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He's running away. Twilight is running aw—no, Twilight would have never let himself get to this point. But Loid Forger wouldn't have run either.

[REDACTED] doesn't look back once, blackened heart pumping corrupt blood, lungs breathing the ashes of his lies.

He boards the train, hand clutching Loid Forger’s suitcase. 

—

It’s his weakness that leads him to sit by himself in a mostly empty carriage. He keeps to himself, sitting stiffly in the corner, tucked away from bleeding, afternoon sunlight. The sun is setting. 

He wonders how Yor and Anya are doing, then promptly purges that thought from his mind. 

He ran. He can't think of them anymore. The Twilight mask can't afford anymore cracks. He's lost his edge. He needs to get it back. 

Twilight would have never let himself be attacked that late at night, walking home as Loid Forger from another mission. He would've noticed the steps following in his wake, the hidden presences stalking his casual, light gait. 

Westalis's best spy would have never found himself cornered, bleeding, guns and knives pointed at him. He'd taken out a decent amount even caught off guard, but the sound of his suitcase breaking open and spilling it into dirty, soaked cement stole his attention for a second too long. 

Suddenly, his side was alight with fire, disconcertingly warm liquid seeping through his clothes, dripping over his gloved hands. 

Suddenly, he was leaning on a wall, facing imminent death. Something familiar, something he'd come to terms with—and yet, his thoughts wandered to the two people just a few blocks away in Loid Forger's home. 

He was meant to make dinner for them, then make sure his daughter had done her homework before tucking her in bed. His fake wife and him would talk a little before heading off themselves. Then Loid Forger would cease to be and Twilight would go on another mission. 

But Twilight was bleeding out in the dark instead. Loid Forger would be home late, or maybe not at all.

Something about that left his stomach twisting uncomfortably, worse than the agony of his wounds. 

The Forger family is unconventional, but the secrets it held went beyond that. 

The father, Loid Forger, a psychiatrist, was a spy. 

And the mother, Yor Forger neé Briar, a city hall worker, was apparently an assassin. 

His gaze had gone blurry when he heard the commotion. Blood loss was getting to him. He could barely staunch the freely bleeding laceration on his side. He'd gone limp against the wall holding him up. He was dying. 

But then the knives and guns reflecting his last moments in the moon's dim light vanished. 

He was face to face with a woman he knew in an outfit he knew with a gaze he didn't know. 

Cheery red wine narrowed into crimson, cold slits. Her stilettoes, golden and bloodied, glinted in the night's soft light. 

Twilight was not face to face with his wife; he was facing a dangerous threat wearing her face. He'd assumed someone had simply disguised as her to take the kill for themselves. ‘How dirty,’ he’d thought to himself, as if he was any different. 

But then her eyes softened into Yor's usual stare, concern brimming in wine red he knew off by heart, the blood on her face an out of place mark, “L-Loid?! Y—you’re hurt!” 

She approached on silent, swift feet, and he flinched back despite the mounting pain erupting all over his body.

Yor stilled. Her hands hovered towards him. Her eyes creased at the bloodied mess around them. 

There were two undeniable facts both of them knew:

A group of men had just attempted to kill the psychiatrist known as Loid Forger. 

And the civil worker known as Yor Forger had mercilessly killed them all, with all the grace of a professional.

Twilight can easily explain the former as he's always done: his patients recovering from hysteria simply hadn't been happy with their treatment, so they'd stalked him home to make him pay, as she's always believed. 

But the golden stilettos in Yor's hands deny any feeble lie she could ever come up with, if she ever could. 

He'd always known she was a little abnormal. Clumsy and honest in a way no one ever was; possessing a monster strength and immeasurable kindness; coming home late at night, her fascination with knives, her niche knowledge of biology: he'd let them all go for the sake of the mission. Loid Forger needed a wife and mother to Anya for the Eden interview and beyond. Anya loved Yor, and Loid Forger appreciated Yor, so she stayed. 

He needed a normal person as his wife. So he never dug too deep into her secrets, to keep the veneer over their strange little family safe. That was what he'd told himself at least. 

