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Light.
The damn white light.
Too bright.
Too close.
Just stop spinning already.
What the hell!
I can’t…fuck!
I can’t move my head.
Something cold and metallic cradles my damn skull.
Where am I?
Who are these people?
Blue gloves.
Holding… a scalpel?
And forceps.
Doctors?
Am I… strapped down on a bed again?
Shit.
No.
No.
No.
No.
Leather biting into her wrists, and her ankles.
She tries to strain against it anyway, because not trying is worse.
Above her, a doctor leans into view.
She can feel the pressure behind her ear.
And she can hear it.
The sound of metal, the wet resistance of skin, and their talks.
“A little more irrigation here, please.”
And worst, she can feel it.
Liquid rushes. The sound makes her teeth ache.
They’re cutting behind my ear.
They are… going to place the chip.
Again.
…Again? No, that’s not right.
They didn’t put it, and I escaped.
I know I escaped.
No—
That’s wrong.
Root already took it out, she and John…
Wait…
She did, right? did she?
“Well, Sameen. Let’s try the new chip. I have high hopes for this one.”
Fuck.
No.
No.
No.
Move.
Move, damn it—
……
“Simulation 6,147.”
……
“Which one will it be, Sameen?”
Fuck you. Fuck you, Greer.
……
“Come on, Shaw. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. But right now, we need to get somewhere safe.”
……
Beep.
……
“Let’s play a game, Sameen.”
……
“Ms. Shaw, we can keep doing this all day… or you can choose to end your suffering.”
……
“Insert propofol. Let it take her.”
Beep.
……
“Ms. Shaw? You… you’re back.”
……
“Look familiar? Indigo 5 Beta. Your former partner, Michael Cole.”
……
“Welcome back, Sameen.”
……
“Please. We broke you months ago. We already won.”
I swear to Bear, Lambert. Once I get out of this, I’m breaking your neck first.
……
“Simulation 1,337.”
……
“She’s tachycardic. Watch her heart rate.”
Beep.
……
“Ms. Shaw. Mr. Reese and Ms. Groves are waiting for you. Let’s go back to the Machine.”
……
“Start it again.”
……
“This will help you sleep.”
……
“There was a park you played in as a girl on the base in Qatar. The playground had a roundabout. The other kids loved to spin, but you got sick, so sick it made you angry.”
No.
No.
“One day you forced yourself to spin from sunup to sundown. How many times did you retch that day? There isn’t much that gets a rise out of you, is there?”
How did they know that?
……
“Start the simulation again.”
Beep.
……
“I think that chip fried her brain.”
……
“Simulation 7,170.”
……
“Sameen… oh Sameen. What’s the harm in joining us?”
……
“Damn it, she’s fighting again. Hold her down!”
……
“Administer midazolam.”
“There isn’t much that gets a rise out of you, is there?”
……
“How are you doing, Sameen?”
Beep.
……
“If it were up to me, I’d have abandoned you long ago. Just like your so-called friends.”
People like you will never understand honor, courage, or commitment.
……
“Simulation 404.”
Four hundred and four times?
Did I… lose count?
……
“I think she wet herself again. Tier-one military unit agent, seriously?”
Yeah, well… I can pee in your mouth if you want, Rousseau. And it’s on the house.
……
“Simulation 9,333.”
……
“Bad dream, huh? Well, welcome back, Sameen.”
……
“We won, sweetie. We finally won. Samaritan is gone.”
Root…
Relief hits so hard it nearly knocks the breath out of her.
“Let’s go home now, to the Machine.”
Home?
……
“Don’t let her pull the line!”
“There. She’ll calm down.”
……
“Simulation 9,334.”
……
“Enough of the hide-and-seek. Put down your gun. Now.”
“No way I’m letting you take her away, boys.”
She’s here.
“Who are you?”
“Well, you can call me Samantha Groves. Or just Root.”
No.
She would never…
……
“Start the simulation again.”
Beep.
……
Root.
Again.
“There’s obviously something wrong with you. We’ll work through this, okay? But first… I need to get you somewhere safe, Sam.”
I can’t keep doing this.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on before something slips…
Before I slip.
Or…
Did I already?
The team. The Machine.
Did I give them away?
“Sweetie? What’s wrong?”
Damn it, stop using her to trick me.
“Sameen?”
She used to be my safe place.
But now…
They know that too.
They always knew.
Nothing is safe anymore.
……
“Having a good dream? Shame you have to wake up from it, Sameen.”
Beep.
……
“Shaw? Hey, are you okay?”
……
“Simulation 6,147.”
