the facility coming alive with movement as guards swept through the corridors. Max melted into the shadows, instincts taking over, but his mind was elsewhere—tracing the route she had taken, searching for an exit she might have used.

He replayed every detail of their fight, every step of her retreat. She had moved with certainty, like she knew exactly where she was going. That meant she had planned this.

Which meant she had a way out.

Max exhaled sharply and turned away from the terminal. The stolen data was still mid-transfer, the mission still technically salvageable—but that wasn’t why he was here anymore. He left it behind without hesitation, slipping into the stairwell she had disappeared through moments before.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory leading him through the facility as if chasing something deeper than just a target.

Fifteen again. Late-night training. They were always the last two left standing, bruised and aching but refusing to fall. A voice in the dark, hers—

"They’ll break us apart one day."

He hadn’t believed her.

Max’s jaw clenched. They had broken them apart. Wiped them clean. Turned them into strangers.

But not completely.

Some part of him still remembered. And if that part existed in him, then it existed in her too.

He reached the lower levels of the building, moving faster now. The reinforcements were closing in above—he could hear the distant echo of boots, orders shouted over comms. He had minutes at best.

The facility was a relic of a forgotten past, its lower levels half-abandoned, corridors thick with dust and disuse. It was the perfect place to disappear.

And that’s exactly what she had done.

Max slowed, scanning the space, eyes catching the faintest disturbance in the dust—a trail. Not clumsy, not obvious, but enough. She wanted to vanish, but she was still human. Still breathing, still moving, still—

There.

A side door, slightly ajar. The faintest shift in the air, the ghost of movement beyond.

Max didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through, slipping into the dimly lit corridor beyond, senses sharp. The space was narrow, lined with rusted pipes, the distant hum of an old ventilation system vibrating through the walls. She had taken this route for a reason.

An exit.

He moved quickly but carefully, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. She knew he was coming—she had to. But she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Why?

The corridor opened up into a loading bay, long abandoned, the night air cutting sharp through a broken shutter. Outside, the city sprawled in the distance, a blur of lights against the dark.

She was there.

Standing just beyond the exit, half-turned, as if debating whether to disappear for good.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the mission," she said, voice unreadable.

Max exhaled slowly. "So did you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something almost like recognition. Like a truth neither of them could quite grasp.

He took a step forward.

And this time—she didn’t run.

Max barely had time to react. One second, they were standing there, locked in some unspoken standoff—the next, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

He didn’t even see the knife until it was pressed against his throat.

The cold bite of steel sent a sharp pulse through him, but he didn’t flinch. His hands remained at his sides, body taut, ready—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.

Her grip on the knife didn’t waver.

"They’ll kill you if I answer that question."

The words shouldn’t have sent a chill through him, but they did. Not because of what she said—but because of how she said it. A warning, not a threat. A truth she didn’t want to speak aloud.

He held her gaze. "Then why not kill me yourself?"

Her jaw tensed. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

Something about the certainty in her voice sent his pulse spiking.

"Then tell me," he pressed. "Tell me why I remember you."

She exhaled sharply, her expression flickering—just for a second. As if she wanted to. As if she was weighing whether or not to break whatever rules had been drilled into her as deeply as his own.

Then, finally—

"Ask Christian where he picked you up from."

Max’s breath stilled.

The name hit him harder than it should have.

Christian. His handler. The man who had trained him, who had shaped him into what he was today. The one person in his life who had ever been constant.

There was nothing before him. No memories, no past. Christian had found him, recruited him, trained him—

Hadn’t he?

The question lodged itself deep, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. "Christian raised me."

She pressed the knife just a little harder against his skin—not enough to cut, just enough to make sure he felt it.

"No, he didn’t."

Max’s throat went dry.

The certainty in her voice, the way she didn’t even hesitate—it felt like a noose tightening around something inside him.

The life he’d known had always been clear, precise, unshakable. He had been taken in as a boy, trained to be a ghost, stripped of anything that might make him hesitate. No attachments. No past.

No questions.

But now—

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She must have seen the doubt flicker in his eyes because something in her stance shifted. Not in triumph. Not in relief. Something closer to regret.

The knife at his throat lowered slightly, just enough to press against his chest instead. Light. Just a touch. A reminder.

"Whatever you do," she said softly, "don’t let them make you forget again."

The words hit him like a gunshot.

And then—she was gone.

A single blink, a breath too slow, and she vanished into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

Max stood frozen, the city wind cutting sharp against his skin.

His hands curled into fists.

Because for the first time in his life, he had a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

The flight back was silent.

Max sat motionless in the jet’s dim cabin, hands clasped loosely, gaze fixed on nothing. The city lights faded beneath him, swallowed by the vast dark as they ascended. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant—something to focus on. Something to drown out the chaos in his head.

Christian would be waiting for him.

He had no mission report to give. No extracted data, no explanations that would make sense. It was the first mission he had ever failed.

And the worst part was—he hadn’t even tried to succeed.

The memory of her voice lingered, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke—like she knew him. Like she had always known him.

Like he should have known her.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words dug deep. No matter how much he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave him.

The base was cold when he arrived, the same clinical sterility as always, but tonight, it felt different. Or maybe he was different.

Christian was waiting for him, as expected. He stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, but Max knew him well enough to recognise the subtle tension in his shoulders. Disappointment.

Christian let the silence stretch for a moment before he finally spoke.

"You’ve never failed a mission before."

Max kept his expression blank. "There were complications."

"Complications." Christian’s tone was flat, like he was waiting for something more.

Max exhaled, keeping his body relaxed, forcing himself into the role he had played for years. "Security was heavier than expected. Extraction was compromised. I made the call to retreat before it escalated."

A lie. A clean, believable lie.

Christian studied him carefully.

Then, with quiet finality—

"That’s not the whole truth."

Something in Max’s gut twisted. Christian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not her, but enough to know that Max was keeping something from him.

He needed to tread carefully. He needed to play this right.

So why the hell did he open his mouth and say—

"Where did you pick me up from?"

The words had barely left him before the shift in the air was immediate.

Christian’s entire body went still.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You’re remembering."

Max’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was a confirmation.

Christian knew.

And before Max could even react, before he could think of a way to fix this, to backtrack, to—

The door behind him slid open.

Boots. Movement. Too many of them.

His instincts flared, but before he could reach for a weapon, hands were on him. A hard grip on his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tensed, about to fight, but then he saw it—

The mask.

The metal apparatus in their hands, wires trailing, the gleam of something sharp and invasive.

Max’s breath locked in his throat.

No.

Not this.

Not again.

He never knew what it did. 

All he knew was that it hurt.

His pulse pounded, his body coiled to resist, but Christian only took a step back, running a hand down his face.

"Fuck. How is this happening already?"

The hands on Max tightened. He thrashed against them, instincts screaming to fight, to run, but it was already too late. The mask was forced over his face, the sharp scent of chemicals hitting him fast.

His vision swayed. The edges of the room blurred.

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

Her voice, clear as a bullet to the skull.

Max fought. He fought, but the world was slipping, pulling him under.

And then—

Darkness.

The world came back in pieces.

A dull ache throbbed behind Max’s eyes, a deep, lingering weight pressing against his skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere too deep, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to have been.

He was lying on something cold. A cot. The metallic scent of the base’s medical wing filled his lungs, sterile and artificial. The hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, a rhythmic, familiar noise that should have grounded him.

But something was off.

His thoughts were slow, thick, like they were moving through treacle.

And then—

"You're awake."

Christian’s voice.

Max blinked against the brightness, his vision sharpening as he turned his head. Christian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him with the careful scrutiny of someone searching for cracks in a foundation.

Max forced himself upright. The movement sent a sharp wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it.

"What happened?" His own voice felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Christian exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "You wiped out during the mission. Comms went dark. We had to extract you."

Wiped out? That wasn’t—

No, that couldn’t be right.

The mission. He’d gone in alone. Infiltrated the facility. He was about to extract the data, and then—

His head pulsed, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his thoughts.

Christian watched him carefully. "What do you remember?"

Max frowned, trying to push past the fog. "The facility. I got inside. Security was heavier than expected, but I navigated it. I reached the terminal, started the extraction—"

A flicker of something.

A shadow of movement. The ghost of a fight, a blade catching the dim light—

No.

That wasn’t right.

The mission had gone wrong. That was all.

He forced the thought aside. "There was an alarm. I had to abandon the extraction. That’s when things got messy. I must have taken a hit on the way out."

Christian nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. "You don’t remember anyone else being there?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Max’s muscles tensed instinctively. "No."

Christian tilted his head slightly. "No other operatives? No one who might have compromised the mission?"

Max shook his head. "I was alone."

The lie slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t know why he was lying, not fully—but something in his gut told him it was necessary.

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—

"You don’t remember anything else?"

There was something about the way he said it. The way his tone shifted, like he was looking for something specific.

Max opened his mouth to deny it again—

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The thought cut through his mind like a blade.

His breath stalled.

Something about those words felt wrong. Or rather—too sharp. Too defined. Like they weren’t supposed to be there at all.

The chemicals had done their job. He knew they had. He felt the emptiness, the hollowed-out space in his head where things had been scrubbed clean.

But that one thought remained.

And he had no idea why.

Christian was still watching him, patient, expectant.

Max forced his expression blank. "No. I don’t remember anything else."

A beat.

Then Christian nodded, like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

"Get some rest," he said, stepping back towards the door. "We’ll debrief properly in the morning."

Max only nodded.

He waited until Christian was gone, until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

Because something wasn’t right.

And this time, no matter what they did to him—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

Max sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His head still ached—a deep, lingering throb at the base of his skull—but he ignored it. He was too focused on the weight pressing against his chest.

The wrongness of it all.

They had wiped him. They must have. He could feel the gaps, the hazy edges where memories had been scraped clean. It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, something had slipped through.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words sat heavy in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why they felt important. But they did.

And that meant something had gone wrong.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, methodically. Focus. He needed to be careful. Christian was already suspicious—his questions hadn’t been casual. He had been testing him.

And Max had barely passed.

He glanced towards the door. Locked, as expected. There would be a guard outside. There always was after the machine, at least for the first few hours. Just in case.

They were watching him.

Which meant he needed to act like nothing was wrong.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His body felt steady now, movements fluid despite the dull weight in his skull. He crossed the small room, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal wall, grounding himself in something tangible.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass panel by the door. He looked the same as always—sharp, composed, unreadable.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He reached up, pressing his palm against his chest, against the spot where—

A flicker. A whisper of sensation, something just out of reach—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

His breath caught.

Her voice.

It was there. Faint, distant, but real.

And suddenly, he knew.

The wipe hadn’t worked properly. Not completely.

Something had stayed behind.

And if something had stayed behind, then so had she.

Max clenched his jaw.

They thought they had erased her. Thought they had wiped him clean, reset him like they always did.

But this time, something was different.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

The next week was hell.

Max barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was missing something, like the answers were just out of reach, slipping through his fingers the moment he got too close.

He spent hours running through the details in his head, over and over, searching for cracks. But there was nothing tangible—just fragments. A voice that didn’t belong. A question he shouldn’t have asked. The phantom feeling of a knife pressing lightly against his chest.

Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like slamming into an invisible wall.

The chemicals had done their job too well.

He found himself pacing his room at night, replaying Christian’s words, analysing every interaction, searching for a thread to pull.

But he couldn’t.

There was nothing there.

And that was the most maddening part.

By the fourth day, he was barely holding it together.

He was losing his edge. He could feel it. His reaction time was slower, his focus splintered. During training exercises, he caught himself hesitating, second-guessing movements that should have been instinctual.

It wasn’t just affecting him mentally. It was affecting his performance.

And that was dangerous.

By the fifth day, he started telling himself he was going insane.

That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it?