Twilight supposed this is what he got for choking his instincts as a spy down to satisfy his completely irrational trust in Yor. He simply hadn't wanted to upset her, to break the boundaries she meticulously upheld on his end, to feel the guilt he steeped in after tailing her to prove she knew her brother was in the SSS, to prove she was a threat to him.

Here he was, faced with an assassin who turned out to be his wife. 

Could their family get any stranger?

“L-Loid, this is—I… I can expl—” she stumbled over her words miserably. Her tongue twisted to no avail, her lips spilled half-formed, fruitless lies. No matter how blurry the world was now, his eyes had been opened.

How weak he'd gotten. How careless. How pathetic. 

Twilight would never have let this occur. He would have found out the moment they agreed and then decided whether or not it was worth keeping an assassin as a fake wife. 

But he was bleeding out still, dangerously low on blood judging by the cold numbness crawling up his fingers. 

Yor noticed—she must know a lot about dying and dead men. He must be a familiar sight. 

“I'll explain everything later," she approached him again. Twilight didn't flinch this time. He was tired and cold and hurt. He let her scoop him up easily in her arms. He knew he was in danger, Operation Strix was in danger. 

But Yor’s kindness still got to him through his defences, even with the blood of others on her hands. 

She treated him in their home silently. Then she told him everything. She looked horrified and guilty and ashamed, and hopeful. Like she believed he would accept her. 

He didn’t know if he could. He didn’t know anything. He was still as powerless as the boy that cried in the rubble of his hometown. 

More than anything, he didn’t know why his identity and entire purpose threatened to spill from his mouth. 

He told her in a split second moment of impulsivity, one he regrets as he sits alone in the train. 

For some time, as he laid with his stinging wounds and her tense silence, they were quiet.

There were a thousand words unsaid behind her tiny frown, a maelstrom of emotions raging just below her calm facade. He saw it all in her eyes: the betrayal, fear, disbelief, heartbreak, sorrow. 

But amongst that brewing storm, there was a thin peace they shared. 

She killed people. He also killed people. She lied about some things. He lied about everything. Their hands were bloodied. They both used each other. They both understood, on some level. She was probably the only person who could even begin to unravel him, to maybe accept him, as impossible as that seemed.

But it inevitably crumbled when she asked about Anya. 

Because no spy would willingly risk having such compromising relationships. Anya was not his real daughter. Anya was a child from a shady orphanage because it was easier to fake her heritage that way. Anya was a tool for world peace. Anya was a tool he'd callously used for months now. Anya was a child he would abandon after everything, whether he wanted to or not. 

Anya was a victim of WISE and himself. 

The look Yor gave him tore through whatever remaining companionship remained between them.

He looked away, heart hammering in his ears, aching with each beat, bile and iron on his tongue—

She'd walked out wordlessly. Her steps told him she was checking on Anya, perhaps cradling the poor girl caught in the midst of everything, grieving her daughter's heartbreak when she would wake up and surely find out. 

Twilight had shattered the moment he'd spilled the truth. Loid Forger had died the moment Yor couldn't stand to be in the same room as him. 

He had no place left in the Forger home. So he left. 

The train enters a dark tunnel, dawn swallowed by shadows. 

[REDACTED] wonders where exactly he's going. 

-

He leaves after a numerous amount of stops. He hadn't checked where he was or where the train headed. He simply went. 

When he steps off, fresh snow crunches under his soles. Loid Forger's briefcase is still heavy in his hand. 

He doesn't know what he's doing. Without a purpose he is nothing. He's always worked towards something. Agent Twilight worked towards peace. Loid Forger worked for the peace of his patients. 

He's nothing if he's not either of them. He can't face anyone like this. So he hides. He finds a shabby hotel that won't dig into a man with no ID. He sits in the run down room and contemplates what he's supposed to do. 

Operation Strix is in danger. Operation Strix might be completely over. 

Yor abhors him. He's lost his “wife." 

Anya probably despises him too, if Yor has told her. Or perhaps she'd spared the little girl. Eitherway, he's lost his "daughter” too. 

All his work, the Forger family he built from the ground up, is gone. A fragile, wobbling house whose foundations he never bothered to check. Shattered by his own carelessness, pushed to ruin by his blinded hands. Now he's left standing in its rumble. 

(Just like [REDACTED] stood in the dust of Kielberg—)

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, gripping his hair.