“We have all the time in the world, my dear Sameen.”
……
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start the simulation again.”
“Start—”
……
Shaw jerks awake.
A sharp gasp tears out of her chest as her body snaps upright.
Her heart slams so hard it feels bruised.
Her breath comes fast and shallow; sweat clings to skin, damp against the sheets.
The body goes rigid before her mind can catch up.
Darkness.
Not the blinding white of the surgery table.
Nor the artificial dim of a simulation.
The hum of the refrigerator.
Traffic somewhere outside.
And the steady, familiar weight of gravity.
Her apartment.
She’s in her apartment.
It takes longer than it should for that fact to settle.
For the brain to stop spinning.
She presses her fingers behind her ear, hard enough to hurt.
Searching for seams, scars, or anything—something foreign under her skin.
Nothing.
The skin there is already red, tender from too many nights like this.
Still, her fingers rub at it again, slow and insistent.
Doesn’t stop until the sting blooms sharp enough to register.
She stares at the dark.
Her fingers digging into the mattress as if to anchor herself there.
A beat.
Then another.
She exhales through her nose and pushes the duvet aside.
The phone reads 4:17 a.m.
Her hand reaches for the calendar on the nightstand.
As she lifts it, the Order of Lenin medal hanging from the bedside lamp sways slightly, catching the faint spill of streetlight before settling again.
Her eyes track the arc, measure the deceleration, wait for the end.
The motion is small, but it stops when physics allows it to.
Because it should be.
Because it’s real.
Good.
Only then does she look back down.
And today’s date waits for her.
She circles it.
Gives a small nod to herself, lips moving in a soundless murmur.
Then her gaze drifts to the rest of the calendar.
Every date before today is marked the same way.
No gaps.
Linear time.
She sets the calendar back on the nightstand, exactly where it was before.
Consistency matters.
Only then does she swing her legs over the side of the bed and stand.
The wooden floor is cool and solid beneath her bare feet.
Still, she waits a second longer than necessary, testing the weight of herself against gravity, before turning toward the bathroom.
Awake doesn’t mean safe.
It just means she’s… awake, she thinks.
Cold water hits her skin.
Shaw cups the water in her hands and splashes it over her face.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
She lets it run.
Lets it sting.
Lets it shock.
The sharp chill cuts through the fog, chasing the last of the haze from her mind.
Her fingers brace against the edge of the sink, knuckles pale as she eventually leans into the basin.
The water keeps flowing.
And she breathes with it.
Continuity matters.
After a moment, she slowly lifts her head.
The woman in the cracked mirror lifts hers too.
A spiderweb of thin lines spreads from one corner, distorting the reflection in subtle ways. Her face breaks across the seams, never quite lining up the way it should.
She studies what’s left of herself in it.
The woman stares back.
Her cheeks are hollow, skin drawn tight where there used to be muscle. Dark circles bruise the space beneath her eyes.
She’s seen worse versions of herself before.
Assessment. Training. Field injuries. Blood loss. Exhaustion.
This is different.
This feels… less temporary.
The bathroom is otherwise quiet.
So quiet.
Just the steady rush of water.
It’s her face.
And yet, her reflection feels unfamiliar.
Why?
Why does it feel like she isn’t alone in her own reflection?
Is someone on the other side waiting for her to open her eyes?
She studies the reflection longer than she means to, searching for something definitive.
Her hand slowly curls into a fist, the urge to smash the mirror flaring up again.
It was long enough for the doubt to start creeping in.
That’s her cue.
She turns away immediately and shuts off the faucet.
The silence falls hard, but it holds.
A long exhale fills the bathroom, echoing faintly off the tiles.
She moves to the side of the bathtub and lowers herself to the floor, back sliding down until she’s seated, knees drawn up slightly.
Her head rests on her knees, eyes closing as the exhaustion settles into her bones.
Then, slowly, she leans her head back against the porcelain edge.
It’s cold.
Solid and uncomfortable.
Good.
A yawn pulls out of her, long and unguarded.
She is exhausted, down to the bone.
But beds and restraints have too much in common for her liking.
And the idea of lying flat again makes something tight and sharp twist in her chest.
This isn’t that.
No pressure locking her head in place.
No mask over her mouth or nose.
No weight pinning her limbs down.
Here, on the floor, she can feel every inch of herself. The ache in her spine. And the chill seeping through her clothes.
Gravity doing what gravity does.
Eventually, she closes her eyes.
Just for a second.
The bathroom remains quiet, save for the sound of her breathing.
After a while, it steadies, slow and even.
And a faint snore slips free.
Nothing else.