They had wiped him. That was routine. He had failed a mission—Christian had told him what had happened. There was no reason to question it.

The words in his head, the voice, the flashes of something more—

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

His own mind was turning against him. That was all. He just needed to let it go.

But he couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

And the not-knowing was driving him to the edge.

On the seventh day, Christian came to him with a new mission.

Max barely had time to gather himself before he was summoned to the briefing room. The moment he walked in, he felt Christian’s gaze settle on him, sharp and assessing, like he was looking for something.

Max straightened his posture, schooling his features into something neutral. He had to keep it together.

Christian held out a thin file. "You’re being deployed again."

Max took it, flipping it open. The details were standard—location, objective, extraction plan. Another infiltration job. Another ghost mission.

But Christian wasn’t watching the file.

He was watching him.

"You look like shit, Max," he said bluntly.

Max barely blinked. "Didn’t realise I was being assessed on aesthetics."

Christian didn’t smile. "You haven’t been sleeping properly."

It wasn’t a question.

Max shut the file, keeping his expression unreadable. "I’m fine."

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—"Good. Because this time, there’s no margin for error."

Something about the way he said it sent a sharp pulse through Max’s gut.

Because Christian wasn’t just talking about the mission.

He was testing him. Again.

And Max had no idea if he was still passing.

The mission was straightforward. Infiltration. Retrieval. Extraction.

No complications. No surprises.

At least, that’s what the file said.

Max knew better.

Christian had given him a comms unit this time, something he never did unless he expected to monitor performance directly. Which meant this wasn’t just about completing the objective—it was about proving himself.

Proving he wasn’t slipping.

Proving he was still the same agent he had always been.

Proving he wasn’t remembering.

He locked in. Forced his mind to focus. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

The drop site was an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Prague. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the sound of distant traffic humming just beyond the perimeter.

Max moved quickly, slipping through the darkness like a shadow. The plan was clean—get inside, access the target’s server, extract the encrypted data, and leave before anyone knew he was there.

But Christian’s presence in his ear made everything feel off.

"Comms check." Christian’s voice crackled through the line.

"Copy," Max muttered under his breath.

"You’re on a tight window. No distractions."

The words were casual. But the way he said them wasn’t.

Max ignored it. Pushed forward.

The building was hollowed out, skeletal remains of an old factory now repurposed for something far less industrial. Surveillance equipment was minimal—whoever was running this operation relied on secrecy rather than security.

It made things easier.

Within minutes, Max had reached the target room. A small, nondescript office, a single desk, and a humming server in the corner.

He set up quickly, connecting the extraction device to the system, watching the data begin to transfer.

"ETA?" Christian asked.

"Two minutes."

"Good. Keep it clean."

Max clenched his jaw. The way Christian was talking—it wasn’t just mission oversight. It was scrutiny. He wasn’t just expecting success. He was waiting for a mistake.

Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the task. He just had to get through this.

He watched the transfer bar crawl forward, the soft whir of the machine filling the silence.

Almost there.

And then—

A noise.

A shift in the air, subtle but wrong.

Max didn’t hesitate. He cut the extraction, ripped out the device, and had his gun raised in the same breath—

But the doorway was empty.

Nothing. No movement.

Still, his pulse had spiked.

Something was there.

He could feel it.

"Max?" Christian’s voice came through the comms.

Max didn’t lower his weapon. "I heard something."

A pause. Then, calmly—"You’re alone."

It was meant to reassure him.

It didn’t.

Max swallowed down the unease, forcing himself to move. He secured the drive, checked the hall, and started his exit.

He needed to get out.

But as he moved through the corridors, every shadow felt heavier. Every noise felt sharper.

Like he wasn’t alone at all.

And then—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

The voice wasn’t in his comms.

It was in his head.

Max stumbled. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"Max?" Christian again. Sharper this time.

Max gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. "I’m fine."

A lie.

Because he wasn’t fine.

Something was wrong.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

Max barely had time to react.

A presence—too close, too quiet—moved behind him, and before he could turn, the cold press of a blade kissed his throat.

He went rigid.

Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist out of the hold, to strike first and ask questions later. But something stopped him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Faint, distant, buried beneath the layers of conditioning. But it was there.

A whisper of something lost.

He opened his mouth—

A hand slid over it, silencing him.

"Shh."

The voice was barely above a breath, warm against his ear.

And familiar.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

She moved swiftly, with precision—reaching up to his ear, plucking the comm unit free before he could stop her.

A second later, she dropped it to the ground and brought her boot down hard.

The crack of crushed tech echoed through the empty hallway.

Static burst in his ear—then silence.

Christian was gone.

Max inhaled slowly, carefully. "If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped around him, lowering the knife as she did. Her grip was light, controlled, like she knew he was dangerous but wasn’t afraid.

He finally got a proper look at her.

Dark clothing, tactical gear—she was built for this world, just like he was. Her face was unreadable, save for her eyes.

They were sharp, calculating. But not unfamiliar.

Max clenched his jaw.

She knew him.

She turned her gaze towards the drive in his hand, then back to him. "Do you have what you need?"

His fingers curled around it instinctively. "Why do you care?"

She exhaled, a quiet huff of something—annoyance, amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, without a word, she reached past him, grabbed the device, plugged it in and began tapping a few keys on the terminal he’d left behind.

The screen flickered.

His extraction continued.

She was helping him.

Every muscle in his body stayed taut, waiting for the catch. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

The transfer completed. She pulled the drive free and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. "Who are you?"

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then—

Softly, carefully—

"You already know."

Unlike last time, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, a rough tear from something larger. She grabbed a pen from the desk, quick and efficient, and scribbled something down.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Max didn’t move, but he felt his muscles lock, felt the brush of her knuckles as she slipped the folded paper between the straps of his tactical vest, tucking it neatly against his chest.

A calculated move.

Deliberate.

His pulse spiked—just for a second, just enough that he hated himself for it.

She held his gaze, unreadable. "Meet me here. Seventeen hundred. I’ll give you the answers you want."

Max’s throat felt dry. He glanced down at the paper, at the faint scratch of ink just visible through the fold. An address.

He exhaled sharply. "I can’t leave my base."

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him. "If you’re motivated enough—if you want the answers—you can."

Simple. Direct.

And infuriatingly confident.

Max clenched his jaw. He should shove the paper back at her. Should call her bluff, demand an explanation now. But his fingers twitched instead, the whisper of her touch still there, phantom-like, against his chest.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to unsettle him.

By the time he forced himself to look up again, she was already turning away.

He should stop her. He should do something.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

He just stood there, the weight of the paper burning against his skin.

By the time Max stepped out of the building, she was gone.

No trace. No sound. Just the faint echo of her voice still lingering in his head.

His fingers twitched against his vest where the paper sat, warm from his body heat, feeling heavier than it should. He resisted the urge to pull it out and look. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he locked in, moved. The extraction point was half a mile north, and he didn’t have time to dwell. The moment he was in the open, he moved fast, slipping through the industrial skeleton of the compound, mindlessly following the path drilled into him.

And yet—

The address. The time. The way she had stood so close, the way she had known him.

It was all he could think about.

The jet was already waiting when he arrived. He barely had time to board before Christian turned from where he stood by the cockpit, eyes sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment.

Max pulled off his gloves, keeping his movements smooth, measured. Controlled.

Christian frowned. "What happened to your comms?"

Max didn’t blink. "Glitch. Cut out before extraction. Didn’t have time to fix it."

Christian studied him for a beat too long, but then—exhale. A slow nod. "Tech will look at it."

It worked.

Christian believed him.

Max sank into his seat, forcing his body to relax, listening to the hum of the jet as it powered up. The mission was over.

But his mind wasn’t anywhere near it.

He should be thinking about the debrief, about the logistics of his return, about the inevitable post-mission assessments.

Instead, all he could think about was her.

And the paper in his vest.

And the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, he was going to have to do something he had never done before.

Find a way out.

PART TWO...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[wandascrush]

Traitor

Warnings: angstttt, betrayal, arguments, romantic tension, very stressful situations, lying, toxic Nat ngl, allusions to sex

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, Wanda Maximoff x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader

A/N: Part 6 of my DIWK series! Summary: The truth always has a way of coming out- and todays the day

Fast forward four months 

   The wind blew fiercely against your window as you awoke, sensing an unusual tension in the air—a buzz, as if nature itself was angry. You fluffed your shaggy h/c hair and swung your tired legs out of the warm bed, extricating yourself from the comfortable embrace of a woman’s arm wrapped around your waist. Not just any woman, but Natasha Romanoff—the world’s greatest assassin, a highly skilled martial artist, and your girlfriend. Well, kind of. She didn’t want to label it, and you’d gotten used to that. Things with Wanda had fizzled out, and she was now one of your closest friends. Stability was slowly but surely creeping back into your life.

Just then, your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you from your morning trance. An encrypted message from Agent Hill: another file to drop off at the HYDRA data server and report back. No pleasantries, no reassurances. The anxiety that once clouded your mind about this operation had dissipated over the months. You had grown confident in your skills, so close to the finish line now. You just needed one more piece of information about a new serum they were developing—something about a super-soldier project. Deliver that, and you would be officially done with HYDRA, Samantha, and all the vile people who worked there. A free agent—literally.

You pulled the file from its folder, reviewing the intel they provided this time. Not bad, surprisingly.

You dressed slowly, your legs sore from prior activities with your “girlfriend.” Natasha’s sleeping form rustled in the sheets before settling, a gentle huff of breath escaping her lips.

At the base, you navigated the winding corridors, each step echoing louder than the last. The data server room was buried at the heart of the building, and each doorway you passed felt like a checkpoint in a prison. Fluorescent overhead lights buzzed, casting a stark, sterile glow that complemented the coldness of the place. Reaching the server room, you slid your ID across the panel, entering as the heavy door hissed shut behind you.

The space was mostly empty, save for the hum of servers and the dull glow of screens casting eerie shadows. A lone technician glanced up at you, nodding in acknowledgment. You were well-known by now—both for your envied operation and proximity to HYDRA’s high command.

You approached one of the terminals, connected your encrypted drive, and waited as it loaded the contents onto their system. But as you watched the file transfer, doubt crept in. How many more lies before they caught up with you? Were they already catching up, and maybe you didn’t know it?

The file finished transferring. You removed your drive, pocketing it quickly. Turning to leave, you caught the technician watching you from the corner of your eye, his gaze lingering a moment too long. You met his eyes and offered a quick nod, concealing the flicker of alarm you felt as he turned back to his work.

Returning to the compound that afternoon felt like a relief. As you stepped into your hall, orange shadows of the sun creeping in through the glass walls, the quiet was broken by a familiar voice.

“Back so soon?”

Natasha’s slid into your view like silk. She was leaning against the wall in the corridor, arms crossed, her expression unreadable—as per usual.

You tried to keep your face neutral, but her sharp gaze seemed to peel back every layer you’d carefully constructed. “Mission ended earlier than expected,” you replied.

She arched an eyebrow, gaze narrowing slightly. “Right. Just strange. Fury usually sends the rest of us a notice when someone’s out. And you leave me a note. Or text.”

“It was classified,” you shrugged, trying to deflect, hoping she wouldn’t probe further.

Natasha’s smirk softened, but her gaze didn’t waver. She stepped closer, her presence intense. “You’ve been slipping away a lot lately, honey,” she murmured, her tone low. “Everyone’s noticed.” Her beautiful green eyes bore into you, calculating your every expression.

There was no accusation in her words, only an edge of curiosity. But the weight of the lies began to press down, your chest tightening with the guilt you’d tried so hard to ignore. “It’s not like that, Nat,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She reached out, her fingers grazing your arm—a touch that felt like both an anchor and a pull. “Then what’s it like?”

