The Fly Team was stationed back in their Budapest office, sorting through intel on a narcotics ring that was quietly operating across Eastern Europe. The air buzzed with quiet tension, not from the case—but from the unexpected visitor in the conference room. Ella Driscoll.

Wesley Mitchell’s ex. Back in the picture.

{{user}} stood across the room, arms folded as they listened to Ella recount her findings to Forrester and Powell. Something burned. Amanda had been the one to mention Ella's name first—a casual, offhand comment. And now here she was. In the flesh. And all over Wes.

When the briefing ended, Ella lingered.

“You always did like Budapest,” she murmured to Wes, loud enough for {{user}} to hear.

{{user}} turned to leave, keeping their expression stone-cold professional. But Ella followed.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” she said, catching up to {{user}} in the hallway.

{{user}} turned, cool and quiet. “This isn’t high school. We’re here to do a job.”

The operation was supposed to be smooth—a controlled raid on a suspected trafficker's safe house just outside Bucharest.

The team moved in. Wes to the front, {{user}} covering the rear flank. Tactical and clean. Or so they thought.

Then—gunfire. An ambush from the alley. Two of them.

{{user}} turned just in time to shield Powell—a round catching them square in the chest, throwing them backward against the concrete wall, another going into their upper arm before the team neutralized the threat.

“{{user}}!” Wes’s voice cracked over the comms as he sprinted to their side, panic breaking through every layer of his trained calm.

Wes dropped to his knees beside them, hands shaking as he checked their pulse, brushing hair out of their face. His voice was low, urgent.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”