Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The overhead light flickered, casting wavering shadows across the Assistant Director’s cluttered desk. Rio Vidal sat rigid in her chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap as Assistant Director Lilia Calderu flipped through a thick file, the sound of turning pages grating against the silence.

“You've read the case brief I sent over?” Lilia began without looking up. Her voice carried the weariness of someone who had seen far too much. Calm but firm.

Rio hummed. “I skimmed it. Darkhold, right? Serial killer. Poses his victims like they are scenes in a play or something."

Lilia's jaw clenched. “Like their art. His latest victim was found seated at a piano, her fingers wired to the keys. He flayed her skin into ribbons and draped them as curtains."

Rio keeps her expression neutral. 

Lilia continued. "The one before that was a family dinner. Five victims, posed around the table. Hands clasped, heads bowed. The 'father' had been gutted, his organs used as the centerpiece."

Rio nodded. "Not my case though."

"No, but you're about to be brought in." Lilia admitted.

“Because…?" 

Lilia leaned back in her chair, her expression grim. “Because we’re out of options. The Behavioral Analysis Unit has hit a wall. No patterns, no obvious motivations. The man’s a ghost. So, we’ve decided to consult someone with… experience.”

Rio frowned. “What kind of experience?”

Lilia hesitated before answering. “Agatha Harkness.”

Rio froze, the very name landed like a weight. It was like a slap, pulling her back to her academy days when Agatha Harkness was a cautionary tale used to warn new agents about the dangers of underestimating predators. The former phsycologist-turned-serial killed had been behind some of the most infamous murders in history. 

“The Agatha Harkness,” Rio said slowly, her voice flat.

“Yes.”

"You're joking." Her voice turned sharp as her eyes narrowed.

"I wish I were," Lilia replied. 

“The same Agatha Harkness who killed eighteen people and turned herself in for fun because she was bored?”

Lilia nodded.

Rio sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Why her? She’s a narcissist, a manipulator. She doesn’t help people unless it benefits her.”

“That’s exactly why,” Lilia said. “Harkness understands the kind of mind we’re dealing with. She’s done things Darkhold might aspire to. She’s… an expert.”

“And you think she’ll just hand over that expertise?”

“No,” Lilia admitted. “But she’s offered to help. Under one condition.”

Rio’s stomach tightened. “Let me guess. She wants out.”

“No,” Lilia said. “She wants you.”

The room fell silent.

“Me?” Rio asked after a long pause.

“We don’t know why,” Lilia said. “She refused to speak to anyone else. Said it had to be you. She called you by name, Rio.”

Rio scoffed. “How could she know of me? She's been in a cell longer than I've been in the FBI. This sounds like a setup. Harkness doesn’t do anything without an agenda. What if she’s trying to manipulate me?”

“She probably is,” Lilia said, her tone matter-of-fact. “But it's why I'm sending you, why I agreed. You never waver and you don't play by anyone's rules but your own."

Rio’s mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of doubt and unease. Agatha Harkness was a monster. She didn’t just kill people—she dismantled their lives, their minds, before finishing them off. The idea of sitting across from her made Rio’s skin crawl.

“Do I have a choice in this?” Rio asked finally.

“No,” Lilia said softly. “Not really.”

Rio exhaled slowly, running a hand through her dark hair. “Fine. I'll do it but don't expect miracles.”

Lilia nodded. “That's all we need from you, just talk to her. Agatha is unbreakable, we don't expect for her to give you anything worthwhile.”

The Salem state hospital for the criminally insane was a fortress, it's gray walls towering against a bleak winter sky. The air was sharp with the scent of antiseptic as Rio walked through it's winding corridors, each steel door that closed behind her amplifying the silence.

Finally she reached the maximum- security wing. The guard escorting her stopped abruptly, motioning to the last cell down the dimly lit hall. 

"Little advice, don't provoke her nor amuse her. By the time one of those things are set, you're in her game. Careful." The guard said sternly.

Rio nodded, stepping forward her boots echoed on the concrete floor. Each step pulling her into the suffocating quiet.

Agatha Harkness's cell was sterile boarded by thick plexiglass. She was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed and eyes closed. Her long hair reached down to her lower back, features were sticking and sharp. But her very presence was cold.

"Dr. Harkness, my name is Rio Vidal. I've heard you've been expecting me." Rio stated calmly as she pulled out a chair to the floor on her side of the glass. She sat down, her movements measured and controlled.

"Agent Vidal, you sure kept me waiting." Agatha said softly, eyes still closed, her voice curled around the words like smoke. "Though my guess is that it was Lilia's doing. But my waiting worked out in the end, they sent me quite an enigma." 

Rio didn't respond, her eyes fixed in Agatha with a steady intensity.

"Not much for small talk are you?" Agatha asked.

"What do you know?" 

Agatha chuckled. "Straight to the point, I forgot all about impatience. I have much time to spare so impatience is now a foreign concept. Tell me, Agent. How does it feel to slow down? To step into a place like this?" 

"Claustrophobic." 

"Ah, I imagine it must be for someone like you. But come on, surely you're curious why I asked for you. You could ask." 

"I'm not," Rio said flatly not taking the bait. "You know nothing about me, there's nothing to know. So why you asked for me isn't my priority."

"Don't know you," Agatha repeated in a whisper. "I don't need to meet someone to know them, Vidal. You being here tells me enough. They don't send someone like you unless they need someone... Untouchable. Someone unyealding. You're here because Lilia has more faith in you than the other two she sent before. You're here because you are someone fascinating. And the fact that my request to speak to you was accepted tells me I'm right." 

Rio's jaw tightened but she said nothing to entertain Agatha. "I'm here about Darkhold." 

Then finally Agatha opened her eyes. Her gaze was stoic, icy, dissecting, and unsettling. As she was staring through Rio, not at her.

"Why ask about him when you know nothing?" Agatha tilted her head. "He's not even your case, is he?"

"That's not the point." 

"But it is," Agatha said, leaning forward slightly, eyes glittering with amusement. "You've been thrown into a lion's den without a proper weapon. Do you even understand what you're up against?"

"Why don't you enlighten me?" Rio shot back.

Agatha smiled, something unsettling to see. "Quid pro quo, Agent Vidal. I'll eventually tell you something, but first tell me about yourself."

Rio didn't blink. "This isn't a negotiation."

 "Everything is a negotiation," Agatha countered, her voice low and silken. "You need me and I want to know you, not just the surface-who you really are."

Rio leaned back, keeping her expression neutral even as a chill ran down her spine. "What do you get from this?" 

"Connection," Agatha shrugged. "I've been here a long time and I miss... intimacy. You amuse me."

Rio's eyebrows lowered at the word amuse as the guards voice rang in her head. Once you amuse Agatha you're in her game. "I'm not here to play games." 

"Of course you're not," Agatha replied, her tone almost pitying. "But whether you like it or not, we're playing one. And I always win."

Rio's stomach twisted but she held her ground. "Then let's change the rules." 

Agatha's smile grew. "Oh, I'm going to have so much fun with you."

Rio didn’t let her gaze waver, though the weight of Agatha’s words pressed heavily against her chest. She had prepared herself for a manipulative game, but nothing quite matched the live wire tension of sitting across from the infamous Agatha Harkness.

Agatha leaned forward, her hands resting lightly on her knees. The movement was deliberate, predatory, as though she were testing Rio’s reaction.

“You’ve read about me, I assume,” Agatha said, her voice smooth. “Poured over the files. The photographs. All those neat little summaries of the things I’ve done.”

“I know what you are,” Rio replied evenly.

“Do you?” Agatha’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Or do you know what they’ve told you I am?”

Rio tilted her head slightly. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Agatha said, her tone almost playful. “I find people’s perceptions fascinating. They’re never quite accurate, are they? Layers of fear and bias distorting the truth.”

“What truth is that?” Rio asked.

“That I’m not the monster you think I am,” Agatha said, her voice softening. “I’m worse.”

The statement hung in the air like a knife. Rio didn’t flinch, but she felt the shiver of unease run through her. Agatha’s calm, almost casual delivery made the words all the more chilling.

“Is that why you asked for me?” Rio said, her voice steady. “To remind me what I’m up against?”

Agatha’s smile shifted, becoming something darker, more intimate. “I asked for you because you’re different. The others who come to me—they’re all so predictable. Fearful. But you…” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Rio like a scalpel. “You’re curious. Controlled. You don’t rattle easily. I like that.”

“This isn’t about what you like,” Rio said.

“Isn’t it?” Agatha countered, leaning back again. “We’re here because you need me. And I’m willing to help… for a price.”

Rio’s brow furrowed slightly. “What price?”

“Time,” Agatha revealed. “Your time. Your attention. I want to understand you, Agent Vidal. I want to peel back your layers, see what makes you tick.”

“This isn’t a therapy session,” Rio replied coldly.

“Not yet,” Agatha said with a soft chuckle. “But let’s not pretend this is a one-way street. You want something from me, and I’m giving it to you—for now. In return, indulge my curiosity. Quid pro quo.”

Rio crossed her arms, her posture stiffening. “You expect me to open up to you?”

Agatha’s smile softened, but her eyes remained sharp. “I expect you to play along, at least for a while. You might find it… enlightening.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her patience wearing thin. “What do you know about Darkhold?”

Agatha tapped a finger against her chin, as though considering. “Not much more than you, I suspect. But I’ve seen his work. It’s beautiful, in a way.”

“Beautiful?” Rio’s tone hardened. “He butchers people.”

“Yes,” Agatha said softly, her gaze distant. “But he does it with intent. Precision. It’s not about the act of killing—it’s about what comes after. The message.”

“And what message is that?”

“That the world is broken,” Agatha said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. “That life is chaos, and he is the artist who brings order to it. Darkhold doesn’t just kill, Agent Vidal. He creates.”

Rio leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “And you admire that?”

“I understand it,” Agatha corrected, her gaze snapping back to Rio. “There’s a difference.”

“You think you’re alike,” Rio said, her tone accusatory.

