We didn't talk much on the way back.
The crowd absorbed us, like always. Downtown was loud enough to drown out questions, fast enough to keep our adrenaline high, and anonymous enough to keep people from asking why one of us was bleeding under a scarf and the other was carrying something suspiciously drone-shaped in his backpack.
Halfway to the dorms, Bella nudged me with her elbow. "We're stopping."
I didn't ask why. I knew that tone.
She turned into the corner market like it was part of the mission. Grabbed a basket, stalked down the aisles, and started tossing ingredients in without hesitation — pasta, garlic, cherry tomatoes, a small bundle of herbs she clearly didn't trust me to name.
"You still out of olive oil?" she asked without looking up.
I didn't answer. She already knew the answer.
By the time we made it back to our dorm block, the bag was full and Bella was moving better — the bleeding had slowed, or maybe she was just good at ignoring pain. Probably both.
We lived next door to each other. Technically separate units, but you'd never know it from the way she used mine like her personal kitchen. I'd stopped pretending it was weird. The first time she cooked here, I made the mistake of asking questions. Now I just stayed out of the way.
She dropped the bag on the counter, tied her hair up, and got to work.
I changed into clean clothes — sweatpants and an old academy T-shirt — and watched from the edge of the kitchen while she moved through the motions like she was defusing a bomb. Precise. Fast. Efficient. I didn't even need to offer help. Would've been a waste of breath.
Dinner was ready in fifteen minutes.
We ate on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, TV murmuring in the background, showing something neither of us were watching. Her cooking was, as always, annoyingly good — spicy, rich, just the right amount of heat.
I was halfway through my plate when something… shifted.
The flavor changed. Not on the food — in my mouth.
A sharp, metallic edge rolled across my tongue. My throat felt tight. My skin started to prickle like I'd brushed up against static.
I set the plate down slowly. "Bella."
She didn't look up.
"Bella."
She sighed. "It's just a mild neurotoxin."
My eyes narrowed. "You drugged me?"
"Trained you," she corrected. "Controlled dose. Synth compound. You'll be fine in a few hours."
My arms were already starting to feel heavy. Not numb. Just… thick. Like my body was five seconds behind everything I wanted to do.
"You could've warned me."
"That's not how this works."
She finally looked over — calm, like this was a completely normal conversation to have over dinner.
"You want to build immunity, Marx? Then you start with exposure. You think someone's going to warn you the first time they slip something into your drink? This way, you learn what it feels like before it kills you."
I stared at her. "This is your idea of helping?"
She took the plate from my hands as it started to slip.
"You'll thank me later."
"Doubt it," I muttered, already struggling to keep my eyes open.
"You're not dying," she said, more gently now. "Just recalibrating."
I mumbled something back — not words exactly, just sound. My body was already gone. I couldn't move, couldn't think straight. But even through the haze, I felt her hand steady my shoulder as I slumped against the couch.
I came back online like a rebooting machine — slowly, painfully, every system flickering one at a time.
First, sensation. My arms. My legs. Still attached. Still sluggish, but responsive.
Next, light. The ceiling. The familiar yellowish glare of my dorm lamp overhead. It was still on.
Last, sound. A kettle somewhere. The faint whir of a fan. And quiet movement — feet pacing. Fabric rustling.
Bella.
I blinked.
"About time," she said.
My voice came out like gravel. "How long?"
"Three hours." She was leaning against the wall across from me, arms crossed, a mug in her hand. "You slept through two missed calls, a minor power outage, and me nearly blowing a fuse because you keep your coffee in the freezer like a psychopath."
I groaned, sitting up slowly. "You poisoned me."
She gave a small shrug. "I trained you. Don't be dramatic."
"You used neurotoxin as a seasoning."
She took a sip of her tea. "I also made you dinner. You're welcome."
I rubbed my eyes. My body still felt like it had been filled with wet sand, but the worst of it was gone. The static had faded. Breathing felt normal. Sort of.
"Next time," I muttered, "maybe just a heads-up. Like a text. Or a skull-and-crossbones drawn on the plate."
She actually smiled. It was brief. Barely there. But real.
"I needed to see how you'd react," she said. "And now I know."
I looked over at her, frowning. "React to what?"
"To the unexpected," she said. "To the fact that, in our line of work, your next sip might be your last. I needed to know you wouldn't panic."
"You paralyzed me."
"And yet — here you are. Conscious. Breathing. A little pissed off. That's a win in my book."
I stood slowly, my legs shaky but cooperative. "What if I'd had a bad reaction?"
She gave me a very Bella look. Flat. Unimpressed.
"I calculated your dose to within a 0.02 milligram margin of error. If I wanted you dead, you'd never know it."
Comforting.
I walked to the kitchenette, poured a glass of water, and drank like I'd just crawled out of the desert.
"You going to make this a habit?" I asked.
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "Only if you keep surviving it."
I looked over at her. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
"Take it however you want."
She pushed off the wall and walked over. Close. Closer than necessary. I could smell the faint edge of her shampoo — sharp and clean, like mint and gunmetal.
When she stopped in front of me, she didn't say anything. Just held out a tiny object between her fingers.
The flash drive.
"The data's decrypted," she said. "We've got names. Accounts. Movements. Everything they didn't want anyone to see."
I took it, my fingers brushing hers. "And?"
"And," she said, "they know we have it."
My stomach twisted. "How bad?"
Bella looked tired for the first time all day.
"Bad enough that they scrubbed the entire compound two hours after we left. No traces. No survivors. No explanation. Like it never existed."
I swore under my breath. "Which means they're in cleanup mode."
She nodded.
"They'll come for us. Quietly, fast, and probably with bigger guns."