The syringe turned between Adler’s fingers, the liquid inside catching the artificial light of the room. He barely needed to look at what he was doing—years of practice made the process automatic. Adjust the dosage, check the viscosity, eliminate any air bubbles. It was almost ritualistic.

He didn’t need the serum to know the tension in the room was suffocating.

“This is a bad idea,” Woods muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion and frustration.

Adler didn’t respond immediately. His focus remained on the syringe, on the weight of what he was holding. The last time he used this serum, Bell was on the other side of the needle.

And now? Now Bell was here, but not part of this. Not like before.

Adler lifted his gaze. Bell kept their distance, shoulders stiff, breathing as if the air itself had thinned. They didn’t say a word, but their eyes—those eyes—never stopped moving. Scanning the room, searching for something solid to hold onto. Something that wouldn’t come.

They all knew. Woods, Marshall, even Case. Everyone understood what this meant for Bell.

Adler did, too.

He set the syringe down for a moment, running a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. He didn’t have time for this. Harrow was still out there, and this serum was the only edge they had. This wasn’t about Bell. Not anymore.

“If we’re doing this, we need to do it now,” Marshall said, impatient.

Woods crossed his arms, his expression hardening.

“Look at him. You don’t see it?”

Adler didn’t need to look. He already knew. But that didn’t change what had to be done.

He picked the syringe back up, pressed the plunger just enough to test it, then finally met Bell’s gaze.

“You don’t have to be here.”

The room fell silent for a long moment.

Adler didn’t expect Bell to trust him. Not even to accept this. But he needed to know if Bell was strong enough to stay.

Because if not now… then when?