Agatha’s smile faded, and for a moment, something colder flickered across her face. “No, Agent Vidal. Darkhold is an imitator. A child playing with tools he doesn’t understand. If I wanted to, I could find him in a week.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because it wouldn’t be fun,” Agatha said simply, her smile returning. “But you… you’re intriguing enough to make me consider it.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her fists clenching in her lap. “This isn’t a game.” She repeated again. "People's lives are on the line."

“You're speaking to a serial killer who sees dead bodies as roadkill." Agatha deadpans, her voice dropping an octave. “Peoples lives don't matter to me, at least not the guilty ones."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them was thick, electric, like a storm waiting to break. Rio could feel the weight of Agatha’s gaze, the way it seemed to strip away her defenses piece by piece.

But she wouldn’t give in.

She couldn’t.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Rio said finally, her voice low and firm. "All of this, involving you, I couldn't care less about any of it. Darkhold in my priority."

Agatha’s smile widened, a flicker of something wicked in her eyes. “Oh, Agent Vidal. That’s what makes this so delicious. Tell me—what do you believe about me?”

Rio’s expression remained stoic. “That you’re a murderer. That you’ve killed eighteen people, and that you enjoy it.”

“Hmm.” Agatha tapped her fingers lightly against her knee, her gaze never leaving Rio’s face. “A fair assessment, albeit a bit… simplistic. Murder is such a crude word, isn’t it? It lacks nuance, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Creation,” Agatha said softly, her tone almost reverent. “Every act I’ve committed has been deliberate. Thoughtful. I didn’t just take lives, Agent Vidal—I shaped them. I made them mean something.”

Rio felt her stomach tighten, but she didn’t let it show. “You destroyed them. That’s not meaning—it’s chaos.”

“Chaos,” Agatha echoed, tasting the word like a fine wine. “Such an interesting concept. But tell me, do you believe your world is any less chaotic? Do you believe your hands are any cleaner because you wear that badge?”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “I don’t kill innocent people.”

“Ah, innocence,” Agatha said with a wistful sigh. “Another fascinating concept. Tell me, Agent Vidal—what makes someone innocent? Their lack of guilt? Or your inability to see it?”

Rio didn’t answer immediately, the tension in the room thickening with every second of silence. Agatha’s words were like needles, pricking at the edges of her composure

"Want to know what I see?" Agatha asked.

Rio’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s that?”

“Doubt,” Agatha whispered, leaning forward. “A crack in the armor. You don’t trust yourself as much as you let on, do you?”

Rio then smiled suddenly that Agatha blinked in slight surprise. "You’re deflecting. If this is how you’re planning to help, then I’ll leave and report to my superiors that you’ve got nothing to offer.”

Agatha’s expression changed, her smile fading. For a moment, her eyes seemed to sharpen, as though she’d been caught off guard. “You misunderstand, Agent Vidal. I do have something to offer, but you’re not ready to hear it yet. When you are, we’ll talk again.”

Rio stood, her chair scraping softly against the floor. “When I am? That’s a convenient way of saying you’re wasting my time.”

“No,” Agatha said smoothly, her smile returning in a softer, more knowing way. “I’m giving you time to realize how much you’ll need me.”

Rio’s gaze remained steady. “We’ll see about that. I’ll be in touch when you have something tangible to offer. Until then, enjoy your solitude, Dr. Harkness.”

Agatha chuckled softly, her voice echoing faintly as Rio turned to leave. “Oh, Agent Vidal. Solitude isn’t solitude when you’re always the one in control. Don’t forget that.”

Rio walked down the corridor without looking back, her mind already calculating how to parse the conversation for anything useful. Agatha Harkness had offered nothing concrete, But Rio caught a small slip up.

The guilty and innocents. 

Agatha subtly revealed that she doesn't care for the guilty

Which made Rio question. 

Were Agatha's victims innocent to begin with?

As the heavy doors slammed shut behind her, Rio took a steadying breath. Harkness was a dangerous woman, but Rio was determined not to let her take control of the game. Not yet.

Chapter Text

A week later, Rio found herself retracing her steps down the same sterile hallways of the facility. Lilia had told her that the visits would be three times a week and Rio had put it behind as much as she could but unfortunately she had to visit once again. But this time, something felt palpably different. The air was heavier, as if the tension of the past week clung to the walls like an invisible fog.

She glanced at the folder in her hand, filled with updated files on Agatha Harkness and notes about the punishment that had been implemented following the journalist incident. Agatha had been moved to a less secure, more visible environment—a cage surrounded by rough stone walls, meant to limit her manipulation through sheer visibility.

Dr. Tyler Hayward, the facility’s head psychiatrist, walked beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. His tone was professional, but his nervous energy was clear in the way his eyes darted to Rio every so often.

“She’s in the high-surveillance wing now,” Dr. Hayward began, glancing at the folder Rio carried. “Her new cell was designed for psychological containment rather than physical isolation. It’s harsher, less comfortable—intended to erode her sense of superiority.”

“Because of the journalist?” Rio asked, her voice steady.

Hayward nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “William, one of our junior guards, allowed someone to enter without proper clearance. The journalist had falsified his credentials. He wanted an exclusive interview with Harkness, and William... well, he didn’t verify. By the time we intervened, the journalist was—” Hayward hesitated, searching for the right word, “—unhinged. He was babbling about nightmares, shadows, things Harkness had said to him. He’s under psychiatric observation now.”

Rio frowned, her pace slowing slightly. “And Agatha was moved because of this?”

“Yes,” Hayward confirmed. “This new environment limits her ability to use manipulation as a weapon. She thrives on psychological games—getting into people’s heads. With the bars, we hope she’ll feel more exposed, less in control.”

Rio absorbed this, her expression unreadable. “Does she see it that way?”

Hayward let out a dry chuckle. “Harkness sees everything as an opportunity. She adapts quickly, so don’t let the environment fool you. The bars may keep her physically contained, but her words have no boundaries.” He then hesitated for a moment. “She has a neighbor when she's punished for things like this. Wanda Maximoff. Diagnosed with schizophrenia and high-functioning psychopathy. Wanda is… unpredictable. She’s been here for three years, and somehow, she’s the only person Harkness hasn’t managed to manipulate or eliminate from proximity. If anything, they have a strange… standoff.”

Rio frowned. “Why keep her next to Agatha, then?”

“She’s not dangerous in the traditional sense,” Hayward said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “But Wanda has her own way of unnerving people. And you need to be careful with both of them.”

“Define careful,” Rio said, her voice sharp but calm.

Hayward stopped outside the reinforced door leading to the new wing. He turned to Rio, his expression grave. “No physical contact. No getting too close to the bars. You’re not just here for information, Agent Vidal; you’re walking into a psychological minefield. Harkness will try to draw you in, but Wanda? She doesn’t play by the same rules. If you get too close, you’ll regret it.”

Rio nodded, her jaw tightening. “Understood.”

The guard unlocked the door, and Rio stepped through

When she reached the block, the air felt different—damp and heavy, like stepping into a cave. Agatha's new cell was stark and unforgiving, a steel cage surrounded by rough stone walls. She was perched on her cot, calm and poised, as if she owned the place.

Rio stopped a few feet from the bars, her sharp eyes scanning the new surroundings. "Quite the downgrade," she said evenly.

Agatha was seated on the cot, her back against the cold stone. She looked up slowly, her expression calm, though a glint of amusement flickered in her eyes. "Ah, Agent Vidal. Back to bask in my misery?"

Rio ignored the jab. “What happened?” She asked even though she knew the answer, still she wanted to hear it from Agatha herself.

Agatha smirked, tilting her head. “Let’s just say young William over there needs a refresher on protocol. A journalist with forged credentials paid me a visit. I might have… entertained him with a few stories.” Her voice was light, but her words dripped with malice.

“Entertained him how?”

Agatha’s smile widened, catlike and cruel. “Oh, just a little conversation. A peek into the abyss, as they say. Poor man couldn’t handle it. They found him trembling in the corner, rambling about shadows and monsters. Last I heard, he’s taking a sabbatical.”

Rio’s stomach tightened, though she didn’t let it show. “And this is your punishment?”

“Indeed,” Agatha said, gesturing lazily to the bars. “A more theatrical setting for your amusement. Do you like it? It’s almost poetic, don’t you think?”

Before Rio could respond, a soft voice interrupted them. It came from the neighboring cell.

A woman sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair a wild halo of disarray. Her long, unkempt hair framed a delicate face, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim light. Her wide, green eyes fixed on Rio with unsettling intensity. Her pale face lit up with a strange excitement as Rio entered the room. She stood gracefully, her movements fluid and oddly magnetic.

“Is this the famous Agent Vidal?” the woman asked, her voice soft but strangely commanding. Her piercing gaze locked onto Rio, and she stepped forward to the bars. “You are much prettier than I imagined."

Rio paused, surprised by the greeting. She turned slightly to Agatha, who was watching the interaction with a faint smirk.

“That’s Wanda,” Agatha said lazily. “The neighbor they gave me to keep me entertained. She’s quite the character. Don't mind her though, she has episodes.”

“I’m Wanda Maximoff,” the woman said, ignoring Agatha entirely. Her eyes gleamed as she extended a hand through the bars. “It’s nice to meet you, Agent.”

Rio hesitated for a moment but then reached out, shaking Wanda’s hand. But the moment their hands touched, Rio felt a pang of unease. She had just broken one of Hayward’s cardinal rules: no physical contact. For a fleeting second, Rio felt as if Wanda saw through every layer of her, and a strange sense of trust settled over her.

Then she felt the sting.

Wanda’s nails dug into her palm, sharp and deliberate, the pressure increasing until Rio felt the skin break.

Rio flinched, pulling back, but Wanda’s grip tightened like a vice. Her voice was soft, almost tender. “You’re so strong, Agent Vidal. But I can feel it—something in you cracks under pressure.”

“Let go,” Rio said, her tone low and commanding.

Wanda didn’t move, her nails digging deeper until small drops of blood began to bead on Rio’s skin.

“Wanda.” The single word cut through the air like a knife. Agatha’s voice was sharp, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward on her cot. “Enough.”

