The aroma of savory, smoky meat fills the air, and the sound of grilling sizzles softly—like a drizzle of rain. Neva's stomach growls again as she walks into the living room, freshly showered.
Rhett stands in the kitchen, changed into a clean set of clothes. His broad back and shoulders move with quiet strength, arms working rhythmically as he prepares food.
Neva pauses in the heart of the living room, hesitating.
It's awkward. Everyone else is still asleep, and she can't bear to return to the white walls of her room—consuming her further, deepening the sickness curling in her chest.
Outside, the storm has calmed to a gentle sprinkle.
The balcony doors remain open, and a sweet, cool breeze drifts in.
Trees rustle softly, and the earthy scent of rain—petrichor—is succoring to her.
She exhales, feeling a little lighter.
"You're here," Rhett's voice pulls her from her reverie.
Neva looks at him, their eyes meeting—lingering, entangled in a silent exchange.
"You can sit over there," he says, gesturing toward the dining table with a casual tilt of his thumb. "Breakfast will be ready soon."
Then he turns back to the stove, the soft hiss of the pan rising again.
Instead of sitting, Neva steps closer.
"Do you want help with anything?"
"I'm alright," Rhett replies, glancing at her over his shoulder.
She's freshly showered, her hair still damp, curling slightly as it air-dries.
She wears a forest green sweater—well-fitted, the neckline gently carved in a sweetheart shape, sleeves flaring at her delicate wrists. A modest beige maxi skirt, laced and light, drapes to her ankles.
He had arranged the clothes for her—
A small thing, yet it astonishes her.
He knows her style. The colors, the cuts, the quiet grace she prefers.
Her face is bare, save for a soft gloss blooming across her lips, highlighting the pink of her mouth and the natural rosiness of her cheeks. Her eyes, deep and dark, shimmer beneath long, fluttering lashes.
Neva leans slightly, peeking to glance at the steak and broccoli he's been grilling—but her eyes trail upward, only to find his already on her.
Her breath catches.
Her cheeks warm, a flush blooming beneath her skin before she can look away.
When she clears her throat, Rhett blinks—snapped out of whatever trance he'd slipped into.
He turns his attention back to the steak, though his body still burns—surely not from the stove's heat, but something far more dangerous—and a blessing.
His ears are pink.
His chest swells, tight with something unspoken, breath catching in his throat.
It feels as if—he's falling in love with her all over again.
She's beautiful. And she's his.
Neva leans against the counter beside him.
His deep blue sweater is folded up to the elbows, one hand tilting the pan, the other guiding the sizzling steak and broccoli with a wooden ladle.
The muscles in his forearms shift, veins threading like cords beneath his skin.
She glances away—too astray in purposeless scenes flickering through her mind.
"It's almost done," Rhett says.
Neva hums and nods. "Did you make rice?"
"Of course. You love meat and rice," he replies with quiet certainty.
She raises her brows, genuinely surprised.
But before the warmth can settle in her chest, like a gale—something colder surges.
The blues spiral through her, and the sangfroid of the present begins to slip from her grasp.
"What's wrong?" Rhett asks, brow creasing as he catches the shadow in her eyes.
Neva shakes her head, but he sees it.
Her fingers fidgeting with the wedding ring she still wears.
"Dada," a small voice calls from behind them.
Neva and Rhett both turn to see Rhean standing in the middle of the living room.
He 's little in his light blue pajama shirt and matching pants, patterned with faint white animal prints.
A soft white lamb plushie is clutched tightly in his arms.
"You're up?" Rhett asks gently.
Rhean, suddenly shy and earnest in Neva's presence, glances up at his father.
He gives a faint nod, his eyes slightly dewy, gaze fixed on the floor.
Neva and Rhett exchange a silent conversation with their eyes.
Then she turns to the child.
Adoration flickers in her expression—tempered with guilt, with fear.
Her steps are slow, careful, as she begins to approach him.
Neva lowers herself to his level, angling her body gently toward him.
"Hi, baby," she whispers.
She doesn't know what to do.
The child doesn't even look up at her.
Her heart aches—fracturing in silence.
She doesn't feel any connection, no sign, no spark of recognition, nothing that hints at the bond of mother and son.
Neva sighs and slowly straightens.
Wasn't she already a mother to two children? Then why is it so hard—this simple act of facing a child?
Rhean's grip on the lamb tightens.
His head dips lower, shoulders drawing in.
His small chest tightens with a feeling he doesn't know how to name.
He has yearned for his mother all these years.
But now, when she's so close—he's suddenly afraid.
He's overwhelmed by the storm of emotions churning inside him.
Neva gently caresses his head.
And as her footsteps begin to retreat, Rhean panics.
A sudden fear grips him, twisting his chest.
In the kitchen, Rhett sighs.
He wishes he could lift the weight pressing down on both their hearts, open up the affinity veiled deep in their souls.
But he can't.
For he believed in them.
"Are you going to leave again?"
Rhean's fragile voice seizes Neva's steps.
She turns to him, startled. "Huh?"
Her eyes soften.
Tears stream down his bread-soft cheeks, his lips quivering.