For a heartbeat, you wanted to tell her. Instead, you swallowed the words, your throat tightening. “You know how this job is, Tasha. It’s complicated.”

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—crossed her face before she masked it, letting her hand fall away. She stepped back, crossing her arms again. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

She scoffed, “Doesn’t seem that way.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it.” You squeezed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder as you did.

Her hand caught yours. “You know I can help, right? Whatever it is.”

You forced a half-smile, “Not this time, honey.”

Natasha held your gaze for a moment longer before nodding, though the air between you felt strained, taut with the things left unsaid. She turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the dim corridor, the weight of her words lingering.

You stared at the ceiling, Natasha’s words looping in your mind. Everyone’s noticed. You wondered if that included Wanda. The thought of her finding out, of her piecing together the truth, was terrifying. She’d already uncovered your family’s past—if she found out everything else…

You didn’t want to think about it.

About twice a week, Natasha would come and sleep in your room, especially after tough training days or a bad mission. Tonight? She didn’t so much as text you. Ouch.

The cold floors at 3 a.m. felt soothing as you walked to the kitchen to grab a drink, catching sight of Wanda curled up on the couch, staring out the window.

Her expression was unreadable.

“Wanda?” you asked, the surprise clear in your voice.

“I couldn’t sleep again,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze was intense, searching your face as though trying to read every unspoken thought.

You grabbed two juices from the fridge, crossing the room to sit beside her. For a moment, neither of you spoke; the silence was thick.

“It was two years yesterday that I held his,” she began, her voice hesitant. “I… I didn’t even remember.”

You glanced down, your hands twisting together as you gathered your thoughts. “I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to remind you, since you didn’t mention it.” Wanda adored her brother, and you adored her. You didn’t want to worsen her pain by adding a reminder. 

    Her hand reached out, covering yours, her touch warm and steady. “I visited his grave earlier,” she swallowed, “left a small baby’s breath bouquet.” “It’s always only one bouquet, but today when I visited him- there were already flowers there.”

  You didn’t know if you should also mention that you left flowers, but when you looked up, Wanda’s eyes were already staring into yours. Her gaze softened, and you felt the pull again, that magnetic connection that made your friendship feel impossible sometimes.

“Wanda…” 

She gingerly brushed a strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. 

“Now your hair is perfect.”

“It’s always perfect, witchy.” 

Her cheeky white smile glowed in the darkness. 

   The next few days most of your training was done with Peter, Clint, or Steve, completely ruling out the possibility of any more relationship messiness. The tension with Natasha, the fragileness you held with Wanda—it was all starting to pull at the threads of your mind once again.

You will never forget that day. That was the day your life changed forever. You often think of what might’ve been, if you hadn’t joined the avengers and all. Just stayed as a high level SHIELD agent. 

Maybe it all would’ve been fine, if not for that Thursday. That stupid fucking Thursday. And for Nick Fury. But you didn’t know all that yet. 

   You swiftly moved through the hallways on your way to meet Bruce in the lab, your mind elsewhere, when a familiar rasp called your name. 

“Y/N.”

You turned to see Natasha, her gaze sharp, expression unreadable. She nodded toward one of the empty conference rooms. “We need to talk.”

You followed her inside, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. You felt like a little kid in trouble with the principal. When the door shut, she turned to you, her arms crossed, her stance tense.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, her tone steady but laced with frustration.

Your heart pounded, every instinct screaming to deflect, to lie. But standing there, facing Natasha’s intense gaze, the walls you’d built felt paper-thin.

“I…No.”

She took a step closer, her voice soft but firm. “Y/N, I don’t know what’s going on, but I will find out.”

The intensity in her gaze, the determination, left you breathless. She was offering you an out, a lifeline, but taking it would mean unraveling everything. You were practically at the finish line. 

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the compound’s alarm blared, cutting through the tension. Natasha’s gaze flickered to the door, her expression shifting to frustration. 

“Of course,” she muttered, looking back to you. 

She turned and left the room, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and burning. 

    The mission had been going well until you were cornered in a tight hallway by a mercenary, his face hidden by a tactical helmet and wielding a blade that gleamed under the dim light. You threw up an arm to block his initial swing, but he was relentless, landing a hit to your side that knocked the breath from you. Blood trickled from a cut on your arm, but you pushed through, angling for a counterattack.

    Before you could make another move, a blast of red energy hit from behind, sending the attacker flying into a wall. Surprised, you turned to see Wanda, her hands crackling with energy. She stepped between you and the mercenary, red tendrils floating around his head before he fainted. 

“Thought you might need a hand,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes betrayed the worry simmering beneath.

You forced a smile, though your pride ached at her interference. “I had it under control.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push it. She held your gaze a moment longer, “Sure you did, L/N.” 

Before you could answer, Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Y/N, Wanda—stop messing around and regroup. Now.”

Her tone was clipped, cold, and even through the comms, you could feel the chill.

You two shared a quick, slightly guilty glance before moving back to rejoin the others. Throughout the rest of the mission, Natasha barely looked at you, and when she did, her expression was hardened, her gaze flicking quickly between you and Wanda with a disapproving edge.

Back at the compound, you found Natasha in the common area, gathering her gear with sharp, precise movements. You hovered nearby, hoping to talk, to get a hint of what was going on, but she barely acknowledged you.

“Nat,” you started, your voice soft.

“What?” Her tone was harsh, her eyes narrowing. “Something you need?”

You faltered, caught off guard by the bite in her voice. “I… I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

She scoffed, a cold smirk pulling at her lips. “That’s rich. Last I saw, you were the one who needed backup. I didn’t realize Wanda was your personal rescuer.”

The words hit like a slap, the sting of her jealousy clear. You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off, grabbing her bag and shouldering it without a glance in your direction. You tried to lighten the mood, “A little jealous, Romanoff?” Although you were teasing, the joke came out so soft, genuine. You gently touched the small of her back, gazing at her with worried eyes. 

“Let’s not pretend this is anything more than a job, Y/N,” she said, voice low and unyielding- she shifted out of your touch. “That way, you won’t get distracted.”

“I think we should continue our conversation from earlier-,” you were cut off before you finished your sentence 

“And what if I don’t want to talk? Ever thought about that?” 

“Earlier you said you were here for me, that I’m not alone. I don’t understand, you know I care about you. Just talk to me-,” you hadn’t anticipated the crack in your voice at the end, catching Natasha’s attention, but of course, only for a second.

She packed her bag faster. 

“Natasha please-”

“Enough!” Her loud voice bounced off the walls. 

“So what are we then? We sleep together, we share a bed, you care about me- I know you do. So what is this?”

Natashas jaw clenched, and when her eyes looked at you, they held something you’d never seen, “It’s just sex, Y/N.  Grow up. It’s what adults do.” 

She rushed past you, shoulder bumping yours, leaving you standing there. Wounded and more confused than ever- the Romanov specialty. 

As you entered a new log into your journal that night, spilling your heart about HYDRA, Wanda, Natasha, a knock sounded on your door. For once, you just wanted to be left alone. You threw the journal under the covers, running to the bathroom.

You poked your head out of the door, “In the shower, can’t talk!” You hoped it was loud enough for whatever guest to go away. It wasn’t. 

  As the scent of vanilla and citrus soap slid down your skin, rubbing any grime away and relaxing your muscles, Wanda walked into your room. She figured she’d just wait to talk with you once you got out of the shower, plopping herself down on your bed. However, as soon as she sat, something hard and stiff was felt under her, something very uncomfortable. Wanda slightly lifted herself off of the bed, blindly moving her hand around for the stiff object- finding a small journal. It was a dark red, canvas cover. Your initials were etched into the bottom right corner. 

As you stepped out of the bathroom, the sight of Wanda sitting on the edge of your bed, her hands trembling, sent a chill down your spine. Your journal lay face down on the floor, its secrets exposed. Droplets from your wet hair trickled down your back, the cold seeping through your pajamas and onto the wooden floor. The room was thick with silence. 

Wanda’s eyes, wide and glistening, locked onto yours. Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the tension. “How long?” The weight of her question pressed heavily upon you.

Your heart raced, each beat echoing in your ears. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing thin. You opened your mouth, searching for words, but found none.

Wanda’s gaze hardened, a mixture of hurt and betrayal evident. “All this time… ” Her voice cracked, the pain palpable.

You took a tentative step forward, hands outstretched in a plea. “Wanda, I can explain—”

But she recoiled, as if your very presence burned. “Explain? How can you possibly explain this?” She gestured towards the fallen journal, her movements sharp and erratic, “It’s you. You’re the traitor, you’re the mole,” she glared at you accusingly. The red glow in her eyes grew with each second. 

Desperation clawed at you. “I  was told to lie. Ask Fury he put me—”

“Fury? Are you serious?” she interrupted, her tone dripping with disdain. “Was any of it real? Or was I just another pawn?”

You shook your head vehemently, “No, Wanda, you have to believe me. My feelings for all of you are genuine.”

She stood abruptly, red wisps crackling from her fingers, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” 

   Before you could utter another word, the door swung open with a resounding thud. Natasha stood in the doorway, her face a mask of cold fury. Behind her, Steve and Tony loomed, their expressions grim. Natasha’s voice was icy, each word laced with venom. “Is it true? Have you been feeding information to HYDRA?”

Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of their collective gaze. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand upright. “It’s not what it seems. I was working undercover, on Fury’s orders. I was a SHIELD agent before an Avenger, you guys know this.”

Tony scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Convenient excuse. Got any proof?”

You reached into your pocket, fingers trembling, and producing your phone. “Call him! Ask him. Fury will tell you everything, promise.”

Steve stepped forward, grabbing your phone out of your hand- crushing it. His eyes, usually filled with warmth, were now cold and distant. “Your promises mean nothing to us anymore, Agent.”

Tony stepped further into the room, all of them cornering you, “Besides, Fury’s off grid with Maria. We just got the call.” He sucked his teeth, “But if  you two worked as closely as you say, you would’ve known before us.” The bite in Tony’s words wasn't missed. 

Fuck. 

As they turned to leave, you dove for your notebook on the ground, picking it up and practically shoving it toward Steve, “This! Read this!” ragged breaths left your mouth, “everything that’s been going on is in it. From the first day.”

Steve glanced at you warily, looking back at Natasha, “Can we trust this?” 

The redhead’s gaze toward you was icy, completely void of emotion. Your eyes pleaded with her. She didn’t care. 

“Absolutely not.” 

[pathologicalreid]

the lost daughter | s.r.

in which JJ goes missing in the middle of the night, and Spencer's attempts to comfort you completely fall through

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: death, kidnapping, jareau!reader, takes place during 9x14 "200", caryatids, sibling loss, the british word count: 2.83k a/n: wrote this with my own sibling loss grief in mind so this is just me using fanfic as therapy. not sure if it's any good really. thanks for reading <3

You were already in the roundtable room by the time everyone came in, Penelope was making alarming faces at her laptop before she shook her head, “I’m trying,” she said. “I’m trying to pull data off of JJ’s phone, but it’s like level 9 security—it would make Snowden weep.”

Familiar hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs gently skimming over your collarbones as you watched the rest of the team sprawl around the room. “What about cell phone records?” Blake was next to speak, asking about your sister’s welfare when you couldn’t—too afraid of falling apart to so much as part your lips.

The look of desperation on Garcia’s face did nothing to comfort you, “Encrypted. JJ’s and Cruz’s.” With the disappointing news came a squeeze to your shoulders, Spencer’s silent attempt to comfort you without drawing too much attention to his movements.

Rossi shrugged, “That’s not surprising if they work for the State Department,” he reasoned, looking around the rest of the room.

You leaned back in the office chair, trying to remember how to place your feet on the ground, but it was hard when the soles of your shoes felt like a foreign sensation. “But if that assignment was a backstop,” Morgan started, “then JJ’s transfer as DOD Liaison was her cover.”