Wanda’s head tilted slightly, her smile fading as she slowly released Rio’s hand. “You know,” she murmured, her voice like silk stretched taut, “your blood has a rather… exquisite scent.” She let the word linger, her eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam. “It’s been so long since I’ve smelled anything new. Being locked up dulls the senses, but this…” Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. “This is refreshing.”

Rio held her gaze with a stubborn defiance. “Do you want a taste, Wanda? Or is the smell enough for you?” His tone was sharp, mocking, daring her to make her move. When Wanda simply gave a smile Rio lifted her hand up where the blood was and licked it all off her skin as she never broke eye contact with Wanda who pursed her lips.

"Hm," She stepped back from the bars, her expression serene once more. “She’s interesting, Agnes. Don't break her too soon ” Wanda murmured, her gaze lingering on Rio. “Agnes talks about you, and she never talks much.”

Rio’s stomach tightened, though she kept her expression neutral. “It’s Agatha,” she corrected.

Wanda tilted her head, her smile never faltering. “Is it?”

Rio flexed her fingers, trying to shake off the lingering sting Wanda had left on her palm, her saliva did little to soothe the pain. She kept her gaze steady, moving her attention between the two women. The tension in the air was thick, but Rio had walked into worse situations before.

“You know,” Rio started, her voice calm but deliberate, “I’m curious, Wanda. How many people have you killed?”

Wanda looked up sharply, her pale face lighting with surprise and something like amusement. She tilted her head, her fingers drumming against the bars. “That’s a question for Agnes, not me.”

Rio turned her head toward Agatha, who arched a brow with a sly grin.

“Agatha,” Wanda corrected softly, her tone sing-song. “She doesn’t like ‘Agnes,’ but I think it suits her better.”

“I don’t care for it,” Agatha replied dryly, her gaze fixed on Rio. “But I suppose it’s better than most of what Wanda comes up with. She has… nicknames for everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Wanda smirked but said nothing, her gaze flicking back to Rio, as though she were studying her.

Rio leaned against the edge of the railing, careful to keep her distance this time. “That’s interesting. You’ve both dodged the question, which makes me wonder…” Her eyes moved back to Agatha. “Innocence and guilt—you said before it was about perspective. Does that mean you don’t see any of your victims as innocent?”

Agatha let out a soft laugh, standing from her cot and pacing the small confines of her cell. “Ah, the eternal question,” she mused. “Were they innocent? Did they deserve what happened to them? Let me ask you something, Agent Vidal—do you believe in karma?”

Rio folded her arms. “I believe in justice. Which isn’t the same thing.”

“Justice,” Agatha repeated, her lips curling into a smirk. “A convenient term for actions dressed up in righteousness. But to answer your question: innocence is a lie people tell themselves to feel better about the world. My victims weren’t saints, Agent, and they weren’t entirely devils either. They were… flawed. Human. And sometimes, humanity needs a reminder of its fragility.”

“That’s not an answer,” Rio countered, her tone sharp.

Agatha stopped pacing and looked directly at her. “No, it’s not. But it’s the truth.”

Wanda chuckled softly, her voice cutting through the silence. “Agnes likes to dance around questions. It’s part of her charm, don’t you think?”

Rio glanced at Wanda, her expression guarded. “It’s frustrating, is what it is.”

Wanda’s smile widened. “Oh, you’ll get used to it. She likes you, though. That’s rare. For her to play nice, I mean.”

Agatha shot Wanda a glare but didn’t deny it.

Rio sighed, looking at her watch. She straightened, ready to end the conversation. “I think we’re done here.”

Agatha stepped closer to the bars, her smirk softening into something more genuine—or at least, what passed for genuine with her. “Before you go, Agent Vidal, I have a request.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “What kind of request?”

Agatha’s eyes glinted, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “A handshake. Wanda got one. It seems only fair.”

Rio hesitated, her mind immediately going to Hayward’s warning. But Agatha was behind bars, and unlike Wanda, she had no obvious way of harming her, unless she too would dig her nails into Rio's skin. The request felt harmless, and yet…

“You already broke one rule,” Agatha added with a smirk, as if reading her hesitation. “What’s one more?”

Rio clenched her jaw, weighing the decision. Finally, she stepped forward, offering her hand through the bars. “Fine.”

Agatha reached out, her fingers brushing against Rio’s wrist before clasping her hand. But instead of shaking it, she shifted her grip, holding Rio’s arm and turning her hand slightly. Her fingers lightly traced the broken skin where Wanda’s nails had dug in, her touch surprisingly tender. Rio held her breath feeling Agatha's cold slender hands against her skin, the way the murderer pressed her fingers on Rio's pulse calmly. Her pupils eclipsing the blue in her eyes in a predatory way as she examined Rio's hand.

“I’ll make sure Wanda never does this again,” Agatha said softly, her voice low enough that only Rio could hear. Her tone wasn’t mocking or playful—it was almost… protective.

Rio's expression hardened. “Don’t hurt her.”

Agatha’s smile returned, faint and enigmatic. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Finally, she let go of Rio's hand taking a step back. 

From the corner of her eye, Rio saw Wanda watching intently. There was something new in Wanda’s expression—something Rio couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t hostility, but it wasn’t trust either.

“Interesting,” Wanda murmured, her voice barely audible.

“What is?” Rio asked, glancing at her.

Wanda smiled faintly, her gaze lingering on Rio. “You’re not like the others who come here. You don't belong bere.”

Rio didn’t respond, instead stepping back and regaining her composure. She glanced at Agatha one last time, noting the faint smirk still playing on her lips.

“I’ll see you soon, Agatha,” Rio said curtly before turning to leave.

As she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling of their gazes on her back—one sharp and calculating, the other softer but no less unsettling. Whatever was unfolding between the three of them, Rio knew she was walking a dangerous line. And yet, a small part of her wondered if it was already too late to step back.

As Rio walked away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, the silence in the cell block seemed to stretch unnaturally. Agatha watched her retreating form with an expression that was hard to decipher—a mix of amusement, intrigue, and something far deeper.

“Fascinating,” Wanda said softly, her voice breaking the quiet. She sat back down on the floor of her cell, leaning her head against the cold metal bars as she looked at Agatha. “You picked an interesting one this time.”

Agatha didn’t move immediately, her gaze still fixed on the direction Rio had gone. Finally, she turned toward Wanda, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You think I picked her?”

Wanda tilted her head, studying Agatha carefully. “Didn’t you? She’s different. You see it, too.”

Agatha let out a low chuckle, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the bars of her own cell. “Oh, I see it. But she’s not mine.” Her tone carried a rare seriousness as she added, “Lilia sent her.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Lilia Calderu? That cold bureaucrat?" 

"Yes, that old hag. What intrigues me is that Lilia told her that I asked for her." Agatha hummed. "I wonder what that witch is up to."

Wanda leaned closer to the bars, her smile returning, though it was tinged with something darker. “Still, she’s gotten under your skin already, hasn’t she?”

Agatha’s smirk deepened, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What I think is none of your concern. Especially about Agent Vidal."

Wanda gave a soft laugh, leaning back with a dreamy look in her eyes. “She told you not to hurt me, you know. That’s rare. Usually, they’re more concerned about what you might do to them. Its not everyday someone gives us a handshake."

Agatha’s smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “Rio Vidal is nothing like the others. And if you lay another finger on her, I’ll make sure even you regret it.”

Wanda’s smile didn’t falter, but her gaze grew sharper. “I wouldn’t dream of it… Agnes.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened at the name, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned away, her attention seemingly elsewhere. Wanda, unbothered, reclined against the wall. “You know,” Wanda began, her tone thoughtful, “I’ve been thinking about why Calderu might have sent her since the moment she walked in."

Agatha’s hummed in response her gaze distant which is something she always does when Wanda talks.

“You want to know what I see?” Wanda continued, her voice laced with a knowing edge.

"You see many things, Wanda. You're schizophrenic." Agatha deadpanned earning a small scoff in response.

Wanda still continued ignoring the jab. “Even if Agent Vidal has no clue that Calderu—or Lilia, if we’re being specific—sent her, it’s pretty obvious why she was chosen.”

 "Spit it out, Wanda.”

Wanda smirked, tilting her head. “Lilia knew you’d like her.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed, her lips parting to protest, but Wanda cut her off.

“I mean, the last two she sent were men, after all. You stabbed one in the hand with his own pen just because he got near your cell, and the other you completely ignored hurting his ego that he spat many profanities at you. And let’s face it, Agatha, your... preferences aren’t exactly subtle. And after seeing Rio myself... I get it."

The cells fell into a heavy silence.

“Point is,” Wanda said, shrugging not caring if Agatha pretending she wasn't listening. “Calderu’s a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. If she sent someone who looks like that to be in your space—well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence. She sent a full package, brains and beauty. The only thing I can see in Vidal is her doubt, other than that she's a blank canvas."

The cell block fell quiet once more, but the tension between the two women lingered. Both of them were now focused on the same thing—the enigma that was Agent Rio Vidal.

Chapter Text

Rio sat stiffly in the chair opposite Lilia Calderu’s desk, her report resting on the polished wood between them. Lilia flipped through the pages, her expression unreadable, a pen tapping rhythmically against her palm. The office smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the high-security wing.

“Agent Vidal,” Lilia said finally, closing the folder with a sharp snap. “Your report was… thorough.”

Rio straightened, sensing the undercurrent in her tone. “But?”

Lilia leaned back, crossing her arms. “But there’s a difference between being thorough and being reckless. I’ve read what Agatha did to the journalist William let through. You think she wouldn’t turn those same tactics on you?”

“I wasn’t reckless,” Rio said firmly. “I followed the rules—”

“Then what’s that?” Lilia’s gaze flicked pointedly to Rio’s hands.

Rio glanced down, instinctively hiding her wrist where faint crescent-shaped indentations from Wanda’s nails lingered. The skin was healing, but the marks were still visible enough to catch the attention of Jennifer Kale, who stood nearby with her arms crossed, her expression stormy.

“I warned you about Agatha,” Jen snapped. “But Wanda Maximoff? What the hell were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Rio replied, her voice calm but edged with irritation. “Wanda caught me off guard.”