No one saying anything.
It would have felt nicer if someone had switched off the light for her.
The dark-haired woman stays right where she is.
“Shaw?”
“Sam?”
A soft tap against her cheek.
Not urgent.
But persistent enough to pull her from the edge of her quiet cocoon.
Her neck aches slightly from leaning against the cold porcelain.
“Sweetie?”
Shaw stirs, blinking against the dim light.
And blinks again, slower this time.
Finally, she fully opens her eyes.
And there it is.
Root.
Her thumb brushes lightly against her cheek, just below the eye. Let her feel the touch without overwhelming her.
Root’s brow draws in slightly, just enough to signal concern.
“Morning, sunshine~”
Shaw squints, her voice hoarse, “Did you… break into my apartment again?”
“If one day,” Root’s lips curve in that teasing smirk, “I knock and wait politely for you to open the door, then you should assume I’ve been replaced by a very boring body double.”
A small, tired chuckle escapes Shaw.
And that tiny sound is all Root needs, even if only for a second.
It feels like a minor victory worth savoring.
Shaw rubs her eyes with her palm, stretching slowly.
A low, brittle crack sounds from her shoulder and neck, punctuating the silence.
Then, she pushes herself up from the cold floor.
Meanwhile, Root perches on the edge of the bathtub, watching her quietly.
No questions.
Because she knows better. Shaw would either shrug it off or simply ignore it.
After spitting out the foam from washing, Shaw’s eyes meet Root’s in the cracked mirror and ask,
“Why are you here this early? Need me for a number or something?”
Root shakes her head, voice soft, “Can’t a girl just check on her girlfriend… make sure she’s still alive?”
“And here I thought you only barged in for coffee.”
Root leans forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Coffee’s nice. You, darling… are nicer.”
Shaw’s lips twist into a smirk. “Now it’s just—” she pauses.
“6:30 a.m.,” Root supplies smoothly.
“Way too early for you to be flirting.”
“I disagree. Early mornings are when people are most honest.”
“Or most unguarded,” Shaw adds. She regards Root through the mirror, the smirk growing just a bit, “Anyway. Mission accomplished, then. For the record, I’m alive.”
Root’s expression softens. “I know you are, Sameen…” she doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, she says quieter, “I just like confirming it with my own eyes…”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just like to make sure my arrow still got the great shape. And lucky for me, still is.”
Shaw lifts an eyebrow at their reflection as she ties her hair back into a ponytail, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe,” Root replies lightly, sing-song, “or maybe it’s just supposed to get you out of your apartment and somewhere that serves hot food.”
Shaw snorts under her breath and turns away from the mirror, heading out of the bathroom. “You’re assuming I’m hungry.”
Root follows easily, “You always are. You just forget.”
“Fine. But only because you’re persistent.”
Root’s eyes sparkle. That is all the small victory she needs today.
Perhaps just for today. Perhaps it will last only for this morning. Perhaps tomorrow she’ll sink back.
However brief the escape from her own mind, it is a gap.
A breath of air where Sameen can finally breathe.
The brown-haired woman falls into step beside her. “Persistent is my love language.”
“Well, my love language is you’re buying,” Shaw replies without slowing.
She barely gets the words out before a yawn ambushes her. Shaw lifts the back of her hand to cover her mouth, jaw stretching wide as the sound drags on longer than she intended.
When it finally passes, she blinks hard, like she could will the heaviness out of her eyes.
And Root stops beside her.
“Or,” she offers carefully, “we don’t have to go, Sameen. I can make something here. And you could take a nap.”
Rubbing her face once before dropping her hand, “I’m fine. Just… too early.”
A beat.
“And you cooking is… a risk assessment all on its own,” she adds dryly, already reaching for her jacket. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Little by little, Root coaxes Shaw forward.
Out of the bathroom, out of the apartment, and out of her terrible mindscape.
Each step is a quiet rebellion against the labyrinth of thoughts and memories Shaw often gets lost in.
And she will always be ready to catch her when she runs out of breath again.
“Mid-level accountant out of Brooklyn,” Reese murmured, lowering his binoculars, “No criminal history. No obvious enemies. Which usually means trouble’s coming quietly.”
“Or sideways,” Shaw said, eye pressed to the sniper scope. “Perhaps he’s about to become trouble. Those are always the fun ones.”
The rooftop was quiet in that high-altitude way, wind tugging at loose gravel.
Traffic pulsed like a slow heartbeat.
Across the street, their number moved through an office floor, unaware of the invisible spotlight fixed on him.
The primary assets of team Machine watched.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The kind of minutes that demanded patience.