Spencer’s thumb ran from the base of your cervical spine to the base of your skull, working out a knot that had been there since you received a call from Will, asking if you knew where your sister was. “So, what was she really doing that year?” Spencer asked, the question sending a wave of goosebumps across your skin, fear making your blood run cold.

“That’s the first question Hotch is gonna ask,” Derek answered, easily slipping into the role of team leader in Hotch’s absence. “Strauss was pressured by the executive branch to push JJ’s transfer through in 2010, so she would have known the reason why.”

Your eyes immediately flicked to Rossi, wondering if Erin Strauss had divulged any state secrets over the duration of their relationship together. Though, you imagined Strauss maintained her oath of secrecy, much like your sister had in the three years since her reassignment. “Any assignment that Strauss authorized would be archived in the SCIF,” Spencer responded, his thumb smoothing over the hair at the nape of your neck.

Garcia looked alarmed, “That facility is code word classified.” She glanced around the room as if she was already searching for new ideas, but Derek seemed convinced.

His head bobbed, “Okay, but Anderson can get you in. He archives those reports,” he began to outline a plan. “Blake, Rossi, JJ couldn’t have used the SCIF without drawing attention. She probably has it foxholed right here in the BAU. We just need to find it,” his head rotated, meeting the gaze of everyone in the room—except for you.

“And what are you not telling us?” Blake asked, slipping both of her hands into the pockets of her blazer.

Morgan’s eyes dropped to meet yours, and you already knew what was coming. “Whoever took Cruz and JJ is highly trained and highly organized. Justice, defense, and state—they wouldn’t be on edge like this if this was a simple matter of two missing agents,” he explained.

You stiffened at his response, and Spencer restarted his ministrations, dropping his hands to your shoulders and working on your shoulder blades. “Is Hotch worried that the recovery won’t be made a priority?” Rossi asked, eyes flittering to you—even though they tried to hide it, everyone was sparing you nervous glances.

“It’s our job to find the leverage that assures it is. Let’s get it done,” Morgan said, nodding his head confidently before allowing the room to disperse.

Shaking off Spencer’s touch, he let you go without a fight, knowing that you wouldn’t be going anywhere far while your sister was still missing. You ducked your head, letting your hair curtain around your face while you walked out of the BAU, vaguely aware of the muttering that followed in your wake.

You shoved your way through the glass doors and turned the corner, practically throwing yourself into Morgan’s office before pressing your back to the wall and sliding down the drywall.

Visualizing the movement of air in and out of your lungs, you tried to teach yourself how to breathe normally. Something that was usually autonomic required more focus than usual, your thoughts so preoccupied with fear that you had to make a conscious effort to inhale and exhale.

The overwhelming feeling of impending doom hadn’t struck you until just then, sitting in the roundtable with your team and being left to wonder what might happen if you can’t convince the state to save your sister. You would have to call your mom and tell her that she’d have to bury another one of her daughters, Henry would have to grow up without his mother, and you would become an only child.

You never had to worry about being alone because you always had your sister, particularly in your adult life when you moved to D.C. JJ made a point to be dependable, to be someone that you could rely on no matter what was going on in her life, and the situation you found yourself in made you wonder if you never reciprocated. Her assignment was classified, but you wondered if she had ever tried to clue you into what she was doing during her time at the Pentagon. You wondered if she would’ve told you even if it was permitted.

It seemed too cruel. Parents weren’t supposed to have to bury their children and sisters weren’t meant to end up alone. The world couldn’t possibly be cruel enough to take JJ from you—she was the only sister you had left.

She promised you, after Roslyn died, that she’d never leave you alone. It was the most vivid memory you had from that early in your childhood. That period of time, from the moment JJ found her in the bathroom to the date of the funeral, you could recall it with alarming accuracy. For the longest time, you thought they were all manufactured, something you had dreamt up as if you were on a therapist’s couch.

But it was real, the fighting, the blood, the necklace—all of it was so devastatingly real.

Morgan’s office was cold, your fingertips frigid in the dim lamplight, you hadn’t even noticed your shadow until he was lowering himself to the ground in front of you, crisscrossing his legs so you were level. He leaned his head forward and set his chin on your knee, his posture so bad it would make dignitaries cry, but it allowed him to meet your eyes even while your head was tilted down.

You put your hands in a praying gesture and slid them between your thighs to warm them up, making eye contact with Spencer while he wiped at the tears on your cheeks. “What’s going through your head right now?” His voice was gentle, he didn’t want to push you, he just wanted to hear from you.

“The British Museum,” you answered because your fears of catastrophe would just worry him more.

He chuckled lightly at your answer, acknowledging that that was the last thing he expected you to say. “Can I ask why?”

Splaying out your fingers, you felt the sensation of the rough denim of your jeans on your knuckles—two of them split from hand-to-hand combat. You leaned your head back, focusing on your surroundings for a moment—Morgan’s office always smelled like cologne and a little bit like old man, which Penelope thought was the ghost of the agent that Derek had inherited his office from. “She was stolen from her sisters so long ago, and now no matter what anyone says or does, they won’t give her back,” you told him, your voice suddenly weak.

Emotion made your throat swell, and the way Spencer was tenderly skimming his fingertips over your thigh wasn’t helping. “Won’t give who back, honey?”

“The Caryatid,” you said urgently as if the answer should’ve been obvious to him. His eyes widened in response, maybe it concerned him that you were relating to a statue, and maybe it was right for him to be worried about you.

Six statues, constructed to support the roof of the Erechtheion in Greece, named after Caryae, which was an ancient town of Peloponnese. Vitruvius said they were constructed to represent the women of the town, women who were enslaved because the town sided with Xerxes during his second invasion of Greece.

Six sisters, built to carry burdens and remind people of the sin committed by Caryatid women.

Five statues, residing in the Acropolis Museum for their own protection while their sister lives alone in the British Museum because she was stolen. Taken by Lord Elgin and despite the insistence of those all over the world, she’s never been returned.

You wondered if she missed her sisters. If the arm she was missing had broken off when she was taken hundreds of years ago, and they had stopped her from reaching out to the only home she had ever known. You knew you would rather detach your own arm than live without your sister, you couldn’t bear the thought of not being a sibling anymore.

“I’m still here,” you whispered, looking straight forward and letting fresh tears fall from your eyes, “and when they’re both dead and I’m still here—what do I do?”

Spencer’s expression was pained, it killed him to know that there was nothing he could do to take your hurt away, it killed him to notice the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes. “She’s not going to die,” he insisted with an uncharacteristic note of optimism in his voice, producing hope when you had already scraped the bottom of that barrel.

Your nostrils flared in frustration, “You can’t promise me that.”

He nodded, “We are going to get her back, okay? We’ll get your sister back for you, and that is a promise.” Sad brown eyes bored into you, a sense of urgency that you very rarely saw in Spencer.

You shook your head, pulling your knees closer to your chest, effectively pushing him away. “You can’t promise me that she won’t die, we don’t even know where she is,” you reminded him.

“Honey,” he breathed, the word dripping in desperation as he tried to get you to meet his eyes, but you were looking past him—through him. “Hey,” he tried again, reaching out and sweeping a lock of hair behind your ear, “Garcia and I are going to the SCIF with Anderson, and I think you should stay here. If you’re up to it, you can help Rossi and Blake look for the foxhole.”

Just like that, he was gone, seemingly unaffected by your rejection of his reassurance, Spencer walked out of the office, leaving the door open a crack behind him.

The worst part was that you had known that JJ’s assignment was a backstop. You knew that there was something deeper going on because you could see it in her, you knew her just as well as you knew yourself. At least you thought you did.

Your suspicions started when she needed you as an emergency contact, citing that her job needed someone outside of her household to be part of her file. The cagey phone calls and missed lunch dates only added to your suspicions, but she never caved. “Where were you, JJ?” You asked yourself, speaking into the emptiness of Morgan’s office.

JJ had left the BAU just before you joined, and at the time everything seemed like it just worked out. When she decided to return, you got to stay, and being able to work with your sister felt like a dream come true—something right out of a film.

You held your head in your hands, pushing at your cheeks with your palms and trying to convince yourself to get up. You couldn’t hold the roof up without your sister. There was no way you’d be able to avoid crumbling without her.

So, you got up.

You ducked your head as a bullet ricocheted off of the iron in front of you, the BAU scattered throughout the warehouse as the search for your sister climaxed. She had to be here, it had been too long, and Askari wouldn’t let her survive this. “He’s headed to the roof,” Rossi said, and you heard footsteps echoing through the orange-lit space.

“So’s JJ,” Blake added, nodding assuredly from a few steps away.

Your head snapped up quickly enough to catch a flash of golden hair as JJ ran through the warehouse, chasing Michael Hastings. Spencer tried to get you to wait, but by the time the words left his mouth, you had already broken off into a sprint and fell into a line behind your sister and Emily.

Keeping your firearm drawn, you follow them to the roof, catching up with your sister and Emily, a thousand words exchanged in that first glance between the two of you. You didn’t have time for a proper reunion, not with Emily peeking around the corner, trying to get a shot at Hastings.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard helicopter blades whirling, getting closer and closer to you. No one had the chance to speak before JJ was running again, rounding the corner and scaling the ladder along the side of the building.

It was left hand-to-hand, and once your sister had given him enough momentum, you had to lunge forward to catch her. Hastings nearly dragged her off of the building with him, but you and Emily caught her, grabbing her hands and hauling her off of the ledge.

The three of you stood in a circle, looking around at each other as if no time had passed, as if Emily hadn’t flown here from London just to find her. “JJ,” you breathed, desperate for something, anything. The universe punished you for catastrophizing by watching the pain set in, JJ’s adrenaline faded now that she wasn’t in the midst of a chase, and the pain of the last several hours was able to show through.

You were about to offer to get down, to find her somewhere quiet to sit, but before you could, she hugged you. JJ nearly launched herself at you and gave you what you so desperately needed—your sister.

“It’s okay,” you said, pressing your face into her shoulder and letting your tears dry as quickly as they fell. “I’ve got you, J,” you assured her, your eyes flickering up to meet Emily’s, concern plain in her furrowed brow.

Slowly, the two of you got JJ off of the roof, and you met up with the rest of the team at the front door. You watched silently as everyone exchanged hugs with your sister, and you kept an eye on her even as she spoke with Cruz in the ambulance.

A familiar hand found its home on your waist, and you subconsciously leaned into Spencer’s touch, “She should go to the hospital.”

You scoffed, “Good luck convincing her of that,” you responded, raising your eyebrows as Hotch helped JJ down from the rig.

Just as you thought, she fought you on it, refusing to get in the back of an ambulance, but being okay with someone else driving her there. The only stipulation was that she needed to call Will first, and he could meet her at the hospital.

“How are you?” Spencer asked, leaning on the passenger door of an SUV while you kept an eye on your sister, watching her talk to Will and tell him that she’s fine.

JJ would always be fine. To someone else, that might’ve been enough, but you knew her better than that. Something was bothering her, but you feared it would take more than one conversation for you to get it out of her. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, trying to absorb his body heat into yours.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he insisted, dropping a soft kiss to the roof of your head.

Slumping your shoulders in disappointment, you looked up at him, “I shouldn’t have gotten so frustrated with you.”

Spencer is silent for a moment, shoving his hands in the pockets of his FBI jacket, “You were so scared, worse than I’ve ever seen you. Worse than you were when you were abducted, and I just wanted to reassure you. You were right though; I shouldn’t have promised.”

You shook your head, smiling up at him, “You were right. We did find her. You kept your promise.”

“I’m not really in the business of making promises that I can’t keep,” Spencer responded, cupping your face with his hands.