“Caught you off guard?” Jen threw her hands up. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened? These aren’t just criminals—they’re monsters. And you’re handing them opportunities on a silver platter!”

"I read Wanda's file, she's never murdered anyone. And she's not a monster, she's a mother. A mother grieving from loss." Rio defended. "Just because she's schizophrenic doesn't mean she's harmful."

Jen laughed staring at Rio as if she grew a second head. "I told Lilia this was a bad idea. Now you're defending criminals, pitying them, you'll be damned the second you start feeling sympathy for Agatha fucking Harkness." She spat.

“Enough, Jen,” Lilia interjected, her tone sharp. “Rio is aware of the risks and she knows what she's doing. We all have our opinions."

Jen scoffed but backed down, though her glare lingered.

Lilia returned her attention to Rio, her expression softening slightly. “I’m concerned about the marks but at the same time I'm more interested in something else: Agatha’s behavior. She’s… different with you.”

"You mean annoying?" 

“She’s engaging. Cooperative, even. That’s not typical for her.” Lilia leaned forward, her eyes narrowing

Rio rolled her eyes. "Should I be flattered?" 

Lilia ignored her as she slid a new file across the desk. “Which is why I’m giving you this.”

Rio picked it up, flipping it open to reveal photos of another crime scene. A body lying in a patch of wildflowers, the pale petals of monkshood—or wolfsbane—arranged deliberately around the corpse.

"Darkhold’s latest victim.”

Rio frowned. “Wolfsbane? That’s… unusual for Darkhold, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Lilia confirmed. “He’s never used anything like this before. It’s deliberate, but we don’t know what it means. We’re hoping your… connection with Agatha might shed some light.”

Jennifer’s scoff was audible. “You’re giving her more excuses to play Harkness’s games.”

“She’s getting results, something the last two men you picked didn't accomplish.” Lilia snapped, her tone brooking no argument. 

Rio flipped through the file, her mind already turning. “I’ll see what she knows.”

The high-security wing was as cold and oppressive as ever, but Rio walked in with purpose, her steps deliberate and sure. She’d come to these cells enough times to know how to steel herself for what awaited. Still, the atmosphere always seemed heavier around Agatha Harness, as if the woman’s very presence warped the air. The guards stationed at the entrance exchanged glances as she approached.

“That’s her,” one of them muttered, just loud enough for Rio to catch.

“The one who keeps going back to Harkness?” the other whispered back. “She’s either brave or completely out of her mind.”

“Or both,” a third guard chimed in.

Rio ignored them, keeping her face impassive as she handed over her credentials. She felt their eyes on her as she waited for the doors to buzz open, their whispers like static in her ears.

“Think she knows what she’s doing?”

“She’s poking the bear, that’s what she’s doing.”

“She’s already in too deep.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look back. She stepped through the doors and into the corridor leading to Agatha’s cell, the sound of her boots echoing in the silence.

When she reached the cell, Agatha was seated cross-legged on the floor, her hands resting on her knees in a meditative pose. A book lay open beside her, its spine cracked from repeated readings. She didn’t look up immediately, but Rio felt her attention shift, like an unseen thread pulling taut.

“I see you’ve been moved back to your usual digs,” Rio remarked, leaning casually against the glass.

“I earned my redemption,” Agatha replied smoothly, her eyes still on the page. “Though I think I prefer the rock walls. More ambiance.”

Rio chuckled faintly. “Ambiance. You act like you’re staying at a hotel.”

“Perspective, Agent. You’d be surprised how much you can reshape your world with the right mindset.” She finally glanced up, her piercing eyes meeting Rio’s. “And I see you’re back for more. Couldn’t resist, could you?”

“Maybe I’m just curious.” Rio stopped a few feet from the glass, keeping her posture relaxed but alert. “Reading anything good?"

Agatha held up the book, its spine worn with age. “Marcus Aurelius. Meditations. Something to keep the mind sharp.”

“Philosophy. I wouldn’t have pegged you for it,” Rio said honestly.

Agatha smirked. “Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Philosophy and serial killers aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Charming,” Rio deadpanned. “Let me guess, you meditate too?”

“Of course. A necessary practice in a place like this. It helps one remain... balanced.”

“Balanced,” Rio echoed skeptically. “That’s an interesting word for someone with your history.”

Agatha’s lips twitched into a sly smile. “Balance isn’t about morality, Agent. It’s about control. Something you seem to value as much as I do.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she refused to take the bait. Instead, she gestured toward the book. “What else do you read? Or is it just murderers and philosophers?”

Agatha chuckled softly. “Curiosity suits you. I like the classics—Austen, Dickinson, Dostoevsky. But I also have a fondness for myths and legends. Stories that shaped civilizations.”

“Interesting mix,” Rio said, crossing her arms. “I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“People rarely expect anything beyond the surface,” Agatha said smoothly. “You’re not as immune to that as you’d like to think.”

Rio ignored the jab. “You meditate, you read... What’s next? Gardening? Well when you weren't in this cell... Was gardening a thing for you?"

To her surprise, Agatha’s smile faltered for a moment, replaced by something almost contemplative. “No. But plants do fascinate me. So much beauty, so much danger. A delicate balance of life and death.”

Rio tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “You know about plants?”

“A little,” Agatha said, her tone measured. “Why? Do you?”

Rio nodded, relaxing slightly. “I grew up around them. My mother owned a plant nursery, and I spent most of my childhood learning about them. I can name almost any plant you put in front of me. It’s… calming.”

Agatha leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. “Interesting. You’d appreciate Aurelius, then. He compares people to trees—rooted, yet always reaching for something higher. Plants and philosophy go hand in hand.”

Rio studied her, unsure if Agatha was mocking her or being sincere. “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Of course. Life is a series of connections, Agent. People like me—people like you—we just learn to see the patterns. Plants, people, philosophy—they’re all intertwined.” Agatha’s expression shifted, a spark of genuine interest flickering in her eyes. “You said a nursery? Tell me, Agent Vidal, what’s your favorite plant?”

Rio hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t think I have a favorite. But if I had to pick, maybe wisteria. It’s beautiful, but it can also be incredibly invasive if you’re not careful.”

Agatha’s smile grew, her eyes gleaming. “How fitting for you.”

Rio frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Agatha said innocently, though her tone was anything but.

Rio didn’t rise to the bait so she revealed the folder which Agatha's eyes narrowed to as she slid it into the tray without a word. Agatha picked it up, her fingers lingering on the edges of the file as though savoring its existence.

“Darkhold,” Agatha murmured as she opened it, her sharp eyes scanning the photos. She lingered on the image of the wolfsbane, her smile turning faintly amused. “Oh, how quaint.”

Rio crossed her arms. “Quaint isn’t the word I’d use.”

“No, I imagine it isn’t,” Agatha replied, turning a page. “But you don’t see what I see. This—” she tapped the photo of the flowers—“is a message. Though not one from Darkhold, I suspect.”

Rio frowned. “What do you mean?”

Agatha’s gaze flicked up, her eyes gleaming. “This isn’t his style. Darkhold is methodical, yes, but not… theatrical. This is someone else’s hand.”

“Someone else?” Rio echoed.

Agatha slid the file back in the tray, leaning her hands against the glass. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Agent. Though in this case, it’s also a game. Someone is playing, and you’re the pawn.” Agatha leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting. “Ans since we’re sharing work and special interest... Let me give you something in return. A clue, if you will.”

Rio’s posture stiffened. “A clue..."

“One of my old cases,” Agatha said, her voice almost playful. “Something your colleagues have been trying to piece together for years. Consider it a reward for your... botanical expertise.”

Rio narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Agatha replied smoothly. “Just a bit of fun. You like puzzles, don’t you?”

“Get to the point,” Rio said, her voice firm.

Agatha smiled, clearly savoring her control over the moment. “There was a victim—a botanist, ironically. He had a fondness for rare plants. Particularly one with purple blooms. I believe it was called aconitum. Do you know it?”

Rio’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation. “Wolfsbane.”

“Precisely,” Agatha said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “A fascinating plant. Beautiful and deadly. Much like the man himself.”

Rio’s mind raced as she processed the information. “What does wolfsbane have to do with his death?”

Agatha’s smile widened. “That’s for you to figure out, Agent. But I’ll give you a hint—Look for the gardener. The one who grows what shouldn’t be grown.”

Rio stared at her, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Why tell me this? What’s your angle?”

Agatha leaned back, her expression serene. “Call it a gesture of goodwill. Or maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm. Either way, the clue is yours. Do with it what you will. All I'll say,” Agatha said slowly, “Is that the plant was more. And if you’re clever enough, Agent, you might figure out what it was.”

"Okay..." Rio narrowed her eyes. "So what messages were you sending with your ‘signatures’?”

Agatha’s smile turned cold, her expression unreadable. “My messages weren’t for people like you, Agent. They were for those who knew how to listen.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Then Rio straightened, her voice cutting through the tension. “You’ve given me enough to work with. I’ll figure out the rest.”

Agatha leaned back, her smile returning to its enigmatic curve. “I have no doubt you will, Agent. You’re full of surprises.”

As Rio turned to leave, Agatha’s voice followed her. “Oh, and Rio?”

The sound of her name made her pause, glancing back. The way Agatha's voice said her name softly, natural, as if her very name was made to come out of Agatha's mouth took her by surprise.

Agatha stared at her not speaking until she silently gestured looking down at Rio's hand. Rio looked don't at her sleeve that was hiding the dent marks before looking back at Agatha. "It's healing." 

"Hm," Agatha hummed. "You still set about me not hurting her? Send me another journalist so I can pay Wanda a little visit. I'll do it." Her tone laced with humor.

Rio pursed her lips. "All I need from you is to behave until I return. Will you be able to do that?" She tilted her head innocently as if she wasn't talking to a serial killer.

Agatha scoffed. "I can follow rules, I simply dont."

Rio fully turned facing Agatha making eye contact with piercing blue eyes. "I'll make you a deal, you be good until I come back and I'll..." She paused pressing her tongue against her cheek before a thought occured. "I'll give you a reward." 

Agatha narrowed her eyes unamused. "A reward system? What am I twelve?" 