He needs to regroup with WISE. To reform Operation Strix. He needs a purpose—fighting for world peace, it's all he's ever had. He'll cling no matter what. It's all he has left. 

But WISE would never accept him as he is now. He is not Agent Twilight. He's nameless. He's useless. 

He needs to rebuild agent Twilight. 

He needs to forget them.

—

Every time he sleeps, they haunt him. He can't forget them. They call for him and they smile at him and they reach for him. 

He wakes up with a sting in his eyes he never thinks about, an ache more prominent than his wounds pulsing somewhere in his chest. 

He must forget them to be Twilight again. 

So he leaves and walks further away. He walks in the cold biting his skin through Loid Forger’s rumpled clothes. He walks through the emptiness rumbling in his stomach.

He ends up in a bustling market. Everything around him is a reminder. 

He sees Yor at the apple tart stand, enjoying a treat he would buy for her, her face alight with a precious smile. 

He sees Anya at the plush stand, stomping her foot as her gun misses again. He'd take the rifle himself and show her before gently guiding her through the process. Then, he'd unavoidably carry her prize once she got too tired. 

He sees Bond at the chocolate stand, eyeing everything with wonder and inching far too close to poison. He would scold him before finding him an actual treat, petting the canine who would happily rub his head on his leg in response. 

They're in everything he looks at. They're in the crowds, in the laughter of children, in the barking of other dogs. 

He hears them. He sees them. 

Agent Twilight is still severely compromised. Loid Forger misses his family, the weight of his briefcase a heavy chain. He should drop it already. He can't let go. 

He leaves in a rush, blocking out Anya's giggles and Yor’s chuckles, Bond's barks. 

He pushes down the guilt that twists a knife in his heart. Staunching blood flow is something he's used to, after all.

—

Even when he's all alone in the middle of nowhere, they still haunt him. 

Agent Twilight has never struggled to leave behind his many identities before. A man of a thousand faces, he's callously ripped them off every time. 

But Loid Forger's face still clings to him. His emotions, his love consume him whole. He drowns in the agony Loid Forger feels, the guilt that chokes him. He can't forget Anya's wide, innocent emerald stare. He can't erase Yor's beautifully deep red gaze that always emits radiance. He can't forget Bond's beady little eyes that shine with wonder. 

Loid Forger is a family man. He loves his family and knows everything about them, down to the minute ways their existences marked the Forger household. 

Twilight is a shadow on the wall, an agent with no attachments—nothing to hold him back, nothing to hurt him. 

He is neither. He is [REDACTED]. But [REDACTED] is nothing. [REDACTED] has nothing. 

He can't ever be Loid Forger again. Only the broken remains of Agent Twilight remain. 

He can pick them up. He'll fix it. He'll be Twilight again and work for peace. He'll reconvene with WISE soon. He'll ask them to erase Loid Forger. He'll make sure Yor and Anya don't grieve him. Then he'll erase them from himself. Agent Twilight can't afford such grievous, compromising chains. 

But he still can't let go of Loid Forger's briefcase, stuck to his hand like a cuff. 

—

Twilight is in control of everything. Twilight knows everything, so he is in control. Twilight is aware of everything. He makes no mistakes, he is perfect. Being perfect is the only way to survive in this world. 

But he isn't in control. He hasn't been since Operation Strix started. It was a given he wouldn't be in total control, as much as Twilight hated that, it was something he'd simply have to adapt to. There were more variables than himself for this mission. Anya and Yor were their own people. He couldn't puppeteer them the way he wanted, not with the uncertain timeframe. 

But he still should've had control over himself. A tight lock on his emotions. A strong grip on his actions. A logical mind. And yet, every step of the way he stumbled. He acted irrationally. He let the warm feeling grow until it consumed him, until he remembered the warmth of being loved, until the cold reality of his world hit him like a winter storm. 

“For the mission" had been an easy lie to tell himself. Agent Twilight was a capable liar. He could even fool himself.

He stops by another shabby hotel, an apple tart in hand, 30 dalc in the other. He presses the wad of cash in the receptionist’s hands, who hands him a key wordlessly, eyeing him with disdain. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong anywhere. 