The soft wind tugged lightly at Shaw’s hair. She adjusted her grip on the rifle out of habit; eventually her breathing slowed and evened out.
Meanwhile, Reese continued scanning the street through his optics, logging entrances, exits, and anything that might matter.
“I’ve got two tickets to an NFL game this Sunday,” he said quietly. “Iris is tied up. Figured I’d offer them to you. Go with Root, if you want.”
Silence.
The man lowered the binoculars slowly and glanced over at her.
His partner was leaning faintly into the rifle, cheek resting against the stock. And her eyes were closed.
Shaw was clearly nodding off.
Reese hesitated for a second, then reached out and tapped her shoulder lightly.
“Shaw.”
Her eyes snapped open instantly, blinking hard as she straightened. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the rifle.
“What’s wrong?” she said, already refocusing down the scope.
Reese studied her face, searching for any sign of disorientation.
There wasn’t one.
Just fatigue.
“You want to head back?” he offered quietly, “I can take it over here.”
“No.” The answer came immediately, “I don’t need that.”
The dark-haired woman adjusted the rifle, rolling her shoulder once like she was working out, “Just resting my eyes. Comes with staring down a scope for hours.”
Reese didn’t look away from her.
Shaw glanced through the scope again, checking the irrelevant number. “Our guy’s heading toward the stairwell. Probably stepping out for a smoke.”
And she felt the weight of his gaze, without looking up, “What now?”
“Are you okay, Shaw?”
“Not again. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Reese paused, “Root?”
“No,” Shaw let out a short breath through her nose. “Fusco. Seven times, total. He asked the same question three days ago. And Finch before that. For the record, I’m fine.”
She kept her eye on the scope, tracking the number’s movements even as she spoke.
Reese studied her profile, the exhaustion etched beneath her eyes, a mark that had never faded in the months since the day she returned from Samaritan’s grip.
The war was over, the enemy gone, but whatever it had taken from her hadn’t come back.
A beat.
“…If you want,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I could call Iris. She might be able to help.”
Her fingers stilled, “I don’t need your shrink, John.”
“She’s not just ‘my shrink,’” Reese replied evenly, “She’s a licensed, credible senior therapist. Years of experience. She knows what she’s doing. And she knows about the Machine. You could tell her ab—”
“No.”
She finally lifted her head from the scope and turned just enough to look at him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at them.
“No one can help me,” she said quietly and with certainty, “This isn’t soldier PTSD with a neat label and a checklist of coping strategies. It’s not cumulative trauma or critical incident stress. …I wish it were that simple.”
She paused, searching for the right words, and maybe deciding not to use them.
“This is, something else.”
Reese didn’t interrupt.
Shaw lowered her head slightly, eyes returning to the scope, fingers steady on the rifle. “I appreciate the offer, John. Really. But this… this is my fight.”
Reese exhaled slowly, the sound fogging in the cold air.
“You don’t have to fight it alone, Shaw.”
She didn’t answer.
So, he raised his binoculars again.
Eyes returning to the number in the distance, “Our number’s got company.”
“Yaawwn…” A yawn slipped past Shaw, but she pressed a hand to her mouth, masking it with a cough, “Yawnkg… Gcoughh!! Cough! …Cough!”
And Reese, who definitely heard it, just let out a heavy sigh under his breath.
The mission continued.
High above the city, they kept watch.
One stood vigil over a stranger’s life.
The other guarded the friend beside him, even when she refused to be guarded.
By the time the case was closed, it was nearly midnight.
The accountant—suddenly very aware of how close he’d come to the wrong kind of attention—was safely home, danger averted with minimal collateral damage.
One of those quiet numbers.
The kind that ended with relief and a story he’d never quite forget.
They stood on the sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, the city stretched thin and tired around them.
Reese adjusted his jacket. “I have two NFL tickets,” he said casually. “Sunday night game. You want?”
“Pass.”
“Sure? You like football.”
“Yeah,” she replied, already stepping back, “But I got plans.”
“All right. Goodnight, Shaw.”
The duo parted.
Reese heading left, toward warmth and a place where someone would ask how his day went.
Shaw turned right, hands in her hoodie pockets, walking toward the quiet anonymity of her apartment.
The moment the door shut behind her, the silence pressed in.
The dark-haired woman stripped out of her clothes, feeling the cold water soak into her bones.
And a staring challenge unfolded with her reflection while the toothbrush moved in slow strokes.
Then she wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet.
Didn’t bother with a glass.
She flicked on the TV at random.
Some late-night program filled the room with noise—chit chat, laughter, voices overlapping.