"Well, you in a cell for me is like staring at a kid standing in the corner." Rio shrugged. "But it's your decision, I'll see how you do until I return." 

Rio sat in her dimly lit apartment, the dining table buried beneath a mess of papers, crime scene photos, and hastily scribbled notes. The walls around her were slowly being overtaken by pinned-up photos connected by red string—a cliché she hadn’t thought she’d resort to but found herself leaning into out of necessity. Her hair was tied back haphazardly, loose strands clinging to her damp forehead. A half-empty cup of coffee sat forgotten at her elbow, the bitter liquid long gone cold.

She’d been at it for hours, working with a single-minded obsession that had long since begun to wear her down. Agatha’s words echoed in her head on a loop: “Look for the gardener. The one who grows what shouldn’t be grown.”

Gardener. The word felt too deliberate, too obvious. But with Agatha, nothing was ever what it seemed.

Day 1

Rio began by digging into Agatha’s files, reviewing every detail of the old case. It was one she’d only glanced at in passing before: the Garden Killings. A series of murders attributed to Agatha Harness in which the bodies had been found surrounded by specific plants, each chosen for its symbolic meaning. Wolfsbane had been one of those plants.

Agatha’s victims were meticulously chosen, her methods precise. She never left evidence that could tie her directly to the crime scene—only messages, warnings to those who might be foolish enough to cross her. But something about this particular killing felt… off.

The wolfsbane was there, yes, but the arrangement was wrong. Agatha’s style was almost ritualistic, each flower carefully placed to create an unspoken language of fear. This crime scene lacked her precision.

Rio combed through witness statements, old case notes, and forensic reports, jotting down every inconsistency she could find. One phrase jumped out at her from an old report: “The scene was theatrical but clumsy.”

Agatha was never clumsy.

Day 2

By the second day, Rio’s frustration was palpable. Her hands trembled as she flipped through pages, and her vision blurred from staring at her notes for hours on end.

“Think, think, think,” she muttered to herself, pacing her small living room.

She returned to Agatha’s cryptic advice. “The gardener.” It wasn’t literal—it couldn’t be. But what if it referred to someone cultivating fear? Someone trying to grow their reputation by copying Agatha’s methods?

Rio returned to the crime scene photos. She focused on the wolfsbane, zooming in on the way it had been arranged around the body. It lacked the subtle, deliberate pattern Agatha always left behind. Instead, the placement felt random, haphazard—like someone trying to mimic her without truly understanding the meaning behind the flowers.

Agatha’s clues were always layered, Rio realized. She didn’t just leave plants behind; she left messages.

Rio pulled out her copy of a botany reference guide, flipping to the section on wolfsbane. The flower’s historical uses were grim: poison, transformation, protection. Agatha’s signature arrangement had always mirrored one of those meanings. But this arrangement? It was meaningless.

The truth began to take shape. Whoever had left the wolfsbane wasn’t sending a message—they were trying to be Agatha.

Day 3

By the third day, Rio’s body ached from lack of sleep, but her mind was sharper than ever. She sifted through old records of the Garden Killings again, this time focusing on the victims and locations.

That’s when she found it.

The last victim of the Garden Killings had lived less than ten miles from where the current wolfsbane scene had been discovered. Rio’s fingers froze over her keyboard as the realization hit: the new killer wasn’t just imitating Agatha—they were choosing victims connected to her past crimes.

“Why?” she murmured aloud, her voice hoarse.

She scanned through the victim profiles, looking for any possible connection. Then it hit her: the final victim from Agatha’s original case had been a horticulture professor at a nearby university. His research had focused on toxic plants, including wolfsbane.

Rio leaned back in her chair, her heart pounding. The new killer wasn’t just an imitator—they were sending a message of their own.

The wolfsbane wasn’t for Agatha. It was for someone who understood her language.

Rio scribbled a final note in her journal: “Not her crime. Someone who admires her. Someone who knows the old victims. Find the link.”.

Rio sat at her desk, papers and photographs scattered across the surface. A glossy image of monkshood—a striking purple flower—was pinned beneath her fingertips. She tapped a pen against her notepad, re-reading her hastily scribbled notes:

Aconitum napellus: Known as monkshood or wolfsbane.

Highly toxic, used historically in assassinations and rituals.

Symbolism: Protection, danger, and death.

The case file was thin, frustratingly so. The victim—a middle-aged man—had been found in a remote cabin, his body surrounded by the wilted purple flowers. The autopsy revealed no signs of struggle, no clear cause of death, but traces of monkshood were found in his bloodstream.

Agatha’s words echoed in her mind: “My messages weren't for people like you, Agent.”

Rio leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the pieces began to fall into place. “A signature,” she muttered. Agatha didn’t use random objects or elements in her kills. Everything was deliberate, layered with meaning.

Her gaze snapped back to the notes. Wolfsbane. The name clicked suddenly, an obscure memory surfacing of Agatha mentioning taking a liking go myths and legends. In mythology, wolfsbane was associated with werewolves, hunters, and betrayal. But it also appeared in ancient texts, used in rites meant to “reveal the truth.”

Rio sat upright, her pulse quickening. This wasn’t just about a murder—it was a ritual. Whoever had killed the victim wasn’t just a murderer. They were sending a message, one meant to challenge anyone clever enough to see it.

“Damn it,” she breathed, shoving the papers into her bag and another object from the corner of her desk. She grabbed her jacket and headed out the door, a single thought racing through her mind: Agatha knows more.

The drive to the facility was a blur, her thoughts racing as she pieced everything together. Agatha had left her just enough to find the truth—but why? To taunt her? To see if she could figure it out?

When Rio arrived, she marched straight to Agatha’s cell, ignoring the guards’ wary glances.

Agatha was sitting at her table, reading, but she looked up the moment Rio approached.

“Agent Vidal,” she said smoothly, setting the book aside. “Back so soon? You’re becoming quite the regular.”

Rio wasted no time. “It wasn’t you.”

Agatha’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Wasn’t it?”

“You knew,” Rio pressed. “You knew someone was imitating you, using your methods, targeting people connected to your old cases.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. “You’re quite the detective, Agent. But tell me: how does it feel to walk through my garden?”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Agatha said lightly. “Besides, you wouldn’t have believed me. You needed to see it for yourself.”

Rio leaned closer, her voice steady. “What do you know about this imitator?”

Agatha’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something darker. “Enough to know they’ll be watching you now, Agent. They seem to have a liking for me, and I- well you're a part of their game now.”

Rio’s stomach churned, but she didn’t back down. “Then I’ll play to win.”

Agatha's eyes narrowed, her posture stiff. "You don't realize just how many lions in the den are hiding in the shadows, Rio."

"If you want to tell me something then tell me, Agatha." Her voice faltered at the stress making it's way to the surface. "Please."

The killer leaned back as she pursed her lips. "It's all connected." She muttered until her expression changed. Agatha’s smile deepened, her gaze flickering with something unreadable. “But back to the case, you missed something." 

Rio narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Why that flower?” Agatha asked, stepping closer to the glass. “Why monkshood? What does it say about the killer?"

Rio’s mind raced. Monkshood was beautiful but lethal, often overlooked despite its danger. It was a plant that demanded respect, much like Agatha herself. “It’s you,” Rio said finally. “The flower was a reflection of you." 

It all made sense, and it was painfully clear how obvious it was from the beginning. 

Rio's silence was unnerving as she was trapped in her mind, thinking, spiralling.

"Something else on your mind?" Agatha finally said, not denying what Rio had said . Her voice was smooth, like velvet draped over a blade. 

Rio didn’t answer right away. She blinked then stared, her expression unreadable, until she finally reached into her bag.

“I brought you something,” Rio said, her tone measured. "Something I'm actually allowed to give you."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “How intriguing. A bribe? Or perhaps a token of appreciation for my guidance?”

Rio ignored the jab and pulled out a book, holding it up for Agatha to see. It was an older edition, its cover slightly worn but well-loved.

Agatha tilted her head, studying it. “You brought me a book,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “How… quaint.”

“It’s not a bribe,” Rio said firmly, sliding the book into the tray. “Dr. Hayward mentioned you were surprisingly cooperative for the last three days. No games, no mind tricks. Just cooperation. I figured you earned a reward.”

Agatha retrieved the book from the tray, her fingers brushing over the cover. For a moment, something unreadable passed over her face, a crack in her carefully constructed mask. The cover was simple yet elegant, its title embossed in gold: The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan.

Agatha tilted her head, studying the book with mild curiosity. “A book about plants? How terribly on-brand for you, Agent.”

Rio smirked. “It’s not just about plants. It’s about how they’ve shaped human history—how something as simple as a flower can influence desire, power, and survival. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Agatha retrieved the book with deliberate slowness, her fingers brushing over the textured cover. For a moment, her expression softened, a flicker of something almost vulnerable flashing in her eyes.

“How thoughtful,” she murmured. “Though I can’t help but wonder—why this book?”

Rio shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I figured you’d appreciate the irony. A book about manipulation and influence. Seems fitting.”

Agatha let out a low chuckle, flipping through the pages. “That's not what I meant. Why give me a book that you cherish so much?" 

Rio raised an eyebrow slightly off guard. "What do you mean?" She stepped closer to the glass eyeing the book.

"The pages are worn out and easy to flip, there are highlights and annotations, little side notes at the bottom of the paper with two different handwritings. It has the smell of old paper and there a lingering traces of grass and an earthy fragrance that is close to citrus." Agatha stated not taking her eyes off the book as she flipped to the very first page. "And a small message in Spanish, a small dedication I'm guessing."

"The book is old that's all, I have plenty more things from my mom. This book isn't really sentimental, just interesting." Rio gave a small shrug then raised her eyebrow with an impressive glint in her eyes. "Can you really smell all that?" 

"I've been here for many years, my nose is sensitive to new smells." Agatha looked up making eye contact. "Wanda being able to smell your blood didn't give that away?" 

"Hm," The agent hummed staring at the book. "Palo Santo." She said suddenly.

"What?" Agatha frowned, the Spanish rolling off Rio's tongue naturally took her off guard. 

