Chapter Text
The world didn’t end with a thunderous explosion or a deafening crash; it ended with a piercing, relentless whistle that blared through everything, swallowing the universe.
Maggie Bell lay sprawled on the cold, unforgiving pavement, her body aching from the impact. The surface pressed harshly against her back, yet her skin felt like it was simmering. Each breath she drew was thick with the gritty taste of pulverized concrete and burnt insulation—remnants of the chaos surrounding her. For a fleeting moment, there was nothing but silence, no FBI, no fierce investigation into the ruthless MS-13 gang, no "new partner" to drag her back from the darkness. Just the pounding, oppressive weight of the gray, stormy sky over New York City swaying heavily above her.
The dust hung in the air like a heavy, choking curtain, swirling around her with suffocating weight. She fought to sit up, but an agonizing, searing pain in her side anchored her to the ground. A jagged fragment of debris—shrapnel torn from the trembling beams—had sliced so cleanly through her tactical vest at the hip.
Maggie slowly opened her eyes, fighting through a haze of dust and ash.
The ringing began to recede from her ears, giving way to the haunting, distant echoes of sirens and frantic screams that echoed through the chaos. Then, out of the thick, gray gloom, a shadow seared its way into view.
It wasn't a medic. It wasn't a civilian. It was OA.
He didn't resemble the polished, suit-and-tie Special Agent she had encountered just hours before. OA’s face was streaked with soot, a jagged cut bleeding near his hairline, but his eyes were locked on hers with a terrifying intensity—an unspoken plea. He didn't say anything at first—he couldn't, not over the madness before them—but he reached out anyway.
Through the settling ash, his hand appeared. It was steady. Large, calloused, and unwavering.
Maggie reached up, her fingers trembling and coated in white dust, and grabbed his forearm. The moment their skin met, the world stopped swaying. OA gripped her hand back, his thumb pressing firmly into her knuckles—a silent anchor.
"I’ve got you," he shouted, his voice finally breaking through the static in her ears. "Maggie! Look at me. I’ve got you."
He didn't pull her up immediately—he knew all too well that rushing a blast victim could do more harm than good. With a trembling resolve, he sank to one knee beside her, instinctively wrapping his body around her as a shield against the relentless rain of grit and debris. His other hand went to her side, hovering over the blood soaking into her shirt.
"You’re hit," he noted, his voice dropping into that calm, rhythmic cadence he’d learned in the Rangers. It was a soldier’s voice. A partner’s voice. "Deep breath for me. Just one."
"I’m fine," Maggie wheezed, the lie tasting like copper and ash.
"You're not. But you’re going to be." OA didn't move his hand from hers. He squeezed tighter, leaning in so his forehead almost touched hers, forcing her to focus on his dark eyes instead of the wreckage of the building behind them. "Stay with me, Bell. Focus on my hand. Don’t look at the building."
She realized then that she was shaking—not from the cold, but from the sheer force of the adrenaline leaving her system. OA noticed, too. He shifted closer, his large frame blocking out the sight of the tragedy, creating a small, private island of safety in the middle of a war zone.
In that moment, the "new partner" disappeared. He was just the man who wasn't letting go.
"We’re partners, right?" he asked, his voice a low vibration she could feel in her bones. "I don’t leave my partner behind."
Maggie took a shuddering breath and squeezed his hand back, her strength slowly returning. "Okay, partner," she whispered. “But really, thank you, OA."