"A–Are you going to leave again?" he asks again, barely able to form the words.
Neva gives a sore, aching smile.
She doesn't know what to say.
She's still figuring it out—still piecing herself together.
She kneels and opens her arms.
"Come to me."
Rhean doesn't hesitate—and runs straight into her.
Neva catches him as he collapses into her embrace—his tiny frame trembling, sobs racking through his body.
Her heart shatters.
Her chin rests on his shoulder, one hand gently rubbing his back, the other cradling his head, securing him close to her heart.
"Hush, baby. I'm right here," she murmurs.
Rhean only tightens his arms around her neck, his face buried in the crook of her neck, tears soaking into her green sweater, darkening the fabric.
She is warm.
And to Rhean, she feels like his home.
At the doorway, May's husband wraps an arm around her waist as she leans her head against Niall's chest.
Tears slip down her cheeks as she watches the quiet reunion—the bond between mother and son, tenderly unfolding after years apart.
Neva pulls away slightly and smiles at him.
She wipes his tears and presses a kiss to his forehead.
He's still sniffling, hiccuping softly.
"I'm not leaving," she says.
And yet, the words sting—because she isn't sure if it's a lie.
But they come anyway, gliding off her lips like a promise meant to comfort.
Rhean hugs her again.
Neva smiles through the ache and enfolds him once more, holding him as long as he needs—until his breathing steadies, until the silence feels safe.
Across the room, Rhett exhales in quiet relief.
His arms are crossed, his torso leaning against the counter, posture finally loose.
A serene smile settles on his face.
Then—the doorbell rings.
Rhett straightens up.
Neva and Rhean pull apart again as the doorbell rings once more.
Niall, being closer to the hallway that leads to the stairs and down to the ground floor, moves to answer it.
Soon, two figures walk in through the living room door—a well-dressed Elk in a sharp black suit, followed by Agent Knight in smart-casual attire.
"Grandpa!" Rhean calls out, his eyes lighting up instantly.
"Good to see you, my child," Elk says, offering a brief, soft smile.
Elk's pupils shift slightly at the sight of Rhean holding Neva's hand, his other arm wrapped around his favorite soft-toy.
He's taken aback—the boy who once ran straight to him without fail now clings to a woman who was, until recently, a stranger.
Niall enters and quietly takes his place beside May.
"Why are you here?" Rhett asks, now standing protectively beside Neva.
"Necessarily, of course," Elk replies smoothly, settling himself onto one of the three-seater green couches.
"Where's Ace? Go get him," he adds, his tone already turning brisk.
When Rhett doesn't move, Elk's gaze slides to Agent Knight, who looks mildly bored.
"Which room?" Knight asks Rhett.
"The first room by the hall downstairs," Rhett says.
Knight nods and turns to leave.
"I would prefer some privacy," Elk states calmly.
Rhett looks at Neva. She meets his eyes and simply nods.
But as she moves to leave with Rhean, Elk interjects,
"Except you, Mrs. Lei."
Neva frowns at the name. Lei?
Is that Rhett's last name?
"She's not staying," Rhett says firmly, his voice steely.
"Oh, but she is," Elk replies, eyes cold as they land on Neva.
"I came especially for her."
"You can't involve her in your matters," Rhett says, firmly.
"It's fine," Neva says quietly.
Rhett hesitates, jaw tense, but doesn't argue further.
Instead, he turns to Rhean.
"Go get freshened up. You'll have to walk Zoro after breakfast."
Rhean looks up at him, reluctant, but nods slowly.
Neva gives him an assuring smile, and he mirrors it back faintly.
He doesn't want to go, but still, he lets go of her hand and trudges out of the living room.
May and Niall have already slipped away to their room.
"Mr and Mrs. Lei, kindly take your seat." Elk's voice is cool, clipped, and deliberate—devoid of warmth, but heavy with expectation.
Rhett meets his gaze, unflinching.
He takes his time, his movements deliberate as he strolls toward the sofa with Neva following behind.
She settles onto the three-seater next to Rhett, leaving enough space between them for one more person. A quiet tension settles in the room.
Knight reappears and takes a seat in one of the single armchairs across from them, his expression unreadable.
Then Ace walks in—disheveled, with bed-rumpled hair and tired eyes, dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a beige baggy shirt, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.
"Pull yourself together," Elk says sharply, the authority in his voice cutting through the stillness.
Ace only ruffles his hair and slumps down next to him on the three-seater sofa, positioned against the wall opposite where Rhett and Neva sit.
"You're aware of the recent virus outbreak exhibiting symptoms consistent with Ruhd, I presume?" Elk begins, his voice precise and clinical.
"28,039 confirmed cases, with 365 deaths globally—and the numbers are still climbing," Knight reports, tone sharp. "Initial casualties were reported in China a month and a half ago."
"The majority of severe cases have been children," Elk adds. "Infants to twelve-year-olds."
He shifts his cold gaze to Neva.
"Do you know anything about Ruhd?"
Neva's brow furrows. She doesn't know anything about a virus outbreak.