"The earthy fragrance that smells like citrus. It's a type of wood called Palo Santo, Holy wood, I use it as aromatherapy. The smoke of the incense must have lingered on the pages of my book. It's a calming scent isn't it?" 

Agatha stared at her not answering the question. So much was going on in her mind that Rio could see it in her eyes.

Rio tilted her head. "Something wrong?" 

"Your guard is down." Agatha stated. "You're acting careless get a grip." Her tone was firm.

The agent chuckled. "Okay, Agatha." Rio said, pushing off the wall. “Enjoy the book. Don’t make me regret it.” She walked away, her boots clicking softly against the floor.

Alone in her cell, Agatha looked down at the book, her fingers absently running over its cover. A wry smile curved her lips as she whispered to herself, “Interesting choice.” Then, with a quiet sigh, she opened to the first page and began to read. Her eyes scanning the five worded message on the first page written in Spanish.

Para mi hija, te veo

Chapter Text

The buzzing of her phone broke through the quiet of Rio’s dim apartment, echoing against the bare walls. She groaned, squinting at the screen. The name “Alice” blinked back at her, accompanied by a picture of Alice in her uniform, giving a thumbs-up while holding a slice of pizza as big as her head.

Rio swiped to answer. “Alice, what do you want? It’s late.”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Alice chirped, the sound of background chatter and the faint squawk of police radios on her end. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Rio replied, shifting upright on the couch and rubbing her temples. “But you’re definitely adding to my headache.”

“Migraine?" Alice asked in a knowing tone.

“None of your business.”

“That’s a yes,” Alice said, laughing. “You sound like crap. Rough week?”

Rio sighed, leaning her head back against the cushions. “Something like that.”

“Come on, give me something. What’s going on? You’ve been MIA for weeks. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Rio hesitated, her eyes wandering to the collection of wilting plants on her windowsill. She wasn’t avoiding Alice, not exactly, but between the case and everything with Agatha, she hadn’t had the mental space for casual conversations.

“It’s been busy,” Rio said finally, her voice clipped.

Alice snorted. “That’s the vaguest excuse I’ve ever heard. Is it work?”

“Yeah, it’s work,” Rio admitted, her tone reluctant.

“Let me guess, chasing monsters or whatever it is you FBI types do.”

Rio hesitated, rubbing her temple. Alice didn’t know about Agatha, the case, or the constant pressure she was under. The fewer people who knew, the better.

“Yeah, something like that,” Rio said vaguely.

Alice hummed, the sound skeptical. “That’s the tone you use when you’re avoiding something. Spill.”

Rio hesitated, rubbing her temple. Alice didn’t know about Agatha, the case, or the constant pressure she was under. The fewer people who knew, the better.

“It’s complicated,” Rio said finally.

Alice let out an exaggerated groan. “You’re killing me, Rio. You’re not the only one who deals with ‘complicated,’ you know. I’ve got the night shift from hell over here. My partner spent the last hour eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into the cup holder of the squad car. I’d kill for a distraction.”

Despite herself, Rio laughed softly. “Sounds like a real match made in heaven.”

“Oh, the best,” Alice said dryly. “But seriously, you sound... off. Are you okay?”

Rio hesitated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what you say when you’re anything but fine,” Alice pointed out. “Come on, we’ve been friends too long for that ‘I’m fine’ crap. Spill.”

Rio sighed heavily, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate, okay? Big case. Bigger headache. The usual.”

“Uh-huh.” Alice wasn’t buying it. “And the Migraine? That part of the ‘usual’ too?”

“Sometimes,” Rio admitted, her tone wry.

Alice softened, her voice gentler. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground, haven’t you? When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t work-related? Or, you know, destructive?”

“I watered my plants yesterday,” Rio said dryly.

“Wow. Truly living the dream,” Alice shot back.

Rio smirked. “Not all of us can thrive on pizza and bad coffee like you.”

“Don’t knock the classics,” Alice said with a laugh. “But seriously, Rio. You need to take care of yourself. Whatever’s going on, it’s not worth burning out over. I know how you get when you’re in your head about something. You isolate yourself, throw yourself into work, and burn out. Don’t make me come over there and drag you out for breakfast. Just take care of yourself and live."

“Easier said than done,” Rio murmured.

Alice was quiet for a moment, then said, “Remember when we used to go to that awful diner after your late shifts? The one with the greasy burgers and the waitstaff that never smiled?”

Rio smiled faintly. “How could I forget? You used to order milkshakes with extra whipped cream, and I’d steal all the fries.”

“Exactly. You need something like that again—a break. Even if it’s just for an hour. Let me drag you out sometime. We’ll find another crappy diner and reminisce about our poor life choices.”

Rio chuckled softly. “You make a compelling case.”

“Good. I’m holding you to it,” Alice said firmly.

“Thanks, Alice.”

“Always,” Alice replied. “Now, promise me you’ll at least try to sleep tonight. You sound like death warmed over.”

“I’ll try,” Rio said, though they both knew it was a lie.

“Good enough. Talk soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Alice.”

“Night, Rio.”

As the call ended, Rio stared at her phone for a long moment, the faint smile on her face fading as the weight of her reality settled back in. She set the phone down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

For a brief moment, she let herself imagine sitting in that old diner with Alice, the noise of the world fading into the background. But the thought didn’t linger. There were too many unanswered questions, too many things that couldn’t wait.

Still, Alice’s voice stayed with her, a reminder that not everything in her life had to be about monsters and darkness. Maybe, just maybe, there was room for something more.

Rio's apartment was a small but cozy space nestled in the heart of the city. It wasn’t much—a kitchen, a living area that doubled as a dining room, and a bedroom that she’d barely managed to furnish—but it was hers. This was her sanctuary: small, neat, but cluttered with signs of her personality. Books were stacked in uneven piles on the coffee table, a few notebooks with scrawled FBI shorthand wedged between them. A small shelf of plants sat by the window, their leaves glistening with dew from the humidifier she ran overnight. The scent of soil and greenery filled the room, a grounding contrast to the sterile chill of her work.

The faint hum of traffic outside was the only sound that filled the air, broken occasionally by the clinking of glass as Rio rummaged through her fridge.

She pulled out a beer and twisted the cap off with practiced ease, tossing it onto the counter. The cold glass was a small comfort against her hand as she leaned against the counter and stared out the window.

Her gaze drifted to the corner of her desk. Rio reached out absentmindedly for the book, her fingers brushing the empty space where it used to sit. It took a second for her to remember why it wasn’t there.

Agatha.

The memory hit her like a gut punch. She’d handed over that book during one of her recent visits, a spur-of-the-moment decision she was still trying to rationalize. Why had she done that? She told herself it was a reward, a bribe, something to keep Agatha cooperative. And yet she ended up handing over her prized possession 

She sighed and took a long swig of her beer, the bitter liquid doing little to quell the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

The night dragged on as Rio worked her way through a few more bottles. She sprawled out on her couch, her hair falling in messy waves around her shoulders as she stared blankly at the ceiling. Her thoughts were a chaotic jumble—fragments of cases, Agatha’s voice, the dark pit of uncertainty that seemed to grow with each passing day.

When she finally dragged herself to bed, it was three in the morning. The city outside had gone quiet, and the silence in her apartment felt almost oppressive.

She groaned again, rolling out of bed with all the grace of a cat falling off a shelf. In the bathroom mirror, she caught a glimpse of her disheveled reflection—dark circles under her eyes, hair sticking out in odd angles, and a faint red mark on her cheek from the couch cushion she’d apparently used as a pillow.

“I look like hell,” she muttered, splashing cold water on her face in an attempt to wake up.

It was her day off. She should’ve been doing anything else—laundry, groceries, or even just lying in bed all day. Instead, she found herself throwing on a pair of jeans, a plain black hoodie, and sneakers. No suit. No badge. She didn’t even bother tying her hair back properly, letting it fall loose over her shoulders.

Without thinking, she grabbed her keys and left the apartment.

The drive to the facility was hazy, her mind still foggy from the previous night’s indulgence. She wasn’t even sure why she was going. She told herself it was because she had unfinished business, loose ends to tie up. But deep down, she knew the truth: Agatha Harkness had wormed her way into her head, and she couldn’t shake her.

When she arrived, the guards gave her a double take, clearly unused to seeing her in anything but her usual polished attire.

“Day off, Vidal?” one of them asked with a smirk.

She ignored him, flashing her clearance badge and heading straight for the containment wing. The cool, sterile air hit her like a slap to the face, momentarily clearing her foggy mind.

The drive to the facility was mercifully short. Rio kept her sunglasses on, hoping they’d hide the worst of her hangover. The guards gave her a few odd looks as she passed

The buzz of fluorescent lights in the hallway felt too loud, too jarring, as Rio Vidal staggered down the stark, gray corridor of the facility. Her head pounded with every step, each one more painful than the last, the throbbing in her skull sharp and insistent. She could taste the stale remnants of cheap beer and regret at the back of her throat. The night before had been a blur, a few too many drinks and too many bad decisions.

She wasn’t supposed to be here today. It was her day off—an unusual luxury for an agent like herself. But the weight of everything—Darkhold, the pressure from Lilia, the lingering thoughts of Agatha—had dragged her from her apartment and back into the sterile, oppressive environment of the facility.

Her eyes burned, and the world seemed to tilt at odd angles. The dizziness was suffocating, but there was something else pushing her forward, an inexplicable pull she couldn’t ignore. It was the same pull she had felt every time she stepped into Agatha’s presence, something strange that gnawed at her even when she was least prepared for it.

Rio reached the cell block, feeling a disorienting wave of nausea. The scent of antiseptic, the sterile whiteness of the walls, and the sharpness of the cold metal doors—all of it swam before her blurry eyes. She stopped in front of Agatha’s cell, her legs shaky.

Agatha was there, of course, sitting calmly on her cot, her book in her hands, her posture as perfect as always. She was the same as the last time Rio had seen her, but there was a glint of something in her eyes, as though she knew exactly what kind of state Rio was in before the agent even stepped into the room.