Didn’t care what it was.
She just needed something to stare at.
Don’t ask her why she brushed her teeth just to drink afterward.
She wanted real, good sleep.
And she wasn’t about to get sleepy, then drag herself back to the sink.
She took a long pull from the bottle.
Then another.
And another.
The whiskey burned pleasantly, heavy and dulling. And the TV kept talking. She drank and let the noise wash over her until it blurred together.
At some point, her body sagged into the couch, tension bleeding out of her muscles.
Her eyes drooped, heavy with relief.
And her head finally tipped back against the cushions.
Then—
Her eyes flew open.
The TV was still on.
Someone shouting, or laughing maybe.
She blinked at the screen, disoriented, mind foggy.
Tried to focus on whatever was playing, but eventually the fog pulled her under again.
Then she startled awake a second time.
So she stared at the TV again, trying to remember what was playing.
But the images slid right off her brain the second she looked away.
She took another drink and switched positions.
It took longer this time, but sleep crept in once more.
And then dropped her.
It came.
And left.
Came again.
Left again.
The woman let herself hover in the thin, shallow space between wakefulness and sleep.
Every time she drifted too deep, something inside her pulled her back.
She sat there in the dim light of the TV, bottle loose in her hand.
Whiskey warm in her veins, but useless against the thing keeping her eyes from staying shut.
She lost track of how many times she’d drifted off and snapped back awake.
At some point, she checked the clock.
4:17 a.m.
Shaw stared at the glowing numbers longer than necessary, then turned her head away.
Sleep tugged at her hard now, heavy and insistent.
The couch wasn’t working.
So, the woman pushed herself upright, the room swaying slightly as she stood. She paused, waited for the world to settle, then turned toward the bedroom.
Consistency matters.
She crossed to the nightstand, picked up the calendar, and checked the date again.
Same as before. Circled it, then scanned the days leading up to it.
And set it back down.
Satisfied, she exhaled and glanced at the bed.
She recalled its softness, yet she turned away.
The bathroom light remained off.
An uncomfortable place to sleep, but a discomfort she could manage.
That was better than nothing.
She lowered herself to the floor beside the tub, back sliding down until she was seated, head resting against the porcelain edge.
The cold seeped through her clothes almost immediately.
She closed her eyes.
Still hovered.
Minutes passed. Or seconds.
It was hard to tell.
Her body slumped further as exhaustion dragged at her, but every time she dipped too far, something inside her flinched and dragged her back to the surface.
Eventually she opened her eyes.
An idea formed.
She pushed herself up, stepped into the tub and eased herself down.
The space was narrow, confining.
Her torso leaned against the bathtub and wall, one arm tucked under her head.
It was uncomfortable in every possible way.
But it wasn’t familiar in the wrong way.
No lights.
No voices.
No restraints.
That counted for something.
She closed her eyes again.
This time, when sleep crept in, it stayed a little longer.
She still startled awake, but the intervals between waking stretched.
And it was edging toward something like rest.
The dark-haired woman drifted, surfaced, and drifted once more.
It wasn’t real sleep, yet it lasted longer than anything she’d managed all night.
A black delivery cargo van idles at the curb, its engine rattling with uneven insistence.
And somewhere down the block, a siren rises and fades.
With an unhurried stride, Shaw keeps her hand in her jacket pocket, stifling a yawn with her fist.
She’s supposed to meet Fusco outside NYC Hospital.
The number popped up this morning.
A freelance data broker, last known to surface near ER intake desks and hospital billing offices.
Someone using stolen patient records to launder identities.
The team Machine needs internal access logs, and legitimate reason is required.
Clearly…
Lionel Fusco—the team’s official yet unpaid secondary asset—was about to be called in again.
“New York traffic crawls. Five mins, wait for me inside,” his text reads.
The hospital towers over her.
Doors whisper open and closed, a steady flow of patients, visitors, and staff moving through.
Shaw pauses at the threshold, her gaze sweeping the street one last time.
Abd the smell hits first.
Chemical. Antiseptic.
Alcohol wipes and industrial cleanser layered over something faintly metallic.
Her steps don’t stop, they don’t falter.
But something inside her does.
The color comes next.
Everything washed in white—walls, ceiling, floor—all variations of the same sterile brightness.
Light pours down evenly, without warmth.
Now, her pace finally falters for half a step before she corrects it, posture locking back into place.
Just moves the damn forward.
This shouldn’t bother her.
……
Beep.
……
This place is far too silent for a hospital.
She thinks the beeping comes from her left… or maybe her right.