The tart has long cooled in his hands. He tastes it before he's even put it in his mouth, sweety, tangy apple on his tongue. 

Apple is Yor’s favourite. 

He doesn't eat it. 

-

Anya ends up haunting him the most. He doesn't notice it until he's on the train again, tracing the shapes she used to draw with her breath on the window.

He sees her pink hair and horns bobbing amongst crowds of people, a disembodied voice calling for her papa as she's dragged around by crowds. He looks for her tiny hands every time, only to remember she'd never hold onto him now. 

It's not like he should be looking for her. Agent Twilight has abandoned his cover, compromised. He needs to forget her, forget them. 

But he still remembers the little weight in his hands in that abandoned warehouse. He hears her grating crying, the same sound that reminds him of a boy he so desperately wants to forget (who lives deep inside him and yearns for what Loid Forger has).

She had been the first to tug something buried deep after years of spy work. She dredged up a part of him he'd tried to choke under layers of identities.

His humanity, his weakness.

She was the start of his unravelling; the first crack; the thawing of that crack; the light that burnt filtering through that crack. 

He sees a Chimera plush one day. It looks so different from Anya's, and still he thinks of her. Of the ache in his chest, of the ringing of his blackened heart, sonorously singing his guilt the further he runs, so loud it echoes in his head. 

Part of him, ridiculously, wonders if she'll ever hear it. The words he keeps locked in mouth, the guilt-ridden apologies, the hoarsely whispered confessions. 

I'm so sorry. 

I love you. I really do. 

I'm sorry. 

He'll never get to say them. He can't ever say them. He's never felt the need when breaking away from his covers. 

Why now? 

(He knows why deep down. The remains of agent Twilight stare disapprovingly.)

Loid Forger's case slows him down.

-

His days are lacking in purpose. The remains of the spy in him itch to do anything.

He simply lays in bed, the last day before he has to move out again. 

He moves, aimless, nameless. 

His wounds are still healing. He's still compromised. He still has a face. 

Loid Forger's case is still by his side. The palm of his hands feel attracted to it like a magnet. Its grooves press so naturally into the gun callouses of his hands. Inside of it is something so precious, the thing he condemns for stranding him here. 

He'll leave it here. That's the first step to rebuilding his mask. He'll abandon the last remnant of Loid Forger and finally move on.

When he leaves, the case is tightly gripped by his hand. 

-

He wakes up from a particularly cruel dream. 

A dream where he was home, greeted by a loving wife and daughter and dog. Hagged, unshaven, dishevelled and cold, they still welcomed him. 

“We love you!" they'd said so casually. 

He was barely Loid Forger, but they still accepted him. 

He ate a delicious meal, showered and went to sleep in a warm bed that night. 

Then he woke to a hard, cold mattress, unclean and gross, the lingering taste of a hunger on his tongue.

He curls up on his side and waits for the morning.

-

He finds himself at a bar, all alone, nursing Loid Forger's usual scotch. Agent Twilight doesn't have a preferred drink: his tastebuds are dry of unique preferences. 

He still has no name. No identity even. He's less than nameless, he's nothing. 

He wonders if WISE are looking for him. Do they know? Have they gone to the Forger house to see its fractured remains, left in shambles by their supposed best agent? Have they deemed him unnecessary and given up? Will they kill him? 

A useless spy is a dead spy. 

He's barely a spy at this point. 

Even so, his sharply trained senses pick up on the sensation of being watched. He doesn't move his gaze to the obnoxious glares thrown his way, studying through his peripherals like he's been taught to. 

(Agent Twilight takes control almost immediately.)

He assumes they're the leftovers of the group that initially attacked him. Reveng. Or simply finishing the mission Yor thwarted. 

His wounds sting under old bandages. They're mostly gone. He usually barely feels them in the numb cold. 

On normal, loud steps, he makes his way out and feigns ignorance. He leads them away from the town, looking around as though sightseeing. He keeps track of them, counts their numbers and estimates their weapons from the bulges in their clothes or the way their hands hover. He starts walking more cautiously in the snow, letting the crunch of their boots swallow his quietening steps. 

(The shards he's dragged with him are slowly mending. When he looks at his reflection on his watch, Agent Twilight's frigid eyes stare back.)

The trees are dead with no leaves. He has no cover. But he's been in hundreds of situations like this. It's easy to lose them. It's easy to lead them in circles. It's easy to split them up. Walking casually, steps loud and distinct, gait casual and ignorant one second; the next, soundless, ghost-like. Instinctively, naturally, second nature to his rigid arms and numb legs, he's behind one and snaps their neck silently. He's gone before the thud of a body in snow alerts the rest of them. 

(The gun feels at home in the grooves of his hand.)

A crunch. He points his pistol at another's head before they can turn around. Its barrel makes a natural nest in the enemy's hair. There's only a few left, and they still have no idea where he is. Blood mars the pure white of snow. 

(Agent Twilight finds it a familiar sight.)

There's only one left. Or so he thought. He must've lost a set of steps somewhere along the way, drawn back by shouting and gunfire. Agent Twilight reacts easily, trained to the highest calibre, considered the best of WISE, a spy in his own league. 

But agent Twilight is not at 100%. He's dragged down by Loid Forger, by his wounds that suddenly (he knows it's not sudden—he distinctly felt warmth pool under his bandages as he swerved) erupt in agony. A moment is all the enemy needs. A moment is everything he cannot afford. 

He pays anyway. 

—

He runs. He runs and he runs from the bloodbath slowly consumed by snow, burying the corpses in icy graves. He runs from the proof of his weakness, of his softened instincts, of his dulled skills. 

But the trail of red exposes him anyways. 

His wounds sting with every step. Even through the cold his muscles contort around torn flesh, sending flashes of blinding, hot pain. 

He doesn't know how long he runs. All he knows is he's lost and alone and nameless. He has nothing, not Agent Twilight, not Loid Forger. 

Still, he is clutching Loud Forger's suitcase. He can't let go. He just can't. 

(He's just [REDACTED], a boy he barely remembers, a soldier he resents.)

It's no use. His wounds have reopened from the fight. He has a brand new one to add to the collection. He's bleeding out. He can't run anymore—his legs give out and he collapses. 

He's bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, crimson red staining ethereal white, his filthy blood tainting the innocence of snow.

Agent Twilight has been forever marred by a large crack of vulnerability he can't get rid of. He can't forget them. He can't erase his guilt. He misses them so much he feels like crying. 

WISE  would never accept him back. Twilight is practically gone. Without Twilight he has no purpose. Without Twilight Loid Forger is gone. Without Loid Forger he has no family. 

He's nothing. He's powerless. He's useless. 

(He's just [REDACTED], a boy with nothing, no one—not a single person even knew his name.)

He's going to die a lonesome death like he always had coming. He'll die having ruined the most precious thing he's ever held. He was always unworthy. He doesn't deserve to cry about it. He should simply accept and quietly cease to breathe. 

But sobs erupt from the tightness in his throat. His heart hurts and hurts and hurts and he sobs to himself, curled into a pitiful, bloody ball. He's glad he's all alone, he'd rather no one see him like this. He's pathetic enough as is. 

It's all over. [REDACTED] is ready to take his last breaths. He wonders if his mother will greet him; if his friends will forgive him. 

“PAPA!" 

“LOID!" 

“BORF!" 

His eyes widen. He can barely move, so cold that frost has rendered him numb  frozen like an ice statue. But his fingers twitch. He tries to shuffle, to look around him. His blurry gaze searches the horizon of dead trees and white fog desperately. 

But he sees nothing. 

He must've imagined them. 

He laughs to himself, chuckles at his naive hope, at his foolishness. As if they would look for him after everything. They're better off without him. He can only hope WISE would support them. But if not, Yor could provide for them easily. She could protect Anya. They would be fine. 

Anya… ah, he broke his promise, didn't he? 

“If you leave Anya behind, Anya will cry." 

He said he'd make a world where children didn't cry. 

He'd left her like everyone else had. He wondered if she was crying. He wondered if she cried because she missed him or because he was a liar. 

He doesn't deserve to be her father. He never did. He was always so strict, so harsh, so impatient… world peace had put a heavy weight on his shoulders but he still took it out on her… 

In the end, [REDACTED] was no better than his own father. He was worse—his own father never pressured him to become something he didn't care for. His father tried to teach him, even if all he did was argue with his mother. His father was a liar like him. His father made promises the world shattered. He made promises he broke by his own hands.