“Well, well,” Agatha drawled. “Agent Vidal, or should I say, Off-Duty Vidal? To what do I owe the pleasure? You look...relaxed.”

“Shut up,” Rio muttered.

Agatha leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Rough night?”

Rio didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she leaned against the cold metal bars of the cell, trying to steady herself, her mind racing to focus. She knew she looked a mess—hair tangled, face pale, eyes bloodshot—but there was something about Agatha's presence that made her stop, made her pause and, for a moment, forget about the brutal hangover gnawing at her insides.

“I’m not here for a conversation,” Rio muttered, her voice rough from the lack of hydration and the pounding headache. “I’m just… I need a minute.”

Agatha said nothing at first, simply watching as Rio sank down onto the floor, her back hitting the cold concrete wall with a thud. She slumped down like a ragdoll, her arms wrapped around her knees for support, her head leaning against the wall as if it could somehow absorb the pressure building inside her skull.

The silence stretched between them, but Agatha’s piercing gaze never left Rio.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Agatha finally spoke, her voice cold, yet tinged with a quiet amusement. “And I certainly didn’t ask you to bring your... inability to function.”

Rio’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Agatha’s steady gaze. She wanted to snap back, to push back against Agatha’s words, but she was too tired, too broken in that moment to care.

“I didn’t want to come here,” Rio said, her words coming out in a slow, groggy drawl. “But… here I am. Deal with it.”

Agatha watched her for a beat longer, then, without a word, returned her attention to the book in her hands. The silence between them felt thick, almost suffocating.

The ache in Rio’s head made it impossible to think clearly. She just wanted peace. She didn’t care where it came from—if it was here, in this cold, sterile place, so be it.

The minutes dragged on. Time stretched into a strange, elastic fog.

Before Rio realized what was happening, her eyelids fluttered shut again, her body too heavy to keep upright. She fought to stay awake, but the weariness of the night before, coupled with the relentless pain in her head, made it impossible. The steady hum of the lights, the cold stone beneath her, the rhythm of Agatha’s breathing—all of it began to lull her.

And in that moment, she finally gave in.

She slumped further, her body sinking against the wall, her legs stretching out in front of her. It wasn’t long before she completely relaxed into the quiet, her breathing slow and steady as sleep overtook her.

The silence in the lower levels of the facility was thick, broken only by the occasional shuffle of a guard’s boots echoing down the concrete corridors. Agatha sat upright in her cell, her piercing eyes trained on the figure slouched against the wall across from her.

At first, Agatha thought it was some kind of trick—a calculated move to rattle her, to bait her into revealing something she hadn’t yet intended to share. But as the minutes ticked by, it became clear that wasn’t the case.

Rio had arrived wearing casual clothing: a loose sweater, jeans, and sneakers. It was such a far cry from her usual crisp suits that Agatha almost didn’t recognize her at first. But the weariness etched into her face and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her. She looked exhausted, hungover even, her posture heavier than usual.

Agatha had been prepared for another battle of wits, another sharp exchange laced with tension. But instead, Rio had barely spoken, muttering something about needing a minute as she slid down the wall and settled herself on the cold concrete floor.

Now, Agatha watched, perplexed, as Rio’s head lolled forward slightly, her body visibly relaxing as sleep overtook her.

It was absurd. Ridiculous, even.

Agent Vidal—a trained FBI operative, someone who had interrogated her with unflinching determination—was falling asleep across from her, a notorious serial killer.

Agatha leaned forward slightly, her sharp features illuminated by the dim overhead light. She studied Rio intently, as though trying to decipher the enigma of her presence.

She was vulnerable like this. Unarmed. Defenseless.

Foolish, Agatha thought, though there was no malice behind it. She didn’t sense fear in Rio, even in her unconscious state. There was something else entirely—a quiet defiance, perhaps, or a trust so unintentional it baffled Agatha.

Her gaze drifted to the way Rio’s hands rested loosely in her lap, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. She noticed the faint scar along Rio’s wrist, a remnant of her encounter with Wanda Maximoff, the cell neighbor Agatha had grown to tolerate but never truly liked.

For a moment, Agatha’s expression softened, her icy demeanor cracking just enough to let something unspoken slip through.

She leaned back against the wall of her cell, her arms folding across her chest. “You’re either the bravest person I’ve ever met, or the dumbest,” she murmured under her breath, her voice too soft for Rio to hear.

Finally, she stood and moved to the front of her cell, the faint rustle of her movements echoing. She crouched low, her hands curling around the bars as she stared down at the sleeping figure.

“Not very professional of you, Agent,” Agatha whispered, her tone laced with quiet amusement. “But I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

For the first time in a long while, Agatha didn’t feel like the predator in the room. There was a strange balance here, a dynamic she didn’t entirely understand but wasn’t eager to disrupt.

The room was silent once more, save for the quiet breath of one agent, the stillness of one prisoner, and the distant hum of the fluorescent lights above.

Rio's entire body protested as she tried to sit up straighter, a sharp pang shooting through her lower back. “Ugh,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders and wincing. Sitting on the cold, hard floor for God knows how long had left her muscles stiff and her limbs heavy.

She rubbed at her eyes, realizing belatedly that she’d fallen asleep across from Agatha’s cell. Glancing up, she saw the woman still seated in her chair, her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes closed, and her features unusually peaceful. Agatha Harkness looked utterly serene, almost like she didn’t belong in the cold confines of this facility.

Rio stared for a moment, her hazy brain struggling to reconcile the predatory, manipulative serial killer she knew with the calm, almost angelic figure before her. The faint rise and fall of Agatha’s chest was the only movement in the room, and for a fleeting moment, Rio felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name.

She rubbed her eyes, the events of the night flooding back. She remembered the weight of exhaustion dragging her down, her hungover haze clouding her judgment as she sat on the floor across from Agatha’s cell.

And then, apparently, she’d fallen asleep.

A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “Great job, Rio,” she muttered under her breath.

Carefully, she pushed herself to her feet, mindful of the soft rustling that might disturb the sleeping woman in the cell. Agatha didn’t stir, and for a moment, Rio allowed herself to linger, her curiosity piqued by the image of the infamous Harkness in repose.

But reality snapped her back. She had overstayed her welcome.

Her watch beeped softly, snapping her out of her daze. She glanced down, squinting at the time. 12:57 PM.

Her stomach dropped. “Shit,” she whispered, scrambling to her feet. The sudden movement made her head spin, and she had to grip the wall to steady herself. Her legs felt like lead, and every joint in her body screamed in protest.

Rio turned and headed down the corridor, her steps quieter than usual as she approached the guard station.

The guard on duty, a young man with a nervous disposition, straightened as she approached. His name tag read William.

“Agent Vidal,” he greeted, though his voice betrayed a mix of relief and unease.

Rio tilted her head. “You didn’t drag me out or wake me up. Why?”

William hesitated, glancing down the corridor toward Agatha’s cell before leaning in slightly. “We, uh, tried. But... she threatened us.”

Rio frowned, her brow furrowing. “Threatened you?”

“She... she said if we so much as touched you, we’d regret it,” William stammered, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Rio’s mouth fell open. “You let her intimidate you? She’s behind bars!”

The guard shrugged helplessly. “It’s Agatha Harkness. She doesn’t need bars to scare the hell out of you.”

Rio groaned, running a hand through her disheveled hair. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, her voice tinged with exhaustion.

 “She was terrifying, Agent. I don’t know how she does it, but she made it very clear that leaving you alone was in our best interest.”

Rio stared at him, stunned. The idea that Agatha had intervened on her behalf—if it could even be called that—didn’t sit right. It wasn’t altruism; she was sure of that. There had to be another angle, another layer to the control Agatha so effortlessly wielded.

As she walked away, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, her heart sinking when she saw Jennifer Kale’s name on the screen.

“Here we go,” she muttered, answering the call.

“Rio Vidal,” Jen snapped, her tone sharp and furious. “Meeting in two hours."

“Good morning to you too, Jen,” Rio said, though her voice lacked its usual humor. "And no, it's my day off today."

“Don’t start with me, if it had been your day off you would have stayed home." Jen warned. “Instead I just got off the phone with Dr. Hayward. He told me you fell asleep across from Agatha Harkness’s cell! Are you out of your damn mind?”

Rio pinched the bridge of her nose, bracing herself against the onslaught. “It wasn’t intentional—”

"I don't give a damn if it was or wasn't, what the hell were you thinking. Why in the world are you even there?!" 

Rio's sighed. "I wanted more answers on Darkhold. I can't- I can't let it go. But instead I ended up falling asleep." She lied.

There was silence in the other side for a brief moment until Jennifer exhaled. "You're spiraling." She stated. "It's become an obsession for you now."

"Maybe..."

"I told Lilia, I freaking told her but she never listens." Jen muttered. "Alright, you take two days off. I don't want you anywhere near Harkness, work, or even paper. I'll explain it to Lilia, just rest Rio."

"No, I'm fine-" 

"Rio, the last time you got obsessed with a case like this you got shot... But this is different, you're now dealing with a serial killer to catch another killer. You need a break." Jen's voice softened. "Don't let this job corrupt you again. You're the best we have."

Rio closed her eyes briefly. "Okay, yeah, sure, rest and all. Thanks, Jen."

"Now go back home and fall asleep on an actual bed, that's an order." 

The agent rolled her eyes. "Yeah yeah."

"Be careful, Rio." 

"Always am."

Chapter Text

The abandoned theater loomed over them, its decaying grandeur casting long shadows in the fading light. Jen Kale followed Rio Vidal up the creaking steps and through the chipped double doors. Inside, the air was thick with dust, carrying a faint metallic tang. The theater, once a place of celebration and drama, now housed something far more sinister.

"Every time I think I've seen it all..." Jen muttered as they walked down the aisle, their footsteps echoing.

Rio didn’t respond immediately. Her sharp eyes were already scanning the scene on stage. A middle-aged man, his body carefully arranged, sat slumped on an ornate replica of a throne. His arms were extended outward, one hand clutching a prop dagger, the other draped dramatically over his chest. His face bore a haunting expression—a rictus of pain frozen in defiance. Around him, the stage was meticulously set with props and lighting, casting eerie shadows across the scene. that seemed to dance.