……
Beep.
……
A monitor marking time.
With endless patience.
……
Beep.
……
Her jaw tightens.
Just fatigue, and irritation. Too many sleepless nights, too many mornings that came too early.
……
Beep.
……
She crosses the lobby and stops near the seating area, positioning herself with her back to a column, line of sight clear to the doors.
Her temples throbbed as she rubbed them.
No new messages on her phone, still.
Five minutes, Fusco said.
Three hundred seconds, easy peasy.
And then… she waited.
But the longer she stands there, the more aware she becomes of her body and the space around her.
……
Beep.
……
She swallows hard and shifts her weight, boots squeaking faintly against the floor.
The smell is stronger here. And louder, the sound.
Why does it come across this way?
……
Beep.
……
The woman frowns slightly, annoyed at herself. Then she tries to exhale slowly through her nose, grounding herself in the familiar weight of her body.
……
Beep.
……
But her gaze floats, unfocused, catching harsh details she can’t look away from.
A nurse passes, pushing a cart.
……
Beep.
……
She seems just another civilian, completely unthreatening.
But the scraping wheel grates along the inside of her skull, raw and jarring.
……
Beep.
……
Should I strike first? Just hit the Samaritan nurse, get it over with?
The thought slips free, and her fingers move without conscious intent.
Enough to loosen the edges.
……
Beep.
……
Doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
Doesn’t register the presence until00
A hand lands on her shoulder.
……
Beep.
……
“Hey, Shaw—”
The world snaps.
Her body reacts instantly before her mind does.
She pivots hard, left hand shooting up to trap the wrist, fingers locking with brutal precision.
A sharp twist.
Enough to force compliance, enough to break if she follows through.
Her right foot sweeps in low, hooking behind the intruder’s ankle as her elbow drives up, poised to strike the temple.
But the strike stops midair.
Her eyes finally focus.
Detective Lionel Fusco stares back at her.
“Jesus—!!”
Fusco stumbles, yanking his arm back as she releases him.
The space between them snaps open.
“Lionel,” she says, breath sharp now, pulse roaring in her ears. “Don’t do that again.”
He rubs his wrist, wincing. “Geee, I was gonna say hi. Htsss, damn. It hurts.”
“Sorry, you came up behind me.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, flexing his fingers, “you usually hear that.”
She doesn’t answer.
Her heart is pounding now, hard enough that she can feel it in her throat.
Adrenaline floods her system, leaving her fingers buzzing, muscles coiled with nowhere to go.
The nurse who witnessed the whole thing stands frozen, eyes wide.
The detective glances at her, then gestures between the two of them. “It's okay. Friends,” he says, “This is how we say hi.”
A beat.
His expression shifts, concern edging past irritation. “You alright?”
“Yes,”, Too fast her answer came.
He studies her, “You almost put me in the ER. That’s not your usual charm.”
Shaw looks away, eyes scanning the lobby again, reasserting control over the space.
“I was… distracted,” she says finally.
“Just, heads up next time, yeah? I’d like to keep my handsome face.”
“Gotta say, this is your best punchline of 2016.”
They start walking, moving deeper into the building toward the administrative wing.
The light stays white.
Too white.
Too bright.
They stop near a closed office door.
Fusco pulls out his badge, already slipping back into cop mode.
“Alright,” he says, all business now, “I do the talking. You do the… well, looming.”
As he knocks, Shaw positions herself by the wall, back to solid plaster.
Eyes tracking again the exits, and Fusco’s reflection in the glass.
And her own.
The internal access logs finished uploading as her phone vibrated once in her hand.
UPLOAD COMPLETE.
Shaw doesn’t linger in the hospital after Fusco disappears down the corridor.
Half a block later, she pulls out her phone and sends the compressed access logs in a single packet.
Only then does she make the call, rubbing her temples as the pain intensifies.
And Finch answered on the third ring.
“Ms. Shaw,” Finch says, warm relief threading through his voice, “I see the files you sent me.”
“You should have everything,” Shaw replies, eyes tracking the black delivery cargo van idling too long at the curb, “Access timestamps, badge IDs, billing cross-references, ER intake.”
It was there two hours ago.
It’s still there now.
A pause, then the faint tap of keys over the line.
“Yes,” he says, “I have them. Very thorough. Thank you.”
Shaw steps closer to the van, trying to make out who’s inside through the dark tint.
“I’ll begin correlating immediately,” Finch adds.
Shaw pauses, then remembers she’s still on the phone. “Whoever this data broker is, he’s sloppy. Not nearly as careful as he thinks.”