The pain’s starting to fade. The cold is stinging but he barely feels it. Soon, he'll feel nothing. A part of him is glad: glad it'll finally be over. He's done a lot in his decade as a spy, right? He was never going to have a happy ending, but going out so peacefully, even if he is alone, is more than he could ask for. 

He just wishes he could apologise to them… tell them he truly loved them from the bottom of his heart… he could never erase those feelings, no matter how hard he tried… 

In his brief case… his gift for Anya… 

He reaches for it with the last bit of strength he has left. His briefcase is open, spilling its contents. Dr Forger's patient files; Twilight's masks; the plush he impulsively bought because it looked like Anya’s Chimera, and he thought it would be nice if director Chimera had another friend, another agent to add to his roster.

He hadn't questioned such ridiculous thoughts upon first buying it. He'd buried his incredulous confusion behind Loid Forger's need to see his daughter smile. “For the mission," he told himself, dimly aware what a lie that was. 

In his pale hands, the plush is warm and soft. It burns him to touch him. He clutches it close, droplets of blood staining it. 

He wonders what Anya would have named it. If she would have liked it. What kind of games she'd play with it. 

He guesses he'll never know. How disappointing. All this for a gift he couldn't even give. 

‘I’m sorry… Yor… I'm sorry…. Anya…" 

“PAPA!!!!" 

He's hearing them again. He knows not to believe the hopeful, fluttery feeling. He knows his mind is tired and simply wants reprieve. 

It's time to close his eyes… and sleep… 

“LOID!" 

“PAPA?! PAPA!" 

“BORF! BORF BORF!"

…

…

… nudging. Something nudges his side. It hurts a little, through the icy numb latches onto his skin. 

He's still breathing, very shallowly, very slowly. He doesn't think he can open his eyes. They're glued shut from fatigue that threatens to pull him under. He thought it had. 

But tiny hands on his face chase it away briefly. 

He opens his eyes. 

He expects blurry brown and white. He expects the trees dying like him; a white sky and the blanket of snow he bleeds on. 

But instead pink and green fill his vision. 

Her pink hair. Her green eyes, teary, wobbling, wide. 

"An… ya…?” He reaches a trembling hand to her face. The tears he brushes away are real. Her face is cold to touch, cheeks and nose are pink.

"Papa…” her voice is small and wavering, giving way to hiccups. 

"Don't cry,” he wants to say. "It's okay,” he wants to reassure. But his vocal chords won't produce the sound. 

“I'm sorry," he needs to say, before it's too late. 

"I love you. I always have,” he needs to say. 

“Anya loves you too papa. So don't die! Please don't die! Don't make Anya cry!” She sobs. Her shoulders shake as she cries on him.

He feels a tear sneak past his eye, trailing down his face, leaving a warm path on his icy skin. He wishes she truly knew. If only she knew everything. Then her words would mean everything to him. 

But he knows she wouldn't say them if she knew. She'd be horrified, betrayed, hurt. She'd hate him.

“Anya knows everything papa. Anya’s known since the beginning,” he stares as she sobs, "Anya knows you're a spy, knows you want world peace. Anya wants it too. Mama wants it too. Anya has always known mama was an assassin. Anya chose her because she was an assassin. Anya chose papa because he was a spy. Anya knows about operation sto-rix and worked so hard to be an imperelel skooler for papa’s mission. She tried to befriend sy-on boy for plan B." 

He gapes, eyes widening. 

How? How could she possibly know? He's never let it slip. He's never left his paperwork out in the open for anyone to see. He's kept his spy life hidden. If there's anything he did right it was that. Did WISE tell her? Have they been in contact with WISE? Even so, she's known from the beginning…

Anya sniffles as she hesitates, "The thing is… Anya can read minds.” 

… Huh? 

He blinks. He wants to tell her to not joke at such a serious time. 

“Anya's not joking." 

He can't believe it. This is a dream. 

“It's true. ‘s not a dream." 

‘You can read my thoughts?’

She nods. 

‘You’ve known all along.'

“Anya knew." 

‘You picked me.’ 

“Anya did." 

‘You heard everything in my mind…’

“Mmm." 