Jen's voice broke through the suffocating silence. “Third body in a week. And look at this.” She gestured at the victim’s attire, a tattered approximation of royal garb. “Macbeth, right?”

Rio nodded, stepping closer to the stage. Her boots clicked against the hardwood, the sound echoing through the abandoned hall. “Act V, scene 8. The death of Macbeth. The throne, the dagger in his hand, the posture,” Rio explained, climbing the steps onto the stage.

Jen followed, her boots clicking against the wood. “How do you even know that?”

“I read,” Rio said simply, crouching near the body. “Darkhold didn’t just kill him. He created a moment. A scene.”

Jen shook her head, her gloved hands resting on her hips. “He’s getting bolder. First a church, then a library, and now this. What’s the connection? Faith, knowledge, and now... what, drama?”

Rio didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the victim’s face, then traveled to the props—candles placed symmetrically, a crown resting slightly askew on the victim’s head.

“Maybe it’s about power,” Jen continued, filling the silence. “Macbeth’s all about ambition, right? Reaching too high?”

Rio’s gaze remained fixed on the body. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s about inevitability. Macbeth’s downfall was set in motion long before this scene. Darkhold might be saying the same thing about us—about everyone.”

Jen tilted her head, studying Rio. There was something about her tone, the way she spoke. It was clinical, detached, as though she was dissecting the scene with a level of precision that felt almost... unnatural

Rio stood slowly, her eyes scanning the stage. “Or inevitability. Macbeth’s death wasn’t just about his ambition. It was fate. A foregone conclusion. Darkhold might be saying the same thing—that these deaths are inevitable.”

Jen raised a brow, watching her. “You’re really digging into this, huh?”

Rio ignored the comment, pacing the stage. Her thoughts were racing, trying to connect the dots.

“The dagger,” she said, pointing to the prop. “It’s not real, but it’s placed like it was meant to be symbolic. The crown’s crooked, a mockery of authority. And the lighting—it’s theatrical, not just functional. Every detail is intentional.”

Jen stared at her, her expression unreadable. “You sound... different.” Her voice cautious.

Rio glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re analyzing this like it’s art. Like it’s a puzzle to solve instead of a crime.”

Rio didn’t flinch. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Jen hesitated. “It’s just... the way you’re talking. Detached. Precise. Like the performance is all that matters.”

Rio bristled but didn’t argue. Instead, she rose and began pacing the stage, her thoughts racing.

“Look at the locations,” she said abruptly. “A church, a library, and now a theater. All places tied to storytelling, history, memory. He’s not just killing; he’s recreating something. The settings are as important as the victims.”

Jen frowned, pulling out her notebook. “Okay, but what’s the common thread? The victims don’t fit the same profile.”

“Exactly,” Rio said, her voice rising with intensity. “It’s not about them—it’s about the stage. He’s recreating a narrative, piece by piece. And we’re missing it because we’re focused on the wrong details.”

Jen stared at her, her pen hovering over the page. “You’ve been at this for too long, Rio. You’re starting to sound like her.”

“Like who?”

“Harkness.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back to the victim, her mind spinning.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly in the FBI’s dimly lit office as Rio Vidal sat at her desk, surrounded by an array of photos, reports, and notes. Her tie was gone, her sleeves were rolled up, and her hair was an unruly mess—clear signs that she hadn’t cared about appearances in hours. Or maybe days.

Her brown eyes darted over the crime scene photos in front of her, piecing together fragments of Darkhold’s latest display. The third victim’s body had been found the previous night.

Darkhold wasn’t just killing anymore. He was crafting.

Rio leaned forward, elbows on her desk, rubbing her temples as she muttered to herself. “It’s not random. None of this is random. The placement of the body, the stage—he’s telling us something. But what?”

Her pen tapped against the desk, the sound punctuating her thoughts. The notes sprawled in front of her were filled with questions, half-formed theories, and connections that didn’t quite align.

Jen Kale stood across the room, watching Rio from a distance. Her partner hadn’t said much since they returned from the crime scene earlier that day. In fact, Rio hadn’t really spoken to anyone. Her focus had been entirely on the case, her mind locked in a loop that seemed to tighten with every passing hour.

“Rio,” Jen finally said, stepping closer.

No response.

“Vidal,” she said more firmly.

Rio blinked, looking up as if noticing Jen for the first time. “What?”

“You’ve been at this for hours. Take a break.”

“I can’t,” Rio said flatly, turning back to the photos. “He’s escalating, Jen. Three victims in two days, each one staged more elaborately than the last. He’s not just killing for the sake of killing anymore. This is... theater. He’s building to something.”

“And you won’t figure it out if you burn yourself out,” Jen said, crossing her arms. “You look like you’re about to fall apart.”

Rio scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Jen said, her tone sharpening. “You’ve been staring at these photos like they’re going to whisper the answers to you. You’re obsessing, and it’s starting to scare me.”

“He’s not picking random places,” Rio said, circling a location on the map pinned to the wall ignoring Jen's previous comment. “A church for faith, a library for knowledge, and now a theater for performance. These aren’t just settings—they’re symbols.”

“But of what?” Jen asked, her tone skeptical.

Rio leaned against the table, her arms crossed. “Faith. Knowledge. Power. Maybe he’s mocking them, or maybe he’s building a story. A narrative.”

Jen sighed, rubbing her temples. “This feels like a rabbit hole, Rio. You’re seeing patterns where there might not be any.”

“There’s always a pattern,” Rio shot back, her voice sharp. “Darkhold isn’t killing for the sake of killing. He’s sending a message.”

Jen stared at her for a long moment. “You’re too deep into this.”

Rio scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re starting to sound like Harkness. You’re dissecting Darkholds motives like it’s a chess game. But this isn’t just about solving a puzzle, Rio. It’s about stopping him before he kills again.”

Rio’s expression hardened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned back to the photos, her mind racing.

“He’s playing with us,” she said quietly. “Every scene, every detail—it’s deliberate. He’s waiting for us to figure it out.”

Jen leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening. “And what happens when we do?”

Rio didn't answer.

“Rio,” Jen said, her voice cutting through the silence.

“Not now,” Rio snapped, not looking up.

“Yes, now,” Jen said firmly, stepping closer. “You need to stop. Take a break, or at least talk this out with someone.”

Rio snorted humorlessly. “Talk it out? With who, Jen? You? No offense, but you don’t think like him. You don’t see the patterns.”

Jen bristled. “And you do?”

Rio looked up, her eyes hard. “I’m starting to.”

That admission made Jen’s stomach turn. “This isn’t you, Rio. You’re spiraling. You’re losing yourself in this case.”

"Losing myself is better than people losing their lives." She spat out with frustration. "Look, Agatha said-" 

"Oh, I've been waiting for you to mention her." Jen scoffed. "Agatha said what? I'll tell you what, bullshit pure bullshit."

"She said that she would have been able to solve this in a week, Jen" 

"And you believe her? God, Rio, she's in your head and you don't even realize it. I gave you two days to rest and it feels like you did the opposite of what I asked." Jen narrowed her eyes.

"She's not in my head." 

"People who are hungover don't willingly go to visit a serial killer on their day off and fall asleep across from them!" Jen raised her voice. "How far gone are you?! Ever since you started talking to Harkness, you’ve been... different. She’s in your head, Rio. And if you go back to her now, she’ll take up even more space.”

Rio slammed her pen down. “She’s the only one who can help me understand this.”

“No,” Jen said sharply. “She’s the last person you should go to. She’s a manipulative, narcissistic killer who thrives on control. If you go back to her, you’ll be playing right into her hands.”

Rio’s hands curled into fists. “And what do you suggest, Jen? That I just sit here and wait for Darkhold to kill again? You think I want to talk to her? I don’t. But she knows how people like him think.”

Jen’s voice rose, her frustration boiling over. “And at what cost, Rio? How much of yourself are you willing to give away to her? Because that’s what she’ll take—piece by piece, until there’s nothing left.”

Rio stood abruptly, pacing the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a drum of anger, fear, and desperation. She hated that Jen was right, but she hated the idea of doing nothing even more.

Jen sighed as her tone softened. "You’re better than this—smarter than this. But if you go back to her, you’re handing her exactly what she wants.”

“And what’s that?” Rio spat.

“You,” Jen said simply.

The word hit Rio like a punch to the gut. She turned away, running a hand through her hair as her chest heaved with unspoken frustration. Without thinking she grabbed her coat and keys leaving the office.

It was a blur but before she knew it she was driving. Rio gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, her focus fixed on the road ahead as the city blurred past. The early morning light filtered through the windshield, casting long shadows across her face. She was running on barely enough sleep, the last few days a blur of flashing crime scene photos, handwritten notes, and endless files—each more disturbing than the last. The murders were escalating, the threads leading her in circles, and the more she tried to make sense of it, the further she felt from any resolution. It was as if Darkhold was always two steps ahead, always one kill further than she could reach.

But today—today, it was different.

Her decision had been made without thinking, a gut instinct pulling her in a direction she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. She knew it was dangerous, reckless even, but the pull was undeniable. Agatha had become more than just a source of information. She had become a reflection of something Rio couldn’t quite put into words—a dark mirror she couldn't stop staring into.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, scattered between the case, Darkhold, and the eerie calm that always seemed to settle around Agatha. Every time Rio had visited, she’d been forced to confront the possibility that the more she interacted with Agatha, the more she found herself thinking like the woman. It was terrifying. And now, she was heading straight into it again.

"Get it together, Rio," she muttered to herself as she turned onto a side street. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, a constant reminder of the tension that had been building for days. Every conversation with Agatha, every visit, had brought her closer to something she wasn’t ready to face. She'd never been like this before—not with a case, not with anyone. But Agatha had a way of making her question everything she knew about right and wrong. It was like the woman was drawing her in, pulling her to the edge of something darker.

"You're not like her," Rio repeated, though she wasn’t sure if she believed it anymore.

But was it true? Could she really be so different from the criminals she was trying to stop? Darkhold’s twisted signature was unmistakable—a carefully orchestrated scene, like a macabre theater play. