"What happens in Berlin?" I ask quietly.
"We identify Koval. We verify your intelligence. We gather evidence." His hand drops from my jaw but stays close, hovering in the space between us. "We prove you're worth the risk I'm taking."
"And if we can't prove it? If Koval doesn't confirm the kidnapping timeline or the evidence doesn't hold up?"
"Then we adapt." His voice carries certainty I don't feel. "But I don't think that's going to happen. I think you're exactly what you claim to be. An asset who spent five years in hell gathering evidence against the people who corrupted everything you believed in. Someone who deserves a chance to finish what she started."
Something in my stomach twists. I'm not used to people believing in me without extensive proof. Not used to someone looking past the performance to see the intention beneath. The Nocturne persona was built on manipulation and deception.Archer's seeing through it to something more fundamental, and that exposure feels more dangerous than anything the Iron Choir could do to me.
"I want to believe you," I whisper. "Want to trust that there's something worth salvaging. But I've been lying for so long, the truth feels like exposure. Like vulnerability. Like handing you a loaded gun and hoping you don't pull the trigger."
"I'm not going to pull the trigger." His hand finds mine where it rests on my thigh, fingers intertwining with a certainty that shouldn't feel this natural. "I'm going to help you finish this. We're going to Berlin. We're going to verify the intelligence. We're going to stop the Laurent kidnapping and take down Moreau. And then we're going to figure out who you are when you're not Nocturne anymore."
The promise settles into my bones. It's the first solid ground I've stood on in years. Like maybe, possibly, there's a way forward that doesn't end with me buried under the rubble of compromises and lies.
I don't release his hand. Don't rebuild the walls. Don't retreat into the defensive armor that's kept me alive through five years of deep cover operations. Instead, I sit here, hand intertwined with his, and let myself feel the dangerous possibility that maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.
The jet cuts through the night, engines humming steady and sure. Berlin waits ahead with all its dangers and complications. Koval waits with verification or exposure. The Iron Choir waits with consequences for the operative who betrayed them. But right now, in this moment, there's just the two of us staring at each other across seats that suddenly don't feel quite so distant.
The air between us has shifted from interrogation to something far more dangerous. There's understanding building between us, maybe even connection. The recognition that this mission just became infinitely more complicated than either ofus anticipated. Because somewhere between Monaco and Berlin, between tactical assessment and forced vulnerability, the lines have blurred.
And the fear hits me that when this is over, the operative and the woman won't untangle. That I won't know how to separate the mission from whatever this thing building between us actually is.
His hand tightens slightly around mine, fingers brushing across my knuckles. The touch anchors and unsettles all at once. A reminder that I'm not alone. A warning that proximity breeds complications I'm not prepared to handle.
"Get some rest," he says quietly, but his grip doesn't loosen. "Berlin's still a ways off. You're going to need your strength."
I should agree. Should close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under. Should use the time to regroup and rebuild defenses that have been stripped away by his questions and his touch and his unexpected faith in my salvageability.
Instead, I keep my eyes open. Keep my hand in his. The exhaustion is still there, the pain medication wearing thin, my body demanding sleep. But something holds me here in this moment—the fear that if I close my eyes, this fragile connection will dissolve. That I'll wake up alone again, the distance rebuilt, the walls back in place.
His thumb continues tracing patterns across my knuckles, a steady rhythm that matches the jet engines. We don't speak. Don't need to. The silence stretches between us, no longer tense but almost companionable. Two operatives flying toward danger, hands intertwined, neither willing to be the first to let go.
6
ARCHER
Berlin greets us with rain and darkness, the kind of weather that makes surveillance difficult and extraction messy. Perfect conditions for the Iron Choir's business operations, which is exactly why Koval chose this city for his base. The cab drops us at a hotel near Kreuzberg, a neighborhood where questions aren't asked and cash speaks louder than identification documents.
Marissa hasn't let go of my hand since we landed. Not during the customs check where we passed through with forged credentials that Cerberus prepared. Not during the cab ride through rain-slicked streets. Not when we checked into separate rooms with a connecting door that neither of us has mentioned but both of us are aware of.
She releases my hand now, standing in the hotel corridor between our doors, exhaustion evident in the way she holds herself. The pain medication they gave her at Opus Noir has worn off, leaving her to manage injuries that need more rest than we have time to give them.
"Get cleaned up," I say quietly. "We move on Kronos in a few hours. Koval does his business there after midnight."
She nods, but doesn't move toward her door. "Archer, about what happened on the jet?—"
"Later." I cut her off, not unkindly but firmly. "Right now we need to focus on the mission. On verifying your intelligence and securing that meeting. Everything else waits until we're clear."
The words are professional, exactly what the situation requires. But they taste like a lie. Because everything that happened on that jet is still humming between us, electric and dangerous, making it hard to think about mission parameters when all I want is to pull her into my room and finish the conversation we started at altitude.
She sees it too. The tension. The want. The terrible timing of whatever this thing building between us actually is. "Later," she agrees, and disappears into her room before I can say something that compromises us both.
I stand in the corridor for a moment longer than necessary, then force myself into my own room. I need distance and focus, everything I'm trained to maintain even when every instinct screams to ignore protocol and follow where this attraction leads.
The room is standard European hotel minimalism. Clean lines, functional furniture, a window overlooking rain-soaked streets where Berlin's nightlife is just beginning to wake up. A leather duffel sits on the bed—Cerberus supply drop with everything we'll need for the operation.
I strip out of travel clothes and into the civilian clothes they provided, suitable for the club we're about to infiltrate. Black suit, tailored enough to suggest money but not so expensive that it draws attention. The weapon stays in a shoulder holster, concealed but accessible.