“I rarely find that they are,” Finch agreed, then gentler, “You didn’t come by the subway.”
“No need,” she says. “I don’t want t—”
Stopping mid-word, she adjusts, “To waste time.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Well,” he says carefully, “since you’re not here, I suppose I should mention that I’ve prepared some good green tea this afternoon.”
“Pass,” she replied, trying to sneak a peek inside the van.
Empty. No one inside.
A soft chuckle.
“I thought as much, Ms. Shaw. Which is why I also made something more compelling.”
“Sorry, what did you say?” Her focus returned to the phone.
“I found a remarkable Washoku place in Midtown,” Finch continues. “Authentic. Seasonal. The chef imports his kombu directly from Hokkaido. I may have over-ordered.”
“Washoku?”
“It’s a traditional Japanese cuisine. I’ve already informed Ms. Groves and Mr. Reese,” he adds, “I was about to invite Detective Fusco as well, once we concluded our call.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
And silence stretched between them.
“Ms. Shaw?” Finch prompts, faint concern edging in, “Are you still there?”
The owner of the black van returns, glancing at the woman standing close to his vehicle.
And Shaw observes him.
His stride, his build, the way he carries himself.
Everything tells her he’s just a civilian.
“Yeah, I’m here.” She gives a small nod to him, then turns back to the sidewalk before answering the phone.
Her gaze remained locked on the van’s owner until he finally drove away.
“Harold… I’ve got somewhere to be,” she adds finally, thumb pressing harder at her temple.
“If you’d prefer, Ms. Shaw, I can push everything back an hour. How about six o’clock?”
“Time’s not the issue, Harold,” the woman blurts.
On the other end of the line, the glasses man goes still.
“Oh…” he repeats, surprise threading through the single syllable. “I see…”
“The appointment. They’re not cancellable and… it’s very time-consuming,” she explains, awkward in her mouth.
He waited.
Gave her space she hadn’t asked for but needed anyway.
“I understand,” Finch said at last, “You know you’re always welcome.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve done excellent work today,” he added softly, “Please… take care of yourself, Ms. Shaw.”
The call ends.
After that, she doesn’t head home.
East.
That’s the direction she takes.
His grave is right where it’s always been.
The cemetery is quiet in a way New York City never quite manages.
“Hey, partner.” She stares at the name for a moment, then lowers herself to the ground, “Sorry to interrupt your rest, but it’s not like they’re going to resurrect you to persuade me.”
No more words, and silence takes its place.
Her eyes closed as she nodded off, sleep rising and falling in uneven waves.
Minutes stretch again.
Sunlight waned as the sky slowly darkened, hinting at the approaching dusk.
And then, a cool spring wind stirred, brushing her face awake.
The dark-haired woman stands at last, giving the grave one final glance.
“I’ll figure it out, Cole.”
The words held no certainty, only her usual stubbornness.
The subway lair smelled faintly of fish broth, mushroom, and seaweed by the time Root arrived.
She was an hour late.
Not fashionably late, but operationally late.
The kind of late that came from tracking down Samaritan’s infrastructure, burning it out node by node until there was nothing left.
Bear lies beneath the table, chin on his paws, ears twitching occasionally at distant rats scurrying through the tunnels.
He lifts his head when footsteps approach.
And his tail sways at the sight of the hacker, but his full belly and laziness keep him from rising to greet her.
“Sorry I’m late,” she called out, sing-song and bright as ever, “I’ve already pulled out my max typing speed.”
Her eyes sweep the room automatically.
Bear.
Finch.
Fusco.
That’s it.
Her stride slows.
Empty containers stacked neatly to one side.
And two chairs were empty.
“…Well,” Root says lightly, dropping her bag onto a chair, “Either I’m too late and missed the party, or we’ve decided to start eating without the entire team. Which is rude, by the way.”
“You’re not late, Ms. Groves,”, Finch looks up from where he’s been re-covering one of the bento boxes, “You’re simply… the last to arrive.”
Fusco wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his chair, patting his stomach.
“And let me tell you, you missed out. This stuff? Real fancy. Didn’t even come with burgers or fries, but somehow still filled me up.”
“I think taking two portions had something to do with that, detective.”
“Huh, good point. Thanks Mini Bomb, then.”
“Where are Riggs and Murtaugh?” she asks, sitting down as Finch passes her a fancy bento box.
Fusco snorts, “Damn, you nailed it. That movie title fits them to a T, and Shaw… Pretty much nailed Martin Riggs too.”
“I know, right?” the hacker says with a sweet smile as she splits the chopsticks apart.