‘You worked so hard on the mission without me ever knowing.’ 

“Anya didn't want you to abandon her if she wasn't good enough…" 

‘I could never.’ 

“Anya didn't know… it was hard to understand papa with all his confusing thoughts.” 

‘Were my thoughts always loud?’

She nods, "And complicated. Anya didn't get them.” 

‘I’m sorry…’ 

“'S okay." 

She's known. She picked him from the get go. She knew the darkest, most cruel part of him and still loved him. She supported him, she worked so hard for him. She knew, and she still loved him. She knew everything, and she stuck by him. She chose him. 

He's filled with an immeasurable something. He's not sure what it is: guilt? Love. Sadness. Happiness. 

Is he happy that someone still loved him despite everything? Gave him something he thought wasn't for him anymore?

‘I love you.’ 

Her lips wobble. 

‘I never let myself say it. I was too scared to.’ 

“I love you too papa." 

He needs to say it. It's not enough that he thinks it. He wants her to hear with her ears—from his own lips.

"I… love you… Anya. Always… have…” 

She tackles him into a hug. He puts a shaky hand over her back, so small his palm almost engulfs it. She's always been so small… he's known she lied about her age. He initially took her in because he thought her intellect was genius. She must've read his mind during the crossword. 

He smirks, huffing out a small laugh. 

“Anya?! Anya—LOID!" 

His eyes widen. He looks in the direction of the voice—her voice. 

"Loid!” 

She calls a name that isn't his. He isn't Loid Forger, no matter how much a part of him wants to be. He's unshaven, stubble pricking his chin. His hair droops with grease and snow, dirt blonde instead of its softer shade. His suit is rumpled, ripped, bloody. His eyes are glassy and dull.

He isn't a father, he isn't a husband. He's fake, forged through WISE’s tenacity for peace.

Yor slides to his side in her knees. Wine red fill to the brim with horror. Her hands fret over his wounds, face crumpling, “Oh Loid… I'm so sorry, this is all my fault…” 

He wants to shake his head. All he can do is breathe shakily, looking through hooded eyes. 

"Papa says it's not mama's fault.” 

Ah, he's got a translator now. She can get his words out. He's too tired. He might fall asleep soon. 

Yor begins ripping her coat in patches. He manages to make a noise. 

“Papa says he doesn't want mama to ruin her coat for him," Anya sniffs as she pulls back, clinging to Bond who whines, “But Anya says don't listen to him.” 

"Don't worry Anya, I won't let Loid die," Yor promises firmly. The clothe ties around each of his wounds are gently done, tight but not suffocating. Her hands cradle his pale face, eyes peering deep into his, “I'm so sorry Loid. I ended up chasing you away. I had no right to judge." 

He coughs when the words get caught in his throat. He still tries, “Don't… be… did use… Anya…” 

"And I used you both." 

“So did… I… You… needed… cover.” 

"You were trying to do what you thought was right. Anya told me you wanted to make a world where children don't cry." Yor’s face is full of acceptance, of awe, of an empathy he never thought anyone would look his way with.  

His heart aches. It's tearing open, years of something—everything: grief, agony, fatigue, love, guilt spilling in waves, flooding through the crevices of Agent Twilight's walls.

His most personal mission. No one else knew. He kept it to himself for years, so hidden he almost lost it. Anya had reignited that fire for him. It kept him warm, alive in some ways. It kept him going. It kept him up through days of sleepless nights. It kept him strong through the worst missions. It kept him human in ways Twilight resented. 

He's starting to shiver, suddenly aware of the cold. It's faint, barely effective, but suddenly he doesn't want to close his eyes. He doesn't want to sleep, knowing he won't wake up. 

"I'm sorry,” tumbles from his lips like the broken pieces of [REDACTED]’s heart, "I’m… so sorry,” he cries. 

Yor gathers him in her arms. She's so warm, so safe. She tucks his head in the crook of her neck, her pulse wild and firm all at once, "I'm sorry too,” she whispers, delicately holding him close, fingers closed around him like he's a porcelain doll. He might as well be to her absurd strength. 

Another weight joins them, Anya burying her face in his side. Bond curls up next to her, fur warm and inviting. He places a hand on his head, treasuring the heat that stings his hand. 