"She wouldn't know," Rhett answers for her, calm but firm.
"She should," Elk replies bluntly. "She's entangled in it more than anyone."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Neva says, confusion shadowing her voice.
Elk fixes his stare on her, unreadable.
"She's not required here. Let her leave," Rhett says.
"Don't talk back to me," Elk snaps, eyes narrowing.
Rhett holds his gaze, unflinching—every muscle in his body tensed with restraint.
He knows he'll regret it if he doesn't stop this now.
"She doesn't remember," he states. "Did Ace not tell you?"
Their deal was done, and Rhett assumes Ace had already reported everything.
"Indeed," Elk acknowledges coolly. "But she was his wife for four years. She must be of some use."
Neva doesn't know what to think—what to say. She reminds herself to guard her tongue, especially around these grim men in unfamiliar territory.
Rhett exhales slowly, resigning. Elk will push until he got what he wanted.
"Do you know what Ruhd is?" Elk asks.
Neva shakes her head.
"It's a life-threatening virus, if you're unaware," Elk says, his voice cold.
"Your father—Dr. Neal Noe—created it. He also developed a vaccine. But after Dr. Draco Earl's mutation turned it into something far more lethal, the vaccine was never completed."
Neva goes still.
Her father? Dr. Neal Noe?
How do they know about him—when Ishmael doesn't? Is he alive? And why would he create something so terrifying?
Her mind churns in chaos. A flood of questions with no answers.
"Ruhd was stored in a capsule, secured in a vault within the Tower of Worthon, in Erriador," Elk continues. "But over six years ago, Raka took hundreds of citizens hostage at Hotel Aurora, demanding Ruhd," Elk says.
"Even with my team involved"—he glances at Rhett—"and with him leading the mission to rescue the hostages… Raka still managed to get his hands on it."
He pauses. "After his obsession with you became clear, we realized he was after Ruhd because your trace appeared in the dactylogram sensor."
It's a lot for Neva to process. Her mind reels, trying to connect the fragments.
"But why?" she asks. "Why would he want Ruhd just because of a fingerprint?"
"Because it's through that fingerprint," Knight cuts in, his tone level, "that he could find you."
The weight of the moment settles.
The case had gone cold for years. But now—with the outbreak forcing it back into light—Knight ensures every piece of gathered intel is accounted for.
"What? No—he told me he found me in a market in Edinburgh," Neva says, confusion tightening her voice.
"Did he not tell you he had been searching for you?" Elk inquires, arching a brow.
"He did," Neva answers softly.
She remembers—how he once told her, with such sincerity, that he'd been desperately looking for her.
And then, when she was eighteen, while he was in Edinburgh on business, he said he saw her at the farmers' market and recognized her immediately. That was how everything began between them.
Elk lets out a short, dry chuckle. "He really did feed you some nonsense, didn't he?"
Neva's eyes harden. She glares at him.
"That's enough," Rhett says, his voice sharp.
"That's enough." Rhett says.
"You can go, Neva,"
"Wait," Elk cuts in.
"You wouldn't have been that useful to him if he only wanted the capsule unsealed," he continues coolly. "Today's technology makes replicating a dactylogram child's play. But tell me—" Elk leans forward, clasping his hands over his knees, "—how far does his circle reach? Anything on Lucas Ito or Jacob Lewis? Any clue about his future plans beyond the virus?"
Neva shakes her head. "No." Her voice wavers, eyes glistening with tears.
Her life—everything she believed—is a lie. Isn't it?
Ishmael's stupid, poetic talk about miracles, destiny, soulmates... it was all fiction. Beautiful fiction. And she had been foolish enough to believe it.
Gullible enough to indulge herself in his fantasies.
To give herself over to it completely.
"You have his right-hand man. Go interrogate him," Rhett says coldly.
"Zev, was it?" Knight scoffs. "Guy's really out there getting screwed for being too loyal."
Zev had been captured in Las Vegas after that baccarat game—by Knight himself. He had only revealed the whereabouts of May Mae and her husband. Beyond that, he stayed silent, never betraying his boss.
"Language," Elk warns sharply.
Knight just shrugs, then glances at Neva. "So you had a bunch of kids with him—for nothing?"
Neva keeps her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, but her silence trembles with emotion.
"You're taking it too far," Rhett snaps, his voice low and dangerous.
Elk cuts in, tone crisp. "Enough. Here's the plan."
He leans back, expression unreadable. "It's another team job. Obviously."
"Mrs. Lei will call Raka and lure him to the exact location we decide," Elk states coldly. "You'll be elsewhere, with agents for your protection, of course."
"I will do no such thing," Neva replies, locking eyes with him, her voice steady and firm.
"I trust him enough to know he had no hand in this virus outbreak."
She wants to believe that, at the very least, she knows him well enough to be certain of that.
He has two children he adores. He would never unleash something so monstrous—especially a virus that is more baneful to the children.
She believes in him. And she prays—he can't possibly be as evil as they paint him to be.
"Even if he didn't cause the outbreak, he's committed enough crimes to warrant a death sentence," Elk snaps, his tone uncompromising. "You will comply."