Fitz meets us in the living area. Dark circles under his eyes, coffee cup in hand, tension radiating from every line of his body. Logan stands near the windows, arms crossed, expression grim. They've been here for hours already, working in the ops center below, coordinating with assets at Opus Noir, trying to salvage an operation that went sideways in Marrakesh.
"Sit," Fitz says, gesturing to the seating area. "We need to debrief."
Marissa straightens, pulling away from me slightly. I feel the loss immediately but don't fight it. She needs to be Nocturne right now, needs the professional armor. I understand that. But my hand stays on the small of her back, letting her know I'm here.
We settle onto one of the sofas. Logan takes a chair across from us. Fitz remains standing, pacing like he needs the movement to burn off frustration.
"Your cover is blown," Fitz says without preamble. "The Conductor knows Nocturne is compromised. Moreau made sure of that before he ran. Intel suggests the Iron Choir is treating you both as hostile operatives."
"Which means they'll be expecting us," Logan adds. "Any move we make, they'll anticipate."
Marissa's spine goes rigid beside me. "The mission?—"
"Continues," Fitz cuts her off. "Laurent's daughter is still in danger. Gala is still happening in a few days. We adapt."
"How?" I ask, keeping my voice level even though frustration simmers beneath. "If they know we're coming, they'll adjust their plans. Move the timeline. Change tactics."
"We're working on that," Logan says. He pulls up a tablet, tapping through screens. "Our intel suggests the gala is still their target window. Best opportunity—diplomatic immunity, international guests, chaos they can use as cover. Moving up the timeline means losing those advantages."
"Unless Moreau gave them something that makes the advantages irrelevant," Marissa points out. Her voice is steady, but I hear the exhaustion underneath. "He knows my real identity. My entire Interpol cover. Every contact I've made in the Iron Choir over the years."
"True," Fitz acknowledges. "Which is why we're assuming worst-case scenario and planning accordingly. Moreau is en route to Monte Carlo. Intel puts his arrival in the next couple of days. We'll intercept him before he can make contact with the Conductor's people here."
"And then what?" My question comes out sharper than I intend. "Detain him? Question him? He's Interpol's Director of Operations. This isn't some low-level operative we can disappear."
"We'll deal with Moreau when he arrives," Fitz says, and there's steel in his voice that says the conversation about thatparticular problem is closed. "Right now, focus on the gala. We have a few days to prepare. Laurent is cooperating fully—he'll bring Amelie as planned, but with additional security we're embedding into his detail. Iron Choir won't see them coming."
"They'll see us coming," Marissa says quietly. "That's the problem."
Silence settles heavy in the room. She's right. Iron Choir knows we're in play. Knows we're coming for them. Any tactical advantage we had is gone. Now we're walking into a situation where they'll be watching for us specifically.
"So we use that," I say, mind already working through possibilities. "They know we're coming. They'll be looking for us. Which means we become the distraction while other assets move on Amelie."
Fitz nods slowly. "That's the working theory. You two draw their attention, keep them focused on the visible threats, while our embedded team secures the target."
"Bait," Marissa says flatly. "You're using us as bait."
"I'm using your blown cover as an asset," Fitz corrects. "Iron Choir will commit resources to tracking you. Resources that won't be focused on Laurent and his daughter."
I feel Marissa tense beside me. She's processing the tactical reality, but underneath, I sense her resistance. This isn't how operations are supposed to work. Clean infiltration. Invisible protection. Getting in and out without the enemy ever knowing you were there. This is messy. Exposed. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with becoming targets.
"We'll make it work," I say, making the decision for both of us. "Give us the parameters. We'll draw them out."
Fitz's expression softens slightly. "I know this isn't ideal. But it's what we have. And you two are the best chance Amelie has."
Briefing continues for another hour. Details about the gala venue, security protocols, contingency plans. Logan walks us through the embedded team members, their covers, their positions. We review floor plans and emergency exits and communication protocols. By the time Fitz finally calls it, the sun has set outside the windows, and Marissa looks like she might collapse.
"Get some rest," Fitz orders. "We reconvene in the morning. Lot of work to do before the gala."
Logan gestures toward the bedrooms. Two of them—one larger with a queen bed and attached bath, the other smaller. He shows us to the larger room. Queen bed, glass doors opening onto a patio that overlooks the water, en suite bathroom that's clean and functional.
"I'll leave you to it," Logan says. "If you need anything, comms are active. Kitchen's stocked, security is tight. Ops center downstairs has everything—tactical armory, surveillance feeds, secure communications, and emergency extraction if it comes to that."
He leaves, closing the door behind him. Silence that follows is almost overwhelming after the chaos of the past day. Marrakesh. Escape. Flight. Debrief. It all crashes down at once, and Marissa sways slightly on her feet.
I'm beside her in a heartbeat, hands on her shoulders, steadying her. "Hey. When was the last time either of us got a good night's sleep?"
"At the riad," she says, voice rough. "Before everything went to hell."