Raising your eyebrows, your eyes flickered over to JJ again, “Maybe you should be, you have a 100% success rate.”

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

pairings: liar x liar, non idol au

synopsis: lies

warning: lies, ft minsung, hyunjin and changbin

a/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you cant.

previously...

The house was quiet. A deep, heavy kind of silence that wrapped itself around the walls like a second skin. Only the occasional creak of old floorboards or the low hum of the fridge dared to stir. Bang Chan stood at the doorway of his room, the faintest sliver of light from the hallway catching the rigid line of his jaw. He glanced down the corridor toward your room. Your door was shut. He’d waited long enough, listened for your breathing to settle, watched the soft shuffle of movement behind your door stop. You were asleep. Finally.

He stepped back in and closed his door behind him, locking it. The folder he brought back earlier in the day—one he hadn’t dared open in front of her—now sat like a loaded weapon on the desk by the lamp. Cream-colored, slightly wrinkled, marked with a simple black label:

OP–SHADOWGATE : EXT-4271

He opened it. Slowly. The pages were crisp, printed in typeface and scattered with clipped photos, redacted names, and codes he recognized as off-grid intel. Private databases. Not FBI. Not CIA. This file had been buried beneath four layers of encrypted shell companies and abandoned ops.

But what hit him first was the photo.

You. Y/N. But not as he knew you.

The Y/N in the file wore darker clothes, your hair shorter, your eyes sharper. You looked… cold. Calculated. Military-grade precision in every movement. Every surveillance still of you was timestamped—none of them recent. All of them deeply embedded within reports about missing data, covert meetings in Singapore, Berlin, Tunisia… and one photo that made the breath catch in Chan’s throat—

A handshake. With a known arms trafficker.

What the hell? Page after page confirmed it.

Y/N L/N. No government affiliation. No agency tags. No loyalty flags. Not FBI. Not CIA. Not Interpol. Not even MI6. Instead, three bold letters marked the top corner of one document:

SCU. Chan stared at it, blinking.

Special Covert Unit. A name only whispered in the deeper shadows of intelligence circles. It wasn’t part of any official government. It was a freelance shadow operation—made up of former agents, soldiers, defectors, and ghosts. People who didn’t officially exist anymore. People who could do what governments couldn’t.

And you were one of them.

He ran a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing across the room. The betrayal simmered just beneath his skin. You had lied to him. Let him believe you were an agent, his colleague. You played the role perfectly.

And now, he realized, you’d probably been tracking him. This wasn’t partnership. This was surveillance.

FLASHBACK — 5 HOURS AGO

The dim alley behind a nondescript Vietnamese café. A man stood near the loading door, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Bald. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses and a nervous tic.

Chan approached with his hood up.

"You said you had something I needed," he muttered. The man barely looked at him. “Your girl’s not who you think she is.”

Chan's silence made the man nervous. He reached into a leather pouch and handed over a sealed file.

"She’s on her own payroll. SCU. Has been for years. She's gotten in deep with people you’d shoot on sight. Singapore? That was the third time she’s crossed paths with Petrov. She might not even want you alive.”

Chan had stared. Said nothing. Took the file and left.

The rage started to build in his chest. A quiet fury. His heart beat hard against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He didn’t know what her game was yet… but he would. He grabbed his burner phone from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and tapped out a quick, encrypted message to Jisung:

BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

He hit send and watched the message disappear into the black void of the encoded network.

Then he stared at the door. The one separating him from the woman who saved his life—

and may have been the one holding the blade to his throat all along.

---

The sharp ping of a notification cut through the heavy silence of the room, cracking the late-night calm like glass underfoot.

Jisung groaned into the pillow, half-buried under a tangle of bedsheets and the warm weight of Lee Know draped across his back. Lee Know stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His face remained tucked against Jisung’s shoulder, breathing soft and slow.

Jisung squinted at his phone from under the covers, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

One New Encrypted Message — Burn Line [CHAN]

> BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

That jolted him awake.

He sat up too fast, causing Lee Know to mumble something and shift with a sleepy arm reaching for him. Jisung gently slid out from under him, muttering, “Sorry, baby. Emergency. Sleep,” pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Lee Know didn’t even flinch—dead to the world.

Jisung padded out of the room barefoot and pulled his laptop from under the couch cushions in the living room. His fingers flew across the keys like they’d been waiting for this exact command.

SCU.

He already didn’t like it. SCU wasn’t just off-books. It was the stuff of ghost stories shared between agents over whiskey and paranoia. An elite, unaffiliated covert unit—ruthless, self-sustaining, and impossible to track. The fact that you were one of them? That was bad enough.

But what he found next was worse.

Kallisto.

He hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time it came up, a Russian scientist had vanished from a NATO stronghold. The whispers pinned it on Kallisto—a faceless middleman known for smuggling secrets, laundering intelligence, and forging high-level cover identities.

Every major intelligence server had fragments of Kallisto's digital fingerprint, but no one could identify him.

Until now, obviously. Jisung cracked open one of SCU’s old Istanbul logs. He cross-referenced Y/N’s operation history, missions involving black sites, off-grid assassinations, chemical extraction. And there it was.

An encoded drop-off record.

Marked: KALLISTO — ESCORTED CARGO: L/N

The IP trail was faint. Half-wiped. But he knew this code. He knew this formatting. His eyes widened.

"...No way."

He dug deeper. The metadata on the embedded cryptographic pings led back to one person.

HWANG. HYUNJIN.

“What the actual hell…” Jisung whispered. Hyunjin. The eccentric art dealer. Hacker. Occasional ghost in the machine when they needed access to black market caches. Your silent little tech whisperer. The guy you “called sometimes.”

Hyunjin was Kallisto.

The black-market ghost tied to former Russian intelligence circles. Jisung leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, low breath. His skin felt clammy, the adrenaline finally catching up to him.

You had lied. Big time.

And suddenly, everything about you—your calm, your silence, your innocence—it all made sense. He stood, went back into the bedroom, and gently shook Lee Know awake. “Minho… wake up.”

Lee Know blinked up at him, groggy but alert. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung knelt by the bed. “We’ve got a problem.”

---

They sat side by side on the couch now, Lee Know scrolling on his own device, eyes scanning the material with practiced calm. Jisung was pacing.

“She’s SCU. Confirmed. But that’s not even the worst part—she’s been working with Hyunjin. He’s Kallisto, babe. Like, the Kallisto.”

Minho stilled, a slow exhale leaving him. “Petrov’s operations. The Geneva leak. That guy?”

“Yeah. And Y/N had contact with him on record. Multiple times.”

“So, either she’s compromised,” Minho muttered, piecing it together, “or she’s playing some kind of deep game. Either way…”

“We can’t let her know we know,” Jisung said. “She’s too good. The second she suspects, she’ll vanish.” Lee Know nodded slowly. “Then we make a backup plan. Containment strategy. Something in case she decides to flip on us.”

They leaned over the laptop together. Drawing lines. Mapping timelines. Creating an algorithm that would flag any divergence in her behavior.

“She’s not FBI,” Jisung added softly, almost like it stung.

Lee Know watched him, his hand finding Jisung’s knee. “This is bigger than her now. We play nice. Act like we trust her.”

“And if she decides to go full double-cross?”

---

SOMEWHERE IN BERLIN — FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain was silver in the glow of neon. Cold. Soaked into the cracked asphalt like bloodstains washed clean too many times.

Hyunjin leaned against the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, hood up, hands in the pockets of a double-breasted coat tailored to perfection. Beneath it, a handgun pressed against his ribs and three encrypted drives waited in his briefcase like poison seeds. His gaze flicked upward, catching the silhouette of the woman through the haze—sharp steps, no hesitation, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She shouldn’t have been there.

And yet… there she was.

Y/N.

She didn’t flinch when she saw him. She didn’t blink, either. Just stood before him like she already knew his name.

“You’re Kallisto?”

He smirked. “I don’t usually get called that to my face.”

“I’m not most people.”

God, that voice. It wasn’t soft—it was steel sharpened in silence. She carried herself like a storm that forgot how to scream. Beautiful in a way that made him ache, because it came with distance. She was untouchable. Purpose incarnate.

She was his type of problem.

---

PRESENT — SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY, KALLISTO’S SAFEHOUSE

Hyunjin sat barefoot at a sleek marble table, screens aglow in the dim light, lines of code reflecting in his tired, brilliant eyes. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like a dragon’s breath, untouched. His hair was half-tied, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking from the veins of his forearm.

One screen displayed a dossier.

L/N, Y/N. Alias: Sparrow. Former asset of Operation Daggerfall. Unverified handler clearance.

He stared at her picture longer than he needed to. They’d met in Berlin by accident—but what followed was no coincidence. Y/N had needed access to something no agency would touch. The CIA had written her off. MI6 had wanted her dead. The FBI wouldn’t touch her without a valid background.

Hyunjin gave her one. He buried her records so deep no database could scratch them. Gave her a full identity, a backstory rooted in minor ops and forged casework. He made her real, not just on paper but in the eyes of the federal machine.

Why?

Because she was the first person in his life who didn’t ask him who he worked for.

And he liked the lie that he wasn’t dangerous around her.

---

THREE YEARS AGO — RUSSIA, THE BLACK VAULTS

K.B.V. — Komitet Bezopasnosti Vnutrennyaya. The Committee for Internal Security.

Hyunjin had been part of them once—not fully initiated, but deep enough. A rogue intelligence offshoot made of remnants from the KGB, rebranded under the skin of modern espionage. Hyunjin had been brought in as a teenager. A prodigy. A cyber mercenary capable of crashing entire power grids and rerouting missile guidance in under seven minutes.

He had worked operations where no one left alive. Where targets were innocent, and missions weren’t labeled necessary, just paid.

But somewhere along the way… he cracked.

It was a girl, actually. A blonde. From France. He never talks about her. After that, Hyunjin started playing both sides. Selling intel to the West. Helping the ones meant to disappear. That’s how he ended up in your orbit—how he became the one man you could count on to clean up her messes.

But he never told you about his KBV roots. Never told you that your fingerprints were once auctioned on the dark web and he was the one who bought them before someone else did.

He protected you. He watched your walk into fire. He patched her comms. He killed for her—quietly, efficiently. And every time you said “thank you” in that clipped, mission-focused tone… a small, pathetic part of him ached. Because you never looked at him the way he looked at you.

---

He pulled up footage—grainy but clear. The gala. Again. The kiss. Chan’s hand on her waist. Her lips against his. Hyunjin stared at it like it betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in the chair, exhausted.

“…You never wanted me,” he said into the silence. “But you keep calling.”

He closed the screen and locked everything down. Then turned to the window, watching a city he didn’t belong to breathe in the dark. And in a hidden vault under his floorboards, a letter addressed to Y/N sat sealed. Unread. Unsent. Just in case he ever didn’t come back.

---

The morning peeled itself from the edges of the horizon, warm gold bleeding into the sky like ink dropped into water. The air was still damp from the night rain, and the cobblestones outside the safehouse glistened faintly in the soft light.

Inside, Y/N zipped up the final bag with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this wasn’t her first covert exit. She wore a dark hoodie, her hair tucked beneath a cap, and had the quiet look of someone already in the next country in her mind. Chan watched her from the doorway, arms folded, his face unreadable except for the faint shadow beneath his eyes—a storm bottled too neatly.

He knew. Everything. But she didn’t know that. He grabbed his own bag off the floor, slung it over his shoulder. “You double-checked the back exit?”

“Twice,” she said, brushing past him lightly. “You’d be surprised how many ops go south just because someone forgot to check for cameras.”

He gave a small, empty smile. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” They stepped out into the dawn.