Finch cleared his throat, “Well, Mr. Reese did stop by,” he said gently. “However, he received a call from Ms. Campbell and decided to take his portion with him.”
“Ah. Date night~”
“Something of the sort.”
“I hate John’s happy face.”
The others turn to stare at the detective.
“What?” he adds, “It felt so out of character, like one of those wild retcons where writers change someone’s sexuality or race.”
Finch adjusted his glasses, decided not to comment on this topic, “And Ms. Shaw, she informed me earlier that she had an appointment and would be unable to join us this evening.”
“Huh,” the brown-haired woman murmured, popping a Matsutake mushroom into her mouth, “I didn’t know she had an appointment today.”
Fusco raises an eyebrow, “You sound like a control-freak girlfriend. Look like one, too.”
“It’s called concern, Lionel. You’d know that if you weren’t divorced.”
“Hey!”
Finch shakes his head as the two bicker, an exchange that usually ends with the hacker winning the fight.
The dog lets out a soft huff beneath the table, perhaps annoyed by the noise.
“Whatever,” Fusco scratches the back of his neck, “Speaking of… Look, I don’t want to be the guy who kills the mood, but I don’t know if you guys notice it, and Shaw’s been… really off.”
The atmosphere in the room immediately cools.
Finch looks down at the table, adjusting nothing in particular, “We have noticed that, detective. Ms. Shaw… she’s been fatigued,” he offers gently. “More than I would expect, even given recent events.”
“What recent events?” Root echoes.
Fusco exchanges a look with Finch, then says bluntly, “She almost broke my hand today.”
That gets her.
“What? What happened?”
“At the hospital, for some data br—okay, of course you know that,” Fusco shifts forward in his chair, “I came up behind her. Yeah, yeah, I know, my bad. Next thing I know, my arm’s twisted, my feet are halfway off the ground, and I’m seeing my life flash before my eyes.”
Root says nothing.
Her expression goes very still.
“But she stopped herself,” Fusco adds quickly, “The second she realized it was me.”
“Did Sameen—”
“She said she was distracted,” the detective cuts in, “But I’ve worked with Shaw a long time. She doesn’t get jumpy, distracted like that.”
“No,” Root agrees quietly, “She doesn’t.”
“I think,” Finch folds his hands, “we are all aware that Ms. Shaw endured a prolonged period of captivity under Samaritan. While she has been… functional since her return, trauma does not always manifest immediately. It may be prudent to allow her more time.”
Fusco looks at him, “Come on, Harold. With all due respect, it’s been five months. I’m no neurologist, but she looks really bad—like she hasn’t slept in months.”
The glasses man frowns slightly, weighing whether to share the information, “…Several days ago, Mr. Reese mentioned that she had nodded off while holding a sniper rifle… in the midst of a mission.”
A silence settles over the room.
Bear lifts his head at the tension, ears perked.
The dog finally rises to his feet, pads over to Root, and presses his head gently against her leg.
And she absently runs a hand over his fur.
“Pressing Sameen for details before she’s ready would be counterproductive,” Finch mutters under his breath.
Root catches his words and looks up, “But what if she never gets ready?”
And he has no answer for that.
A beat.
The hacker exhales through her nose, then straightens, snapping the lid of her bento box shut.
She reaches for one of the remaining boxes, then another.
Even the edamame bento box Fusco was quietly eating is taken.
“Hey—I’m eating that!”
“Well,” she says, forcing brightness back into her tone, “Time for a diet, detective. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Finch watches her with mild curiosity, “Ms. Groves? You taking leftovers?”
“Yup. And sake too.”
“For real?” Fusco blinks, hurriedly refilling his glass before she takes the bottle away.
“I’m hungry,” she says, lifting her gaze to him, eyes clear and intent. “And I know someone who forgets to eat.”
Finch’s expression softens with understanding, “I suspected you might do this.”
Root puts the robbed bento boxes into a bag, then pauses.
Her gaze drops to the dog, who’s watching her with open, hopeful attention.
A small smile tugs at her lips.
“Alright. Come on, you big furkid. It’s sleepover time~”
Bear’s tail begins wagging like crazy immediately.
“Goodnight, boys,” she says, turning toward the exit with the dog.
“Goodnight, Ms. Groves.”
“Goodnight, Cocoa Puffs. Call me if… Shaw needs any help.”
“You know she won’t ask for help.” The brown-haired woman glances back once. “But she’ll tolerate company.”
“And you are that company?”
Root smiles.
But there’s something steely beneath it now.
“Oh, Lionel, I’m very—very good at being tolerated.”
To be continued.