"Papa? What's this?” Anya picks up the forgotten plush buried in bloody snow. 

From Yor's arms, he reaches with a slow, quivering arm to pat her head, "Present… for you…" ‘It looked like director Chimera. I wanted him to have another operative.’

Anya's lips wobble. Her watery emerald gaze stares so deeply into the raggedy thing, soaked, bloodied, dirty. 

“Sorry…" ‘It’s so dirty. I tried to keep it clean and safe.’ 

Anya shakes her head, “Anya loves it papa. Anya loves it so much!” she hugs it tight, even though he's sure it's soaking her clothes with icy wetness. 

His gaze softens, “I’m… glad…" 

It's starting to get hard to keep his eyes open, no matter how much he fights it. 

“We need to go," Yor picks him up easily. He buries his face in her neck. Her warmth makes it far too easy to close his eyes, lulling him dangerously close to sleep.

"You need to stay awake, Loid,” she gently reminds him. 

"Anya will keep papa awake!” Anya volunteers. She hops on Bond and together, they run through the dead forest, crunching on fresh snow. 

‘Did you come alone?’ he asks. 

Anya repeats it to Yor, who shakes her head, “Your agency drove us here. They helped us look for you. They came to us first to look for you.”

Ah. He's in so much trouble. We're they planning on exterminating him? 

"Will they hurt papa…?" Comes meekly from his side. Anya stares up at him with a tiny frown. 

‘I don't know. I did a bad thing. They probably don't want me anymore.’ 

“But Papa is the best spy ever!" 

He wants to refute that passionately. If he was the best spy, he'd have never been in this position. He'd be at Loid Forger's home, meticulously carrying on operation Strix while keeping a healthy, clinical distance from its two assets. 

But all he finds himself doing is smiling a little, bittersweet warmth pooling in his chest. Perhaps a remnant of Loid Forger remained, if his daughter's naive belief and pride in him filled him so whole. 

" I appreciate… that,” he manages through tiny huffs. 

"They wanted to find you. They helped us find you. Surely it was to help,” Yor tries to reason, though he sees her worry her lips between her teeth. 

He doubts it. They probably wanted to make sure he couldn't let anything slip. Maybe they wanted to break him down and build him back up. 

Anya whimpers. Yor's grip on him tightens, “I won't let them," she whispers resolutely, “I won't let them hurt you." 

He knows WISE and their power. He knows a lot of their agents and their strengths. 

He still believes her wholeheartedly. 

—

WISE has not given up on him. WISE went looking for him out of concern. Handler says nothing when Yor brings a bloodied, shivering, barely responsive Twilight into the car's warmth. Nightfall stays quiet as he curls up in Yor's lap, dozing off safely in her arms. 

Operation Strix is still ongoing, “You've made a lot of progress. To throw it all away would not only be a waste, it may risk losing any contact with the Desmonds," Handler tells him when he wakes up at the Forger household, “Figure out the situation with the Forgers. We will be having a meeting about this soon." 

Her harsh tone lets him know he's in for quite the scolding once he's healed. Through his fear, he's a little relieved. Twilight nods, “Understood." 

He'd expected far worse, really. He'd broken almost every rule as a spy. By all means, he should've been thrown out as a broken tool. Handler wasn't usually lenient unless complaints from HQ arose. He does catch a soft flint in her gaze at Anya's form clutching his pant leg, and remembers her words during the attempted assassination of minister Brantz. 

"I had a daughter about her age once." 

… Maybe he isn't the only one going soft. 

WISE leaves them at their doorstep, driving off in the middle of the night. 

He leans on Yor heavily despite the many hours he slept on the way home, still bone deep exhausted. 

Stepping through the door washes him with a feeling he isn't used to. It takes him a moment to name it—Twilight doesn't recognise the fluffy warmth that fills his aching chest, but Loid Forger does. 

“Papa? What's wrong?" Anya stares curiously. 

“Loid?" Yor blinks, her gaze crinkling with worry. 

[REDACTED] looks at them, at Bond, doused in soft light, and the words tumble out of his mouth so easily, clumsy and unfamiliar, but genuine. 

“I'm home." 

Yor smiles. 

“Welcome home, Loid."