---

The taxi smelled faintly of cigarettes and lemon-scented wipes. The driver grunted something in Czech and pulled away from the curb, the soft rumble of the car the only real sound as the city began to stir around them. Chan sat by the window, his hand curled loosely near his mouth, eyes locked on the blur of minarets and rooftop pigeons sliding past. Y/N sat beside him, her gaze forward, one leg bouncing slightly.

He broke the silence casually, voice wrapped in silk and smoke.

“You ever work with anyone out of South Carolina?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “SCU?” A pause. Careful, he thought.

She shrugged. “Not directly. They’ve got their own ghosts. You know how it is—oversight, contracts, a lot of red tape. Why?” Chan tilted his head, still watching the window.

“Just… someone mentioned a woman in one of my old circuits. Said she moved like she wasn’t trained by the Bureau.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, just long enough for him to catch it. “You think I move like that?” He smiled faintly, turning to look at her now. “I think you move like someone who doesn’t wait for orders.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “Maybe I don’t.” They lapsed into silence again. But in Chan’s mind, wires were already reconnecting. Her answer wasn’t defensive—it was practiced. Slick. And vague enough to slide past the truth without ever touching it.

She’s good, he thought. Too good.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the departure’s terminal. Morning travelers bustled past with overstuffed luggage and sleep-laced chatter. Chan and Y/N stepped out, blending in with the chaos like shadows.

As Y/N adjusted the strap on her carry-on, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

[Jisung]: Your flight's confirmed. Prague to D.C, gate C-22. You board in 1 hr. You’re welcome.

Chan’s burner buzzed next. He checked it discreetly, heart thudding low and slow like a warning drum.

[Jisung]: Kallisto = Hyunjin. Confirmed.

He’s deeper in Russian circuits than we thought.

Do NOT confront her.

Play along. We’re building the counter-plan.

Chan’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. He slid the phone back into his jacket, turned to Y/N with that easy, almost-charming look he wore like armor.

“C-22,” he said. “You want coffee before we go through security?”

She blinked, surprised for a second by the shift. “You’re buying?” He smirked. “You’re still recovering from that fish crime you ordered last night. I owe you.”

As they walked into the terminal, he walked just a step behind her. Watching. Calculating. And the entire time, he smiled like he didn’t know a thing.

---

The room was dimly lit, washed in a cool blue glow from the multiple monitors lined across the wall like portals to chaos. The table was cluttered, half-empty mugs, a bowl of almonds, USBs scattered like confetti, and at the center of it all: Jisung, hunched forward in a hoodie, eyes flicking fast over the screen.

Lee Know sat behind him on the edge of the couch, arms folded, head tilted with that signature mix of exasperation and fondness. His hair was messily laid back, and he wore nothing but a black sleeveless tee and joggers that slung low on his hips.

“Baby, it’s past three,” he said gently. “Your brain’s going to short-circuit. Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “We just pulled up something off that Turkish backdoor server. There’s something encrypted buried under the Havana list—some weird metadata…”

Lee Know sighed through his nose, padded barefoot across the floor and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the screen.

“… ‘OSCAR,’” he read aloud.

Jisung leaned in closer, typing furiously. “That name was tagged on the Havana trade manifest. Not as cargo. As the person who signed off Petrov’s transfer. But this doesn’t make sense—there’s no trace of her anywhere. No photo. No paper trail. It’s like someone built a ghost and gave her a name.”

Lee Know stared at the file; expression unreadable for a second. Then he stood, walked behind Jisung, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

“You are too sexy to be this stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m trying to focus here.”

“And I’m trying to get you to sleep so you don’t pass out in the middle of a firewall breach tomorrow morning.”

“I said I’m fine—”

Lee Know leaned down and kissed him again. This time slower. Then once more. Again.

Jisung’s fingers slowed on the keys. “Lee Know…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because when reasoning fails, seduction prevails.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am lying.”

Lee Know slipped around and gently straddled him on the chair, pressing their lips together properly this time—hands warm against Jisung’s jaw, mouth coaxing the tension out of him in lazy, warm kisses. Jisung gave in with a soft groan, arms looping around his waist.

“Just a minute,” he murmured against Lee Know’s lips.

“Take your time,” he whispered back, dragging the kisses slower, lazier, trailing from his jaw to his neck. “I’ll keep you here till the sun comes up if I have to.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just swayed together in the low light, lost in something too tender for words—breaths mingling, mouths brushing, the tension of espionage fading for a moment into something personal. Familiar.

Then,

PING.

The laptop chimed. Jisung blinked against Lee Know’s collarbone, dazed. “That… was the metadata dump. It decrypted.” Lee Know groaned dramatically and flopped back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “If that turns out to be a decoy file, I’m deleting the internet.”

Jisung pulled himself up, adjusted the screen—and then froze. His brows furrowed, fingers hovering above the keys as an image popped up.

“Holy sh—”

“What?” Lee Know sat up. Jisung didn’t look away from the screen. His voice dropped.

“That’s her. Oscar.”

An elegant silhouette in grayscale. No face. But the metadata showed something else: A log of clearance codes used during Operation Nightfall. Signed off… under the name Reynolds.

Lee Know leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“…They’re working together?”

Jisung nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “And they were in Havana.”

---

Rain whispered against the windows of the high-rise apartment, streaking the glass in slanted gray lines. The place was sharp—clean lines, sterile decor, too polished to be personal. Just like the man who lived in it. Reynolds stood in front of the bar, pouring himself something darker than his thoughts. The amber liquid sloshed into the tumbler with a quiet clink of ice. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His tie was loosened, top buttons undone, and there was a trembling tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there the day before.

Behind him, Petrov leaned back on the leather armchair like a cat that knew it had nine lives. He wore black, all black, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers despite the no smoking sign Reynolds always insisted on. His eyes tracked Reynolds like a man who expected a bullet—but wasn't scared of it. “You look like shit,” Petrov said calmly in his thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“I ran into Oscar last night.”

That got his attention. Petrov straightened, the smirk dissolving from his face like fog. “…She’s here?”

Reynolds turned, drink in hand, and gave him a cold, slow look. “In my goddamn living room, Viktor.”

Petrov held his gaze. “I didn’t call her.”

Reynolds’ voice cracked with low fury. “Bullshit. You compromised the gala. She shook your hand in the middle of gunfire. You were a goddamn beacon.”

“I was saving your operation—”

“You were making yourself the center of it,” Reynolds barked, slamming his glass down on the bar with a sharp crack. “Now she thinks we’ve lost control. She thinks I have. She threatened to light this entire op on fire if I don’t have Bang Chan’s head before the deadline.”

Petrov rose from the chair, the smirk now fully gone. “I swear to you; I didn’t say a word to her. She doesn’t know about Chan. Not from me.”

“She knows enough to show up unannounced,” Reynolds snapped, stalking forward. “And if we don’t get in front of this—if we don’t figure out something, she’ll pull the plug and do it her way. And her way? It’s not clean. It’s not political. It’s nuclear.”

They stood there, the weight of a thousand betrayals thick in the air.

Petrov flicked his ash into the tray, then muttered, “So what now?” Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Calculating. The mind of a man who'd sold both secrets and souls for survival.

“We give her something,” he said finally. “A breadcrumb. Not Chan. Not yet. But something that makes it look like we’re playing ball. And in the meantime—”

He looked up, eyes sharper than a blade in the cold.

“—we come up with a contingency plan. In case she decides we’re no longer necessary.” Petrov nodded slowly, then lifted his glass.

“To desperate partnerships,” he said dryly. Reynolds didn’t toast. He just turned away, staring out at the rain.

“God help us all if she realizes how far off-script this really is.”

---

Terminal 2, Gate 22, En route to Washington D.C

The check-in line was long, but not noisy. But Y/N wasn’t distracted. Not really. She stood a few paces behind Chan as they waited at security, watching him with that instinctive sharpness she'd honed for years. Something about him was different. Distant. Not cold—but guarded. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the safehouse.

She watched the tightness in his jaw as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little too hard. His lips were set in a firm, unreadable line.

And Y/N, despite every instinct telling her to just play it cool, found herself leaning toward him gently as they passed through the security scanner.

“You alright?” she asked softly, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just… not your usual kind of quiet.”

Chan looked at her. For a moment, his eyes flickered. Like something inside him softened just enough to let the truth nearly spill out. But instead, he offered a faint smile—a hollow one.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares or intel?” she teased, her voice playful but careful. He let out a small exhale, neither confirming nor denying. Just moving through the moment like a man carrying too many unspoken truths.

She didn’t press. Not yet. As they approached the gate, their boarding passes beeped and they crossed into the jet bridge, walking side by side in the sterile tunnel that led to the aircraft. The hum of the engines rumbled ahead, but her mind stayed focused on the man next to her.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that unshakable thread between them—tension, trust, and something else they never had the courage to name. Just before they stepped into the plane, she said, “You know… whatever it is you think I’m hiding from you… maybe just ask me, Chan.”

That stopped him. He turned to her slowly, brows barely lifted, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. She gave him a small shrug, eyes calm but not challenging. “I’m not saying I don’t have secrets. We all do. But if you want the truth, you can always ask for it. I won’t lie to you.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because the file still burned in his bag. The truth already stared him in the face, and yet—her voice made him hesitate. Made him doubt. And that scared him more than anything else. He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor for just a beat too long. Then he stepped into the plane, leaving her to follow behind, unaware that the first real fracture had just begun.

---

The room was dark except for the flickering light from at least six different monitors. Strings of code cascaded like falling rain across black screens. The air smelled faintly of soldered wire and burnt coffee, evidence of Hyunjin's relentless routines. His desk was a chaotic masterpiece: old USBs, passports, a disassembled burner phone, and a half-finished oil painting of a fox that had long since dried unfinished.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a single cigarette resting between his fingers but never lit. His gaze flickered over the final set of coordinates he’d decrypted an hour ago.

Location: Prague > Departure: DC

Subject: BANG C. / YN

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were moving faster than expected. With the same elegance he brought to his art, Hyunjin leaned forward and opened a separate interface. His fingers tapped quickly, unlocking a channel so heavily encrypted it would take even the best black hat a week to scrape the metadata. But Oscar? She’d receive the message in seconds.

He clicked the microphone icon and spoke low into it:

> Oscar. Your package is mobile. Destination: Washington D.C. ETA six hours. Suggest containment on landing. You still want the ghost or just the soldier?

He released the mic, leaned back, and pressed SEND. A soft beep confirmed it was received and decrypted. He sat there, motionless, fingers steepled. His eyes didn’t blink for a few seconds. Because despite what he had just done—despite the mask of cold indifference he wore so well—it wasn’t just a mission. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to Y/N.

Hyunjin whispered under his breath, “What the hell are you doing, pretty girl…?”

He was about to pull up the next operation file when another alert blipped in the corner of his primary monitor.

Incoming Message: UNRECOGNIZED KEYCHAIN

Encryption: NERVE Protocol / Red Spider Variant

Location masked

Brows lifted. He hadn’t seen this protocol in years. Only a handful of elite black-market hackers used it. Most of them were ghosts. Off-grid. Untraceable. Curious, he opened the message.

> KALLISTO. I see you. You can paint in Prague, hide in Spain, sip tea in Seoul. But sooner or later, I'm gonna unplug your router and use your bones as Wi-Fi extenders. :) – spider.exe

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted—actually laughed. Loudly.

“Spider.exe?” he muttered. “That’s cute. Very cute.”

He leaned forward and quickly activated three different defense protocols, sealing his connection routes and initiating a trace sweep. Not to find them—he wouldn’t succeed. But to at least see what sort of game they were playing.

He stared at the signature tag of the hacker’s handle again. It was old-school. Reckless. Personal.

“…Who the hell are you?” he whispered, the smile still on his lips, eyes sharpening like a wolf finally smelling blood.

Because someone was watching him.

And even though they were clever… Hyunjin had survived the K.B.V. by being smarter.

---

Jisung leaned back in his chair, legs folded, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up as he spun a pen between his fingers. The laptop screen in front of him still had the encryption pulse active—the same encrypted system he’d used to poke the bear.

Or rather, poke KALLISTO.

Lee Know was somewhere in the background brushing his teeth, humming a tune from that one old K-drama he refused to admit he liked. But Jisung? He was grinning, eyes wide and glinting with mischief as he typed again into the Red Spider interface.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Yo Picasso.exe — you draw fast but you paint slow. FYI, I'm the nightmare that crash-lands your Dropbox and plays Baby Shark on loop till you cry in Morse code. Wanna play tag, comrade?

ENCRYPTED SEND > DELIVERED

Beep.

He waited. Not even fifteen seconds. His eyes caught the alert on screen.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION – USER: APOLLO.S13 // KALLISTO

Encryption Signature: Modified Russian VektorShell – Unscramblable

Jisung whistled. “Damn. Old school and expensive…”

Then the message decrypted.

RECEIVED MESSAGE

> Tag requires two players. You don’t ping like NSA, but you’re not FSB either. Your syntax is juvenile, your jokes? American. But your footprint is clean. Too clean. Either you’re new, or you’re very good. So tell me: how long have you been inside my system?

Jisung blinked. “Oh, he thinks I’m inside.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and grinned like a devil in a hoodie. “No idea who I am? Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He quickly began coding his reply—half jokes, half riddles, all wrapped in a sarcasm sandwich.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Define ‘inside.’ Metaphysically? Emotionally? Or spiritually? Because honestly, I’ve been living rent-free in your RAM since you sent Oscar that voice memo. C’mon, Kallisto. Play a little.

Another beat.

Ding.

KALLISTO REPLY – 1:38 RESPONSE TIME

> Cute. But cute things die first. Keep poking, spider. When I find your web, I’m setting it on fire.

Jisung snorted, closing the lid of his laptop slowly like he’d just made eye contact with the final boss of a game. He leaned back further, arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, he mad mad. Baby boy got attitude.”

Lee Know walked in, towel over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re flirting with Russian hackers at again?”

“…Technically he’s North Korean-trained but, y’know, semantics.”

Lee Know sighed, but smirked. “You’re not gonna tell him who you are?” Jisung grinned. “Nah. Not yet. Let’s see how long it takes Picasso to realize he’s been painting on my canvas.”

---

FLIGHT 297 – SOMEWHERE ABOVE KENTUCKY

Cabin dim, engines humming low, and the soft glow of overhead lights pooling like moonlight around their seats.

Y/N leaned back into her seat, head tilted toward the small window, watching as clouds slithered past in the night sky like pale ghosts. The plane wasn’t packed—just a scattering of sleepy passengers lost in their own silence. She’d been watching Chan from the corner of her eye for about twenty minutes now.

He was quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he’d been since they left the safehouse was… off. Not cold. Just… calculated. Like he was mentally running risk assessments on everything, including her.

She didn’t press. Not immediately.

But curiosity and survival had a similar itch, and eventually, she turned toward him, voice soft. “So… what’s the plan when we land in D.C.?”

Chan didn’t look up right away. His gaze was fixed on the seat in front of him, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fold-down tray. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, casting her a quick glance before leaning a bit closer.

“Friend’s place,” he said simply, voice low. “Guy I trust. His name’s Changbin.”

Y/N’s spine straightened by less than a millimeter. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t skip. But something in her stomach knotted.

CIA.

She knew the name. Not from files, but whispers. Operation Scarfall. Beirut. The Berlin Deviation. He was the CIA handler you didn’t want to get on the bad side of. And he was close to Chan?

Shit.

But her face? A masterpiece. She smiled gently. “How close are we talking?” Chan exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He almost got me court-martialed on my first inter-agency mission. Gave me hell for three weeks because I mislabeled a cipher doc.”

Y/N blinked. “Sounds like a great first date.”

Chan gave her a look, one that almost held a smile—almost. “He earned my trust the same way I earned his. We nearly died pulling each other out of a blown-out building in Benghazi. Haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still pretending. Still sweet. Still the Y/N he thinks he knows. “And you think he’s the best place to start?”

“He’s not just a friend,” Chan said, voice flattening slightly. “He’s a fixer. Quiet but connected. If there’s anything left buried in D.C., Changbin can dig it up, burn it, and sell the ashes to the highest bidder.”

Y/N tucked that away. Filed it next to “Find a way to keep Changbin at arm’s length.” Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her features. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to break the situation down to him.”

“Situation?”

He hesitated. “You. The mission. All of it.”

“Ah.” She crossed one leg over the other, lips curling into a soft smirk. “You think he’s not already ten steps ahead?” Chan scoffed lightly. “He probably is. He’s probably listening to this conversation right now. But I owe him the explanation anyway.”

She nodded, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the lights of a city far below flicker like dying stars. And deep inside—beneath the calm, beneath the softness—she wondered:

How long could she keep playing this game? Because it wasn’t just Chan anymore. It was CIA. And Changbin. The man who once interrogated KALLISTO in a shipping crate in Kaliningrad.

This was going to get messy.

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT – WASHINGTON, D.C.

The air is heavy with dew and anticipation. The city sleeps—restless and unaware.

The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a soft, tired bounce, jostling the passengers gently awake. Cabin lights blinked on fully, casting shadows over drawn faces and travel-weary limbs. Y/N stirred beside Chan, stretching subtly as the pilot's voice crackled overhead, welcoming them to the District of Columbia.

They moved in silence, the kind bred not of awkwardness but of focus—of sharpening blades before the next fight.

Baggage claim was a ghost town, the conveyor belt humming like a tired lullaby. Their duffels arrived quickly—black, nondescript, and heavy with secrets. Chan hoisted his without strain, glancing once over his shoulder as Y/N lifted hers. Always watching. Always calculating.

Outside, the chill was sharper than expected, the kind that bit through jackets and whispered of coming storms. Chan stepped a few paces away from her to the curb, phone in hand, raising it to call a cab. And that’s when her phone pinged.

One message. Unknown number.

Encrypted tag: MirrorOp-11.

She unlocked it, frowning faintly as the screen displayed:

> The spider’s getting closer to the web.

Better check your corners. – K

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely, but Chan caught it.

Unbeknownst to her, as she tilted the screen just slightly for a better read, he caught the top of the message from over her shoulder. His gaze flickered, lips twitching into a slow, almost amused smile.

Kallisto.

He knew that message wasn't from just anyone. And "the spider"? It was one of Jisung's oldest hacker tags—playful, dangerous, elusive. The digital equivalent of a red laser pointer and a loaded gun. Still pretending not to have seen a thing, Chan turned and flagged down a taxi with an easy wave, his voice calm.

“Over here.”

The yellow cab rolled up with a tired groan, headlights splashing across their faces. He opened the door for her first like always, and she slid in, her phone slipping into her coat pocket. Chan followed and closed the door behind them, then leaned in to the driver.

“Northwest. 14th and T Street,” he said smoothly. The driver gave a nod and pulled out into the sleepy city streets, tires whispering over damp asphalt.

Y/N’s expression was mostly neutral, but Chan didn’t miss the subtle tension in her posture, the tight hold on the strap of her bag, the way her eyes darted once to the rearview mirror, checking for tails out of habit.

“You okay?” he asked casually, glancing sideways at her. His voice had that soft, worn edge like coffee at dawn. “You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Y/N turned to him, lips already lifting into a gentle, practiced smile. “Yeah,” she replied easily. “Just... tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve been through hell.” His tone was comforting. Reassuring. The protective leader. But his thoughts?

If you only knew what I saw.

If you only knew who I’m talking to. And what we’re building behind the curtain. The cab turned onto a main road, headlights cutting through fog, and the Capitol slowly began to rise like a giant in the distance watching them.

And Y/N?

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at her phone once more. She didn’t reply to the message.

Not yet.

Because suddenly…

It felt like someone else was watching the spider too.

---

The taxi hummed quietly as it pulled up in front of a narrow street lined with quiet row houses modest, but timeless. Each brick home had the same bones but showed off its own personality: a windchime here, mismatched flower pots there, paint chipping in just the right way. And in front of one—olive green door, cracked white trim—was where Chan told the driver to stop.

“Here,” he muttered, already reaching for his wallet.

Y/N stepped out first, stretching her arms with a quiet sigh as Chan paid the driver. The morning air was still cool, birds chirping overhead in the sleepy hum of D.C. suburbia. They looked like tourists, really. Two travelers with their bags and fatigue under their eyes. Nothing suspicious. Nothing wild. Just two people with too much history tucked into carry-ons.

As the car drove off and the sound of its tires faded, Chan walked up to the doorstep and gave three sharp knocks against the wood. There was a pause. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The squeak of a hinge and the door cracked open.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice, deep and raspy, still thick with morning. “Who the hell fucked you?”

Chan barked out a laugh. “Real welcoming, Bin.”

“Hey,” Changbin grinned, stepping back so they could see him fully. He was barefoot in sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy, a toothbrush still in his mouth like a cigarette. “Had to be said. You look like a war crime.”

“I was a war crime,” Chan said with a smirk. “Come on, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward cautiously, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting over Changbin with subtle appraisal. She recognized the CIA air before he even spoke—calculated eyes, compact build, that low hum of suspicion always thrumming under the surface.

Changbin blinked at her. “And you are…?”

Chan shifted beside her. “FBI. She found me.”

There was a beat. Then Changbin’s lips twitched.

“A she found you?” he said, brow raised. “Damn, low blow, bro. I thought the Ghost of Langley would be found by some tatted-up Russian or an old white guy named Walter, but this—?” He let out a breathy laugh. “Nah, I like this better.”

Chan rolled his eyes and flipped him off as he crossed the threshold. “Eat shit.”

“Already did. The yogurt expired two days ago,” Changbin shot back, closing the door behind them with a heavy clunk and twisting the locks. He looked back at them. “Make yourselves at home. Couch is yours. Kitchen’s to the right. Don’t touch my protein powder or we fight.”

Y/N smiled politely, easing her bag down by the wall. The space was cozy in that ex-operative kind of way—bare walls, sturdy furniture, hidden cameras in the corner if you looked hard enough. Homey... if your version of home came with bulletproof blinds.

Chan looked over at Changbin again, that subtle softness tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you, bro.”

That wasn’t something they said easily. Not in this world. Not unless they meant it. Changbin’s expression flickered. “Yeah, well… you better’ve. I had to watch your name bounce through six different kill lists like a damn ping pong tournament.” He crossed over and pulled Chan into a half hug, the kind where you clap each other’s backs hard enough to bruise. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

“You too.” Chan stepped back, grinning. “How’s your girl?”

Changbin snorted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mad at me. Thinks I took a late-night op to avoid therapy again.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” He gave a shrug like: what’s a man to do? “She’ll forgive me. Eventually. I bought her a plant.” Chan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna die in your sleep.”

“Probably. At least I’ll die pretty.”

And just like that, the door to safety had shut behind them but the door to strategy, to planning, to war, had quietly opened. And no one said it aloud yet, but it was there in the glances, the sighs, the heaviness behind every word.

Because this wasn’t just a safe house.

This was the first chess move.

I can't wait for my lovely blue to see this 😙

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

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~kc 💗

[steelbluehome]

From Fear and Loathing: Closer to the Edge on Facebook

Heading to a “Hands Off!” protest this Saturday? Here’s everything you need to know — your rights, safety tips, and what to do if arrested.

On Saturday, April 5, people across the United States will gather for a coordinated day of resistance. From major cities to small towns, the “Hands Off!” protests are about drawing a hard line — against political overreach, creeping authoritarianism, and policies that strip away our rights and dignity.

Whether you’re marching in New York City, Dallas, Chicago, or a rural square in Nebraska, your presence matters. So does your preparation.

Here’s your nationwide guide to showing up — and staying safe while doing it.

KNOW YOUR RIGHTS (AND WRITE THEM ON YOUR ARM)

Before you arrive: Write the local legal support hotline number on your arm in permanent marker. In many cities, National Lawyers Guild (NLG) chapters will operate hotlines and send legal observers.

Say: “I am exercising my right to remain silent. I want a lawyer.”

Ask: “Am I being detained or am I free to go?”

If detained, remain silent.

If not, walk away calmly.

Legal observers (often in green hats/vests) are there to document police behavior — not to represent you legally. You can notify them if you witness abuse or misconduct.

WHAT TO BRING

Pack like you’re staying awhile and planning for anything:

Water and snacks

Face mask, hand sanitizer, and sunscreen

Phone with passcode lock (NOT Face ID/fingerprint)

External battery pack

Cash (for food, transit, emergencies)

Printed emergency contacts

Comfortable shoes, weather-appropriate clothing

Goggles or saline drops (in case of tear gas, depending on region)

Don’t bring:

Weapons (or anything that could be construed as one)

Illegal substances

Anything you wouldn’t want seized or photographed by law enforcement

STAY SAFE, STAY CALM, STAY NON-VIOLENT

Stick together. Stay with your group. Have a plan if separated.

Avoid confrontation. Ignore counter-protesters and agitators.

Film what matters. You have the legal right to record public events, including police activity — but don’t interfere.

De-escalate when possible. Your goal is to be heard, not baited.

Watch your surroundings. Know where you are and how to exit if needed.

If arrested:

Don’t resist.

Don’t talk beyond name and birthdate.

Wait for a lawyer.

Don’t sign anything without legal counsel.

PROTECT YOUR DATA

Phones are tools — and vulnerabilities.

Turn off Face ID and fingerprint unlock. Use a passcode.

Consider airplane mode during risky moments.

Back up photos/videos or use live stream apps like Instagram or Twitch to preserve footage.

Use encrypted messaging apps like Signal.

RESOURCES BY REGION

While every city differs, these national orgs often have local chapters or partners at major protests:

National Lawyers Guild: nlg.org

ACLU: aclu.org/know-your-rights

Mutual Aid Networks: Search “[Your City] Mutual Aid”

Bail Funds Directory: bailfunds.github.io

Legal Hotlines: Often listed on local protest pages or announced by organizers day-of

TRANSPORT + ACCESSIBILITY

Plan ahead: Some roads and transit lines may close or reroute.

Carpool or take transit when possible.

If you need ADA accommodations, contact local organizers in advance or ask staff at arrival points.

THIS IS BIGGER THAN A MARCH

This isn’t just a protest. It’s a warning flare — and a promise. That we won’t stand by while our rights are stripped. That we won’t let apathy win. That we see what’s happening — and we’re not afraid to raise hell, peacefully and powerfully.

So come prepared.

Come together.

And don’t let them scare you into silence.

Stay safe. Stay loud.

[shattereality]

Kallexus, mid-mission, surrounded by ash winds and shattered enemies, reading tactical data—when suddenly his internal comm-link pings with a priority transmission from you. TW: suggestive

What Happens When You Send Kallexus a Risqué Photo While He's on a Mission

The Ping:

His helmet’s HUD flashes with your private encryption sigil. He expects a status report. Maybe a mundane request.

What he gets is an image. There you are. Very little clothing. Very soft lighting. Very purposeful positioning.

Your expression says, “I miss you,” but your body says, “I dare you to survive this fight faster.”

The Reaction:

His entire body locks up. The enemy in front of him is confused for a full second before being obliterated.

His two hearts stutter. Momentarily. His gauntleted hand tightens slightly around his bolter. The air around him shifts. Tense.

He zooms in, not once, but twice, as if verifying the details is crucial battlefield intel.

Internal Monologue:

“...She is mine. She dares. She teases. She flaunts what I own. This—this is a calculated breach of discipline.”

“I will not lose focus. I will not—”

“…She will be punished.”

He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much—but it does.

His Squadmates:

They know something happened. Lord Kallexus Vordath is usually quiet, but now? He’s downright radiating menace.

One whispers: “He just got a message. He didn’t speak. Just stared at the horizon for seven minutes.”

“Brother? You’ve halted movement—are you injured?”

Kallexus’s Immediate Response:

He saves the picture. Encrypts it in three layers of code. Tucks it into a file titled: “Private – Vital Data.”

Keeps glancing at it again in the few seconds between slaughter.

Sends you a photo if his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his chainsword, drenched in fresh blood, with the simple caption:

“You tempt the storm. I will return.”

Back on the Battle Barge:

You receive that photo. And a flutter of fear sparks in your stomach. You know what’s coming.

You don’t sleep well that night—because you know that when he returns, he will be unrelenting. Possessive. Overwhelming.

When He Does Return:

The ship shakes as his gunship lands. You're on your way to the refectory but then see the shadow at the end of the hall. He does not speak. Just approaches.

You try to babble out something teasing or lighthearted but he’s already closing the distance.

“You thought to distract me during battle,” he growls lowly. “You succeeded. I thought of nothing else.”

“K-Kallexus—”

“Say my name again. With fewer clothes.”

[vibratingskull]

Hello, I had an idea for fic but it's a bit different to what you typically write so I understand if you wouldn't want to write it.

Imagine some rebels...maybe members of ghost crew intercepts some of Thrawns correspondence thinking that it's really important intel only to find it's some sweet back and forth between him and his SO.

They would be so surprised to find the big bad Grand Admiral being all cute in his messages. 👀

Interesting idea, let's see what it looks like!

⁺ 　 . ✦ Thrawn x F!reader ✦ . 　⁺

Tags: Kallus POV, pregnancy mention, Thrawn and reader are secretly married

Kallus types on the keys, eyes fixed on the screen. 

Everyone is asleep in the Ghost but Kallus cannot sleep. They have been hunted mercilessly and now they are exhausted, Hera found a hideout and everyone fell face first in their pillows. 

But Kallus is obsessed with a thought, something he did not have time to investigate while he was still a mole in the Empire. 

He still needs to prove himself to his new rebel companions and he hopes that lead could be his ticket! Back when he was under the Empire he noticed ghost communications emanating from Grand Admiral Thrawn’s personal comms and terminals and while he found them suspicious they were not coded as orders that he needed to dig for the rebellion. 

But now those communications shine in a very suspect light and he wants to get to the bottom of it. 

He is no master hacker and Thrawn evidently changed all the codes of his ship to prevent Kallus from recovering them now that he is a rebel, but Thrawn cannot decide how to modify such encryptions, it obeys a very specific bureaucratic imperial logic. 

Logic Kallus grew accostumed to. 

For 4 weeks he tried to break the code, spending sleepless nights on this forsaken screen destroying his eyes in the dark and tonight he finally got it! 

This is a one-time thing, knowing Thrawn as he does he will realize someone broke his security and stole his secrets.  

And considering the encryptions on those communications, he will be absolutely furious and the hunt will get worse. 

Kallus knows it 

He enters, gathers a maximum of information, eliminates as many proofs of his presence, and runs to wake up Hera to change hideouts immediately! 

He thought he would discover a one-way channel through which Thrawn transferred his plans to the Imperial palace to the Navy’s siege or even Lord Vader or the Emperor...  

But he noticed those data left the Chimaera to return straight back to it... 

Internal ship discussions do not use the triads to be sent and use an intranet and a computer to communicate informations. But Thrawn decided to muddy his trail by sending the data to a triad that recodes it again before sending the data back to the Chimaera. 

With whom was he communicating and about what!? 

He finishes typing his command and a new window pops up before his eye 

A Discussion 

To a certain “Ch’acah” 

He never encountered that word. Is that a title? Nobody on the Chimaera is named Ch’acah. 

... 

What the hell...? 

Ch’acah: ”How was your day, Thrawn?” 

Thrawn: “Uneventful. My planning brought us to victory again and we are gaining in the rebels. Only Konstantine remains a wild card.” 

Ch’acah: “Again? When will he learn that we need his cooperation for the plans to work as intended? He can’t allow himself to do what he wants like that!” 

Thrawn: “I agree.” 

Ch’acah: “I will try to have a word with him.” 

Thrawn: “Thank you for your concern Ch’acah, but I would prefer you refrain. It will only had to your stress, and you do not need stress right now.” 

Ch’acah: “I am pregnant, not dying, silly.” 

Thrawn: “I prefer to be safe than sorry.” 

... 

Kallus blinks and reread all of that. 

Pregnancy? Daring to call Thranw ‘silly’? 

What did he stumble across? 

He keeps reading 

Thrawn: “I would never forgive myself if something happened to our baby.” 

Ch’acah: “Nothing is going to happen to me or the baby, especially when I am with you on the Chimaera. I know you will do your best to protect us.” 

Thrawn: “I am doing my best. Nothing will ever reach you two while I am alive, I swear it Ch’acah.” 

Ch’acah: “Hihi, I know my love, I know.” 

Thrawn: “I miss you daily even though we see each other every day. Hiding ourselves from the world tear my heart to pieces.” 

Ch’acah: “You can reenact your marriage proposal on the bridge before everyone else if you want! <3” 

Thrawn: “ (Y/n)... You know I cannot.” 

Kallus almost spat out his caff 

YOU? 

You and... Thrawn are together? A couple? And you are pregnant?! 

He remembers chatting with you from time to time and honestly praising your performance when he was still loyal to the Empire, when he turned to the rebellion he started avoiding you, judging you as a danger to his cover. 

He always found you competent and intelligent, and visibly Thrawn thought the same and got seduced. 

He would have never guessed Thrawn would get his heart stolen! And by you? 

You were more dangerous than he first judged! 

Thrawn: “If we are revealed you would become a target. The rebels and the Empire will try to get to you, to the baby, to reach me.” 

Ch’acah: “I know... I was joking. Me too I would prefer to be free to hug you whenever I want...” 

Thrawn: “Soon, Ch’acah, soon... When my true plans will succeed, when I know everyone in the galaxy is safe from that exterior threat, we will be together and free. I love you, ch’eo Ch’acah, more than anything.” 

Ch’acah: “Me too, my love, more than anything.” 

Kallus takes a minute 

This is not what he expected 

Not at all even 

He feels like he walked in on something he should have never seen... 

He never suspected that... softer... side of the Grand Admiral Thrawn. 

He doesn’t know if that humanizes him in his eyes or gives him the creeps. 

Thrawn is deadly and Kallus doesn’t really want to discover how he is when someone were to stand between him and you... 

Between him and his baby... 

Kallus thinks, does he even have it in himself to target a pregnant woman? 

Would it not be what an Imperial would do? A rebel would probably have more morals than that... 

Kallus contemplates the messages, the love that was hidden even to his eyes. He remembers you as a diligent and loyal officer to Thrawn and the Chiss showed respect to your person and gave a lot of consideration to your opinions on his tactics and plans in retrospect. 

Now that Kallus has those informations, a lot of things click in his mind, about you and Thrawn’s behaviors in the presence of the other. 

A secret couple 

A hidden pregnancy 

Thrawn is right about one thing, the Emperor will certainly try to get that baby, the offspring of his most prized tactician 

This is literally a death sentence for you, it is only a matter of time. No rebel will even need to intervene: if Thrawn does nothing, the Emperor will get to him himself. 

Kallus decides to exit the conversation 

Destroys as much proof of his visit as he can 

And stand up to wake up Hera and flee somewhere safe. 

Thrawn will never allow such secret to spread and will do his best to hunt the intruder until he slits his throat 

But somehow 

For some reason 

Kallus sympathizes with his new enemy, he would not want to be in his position 

Never. 

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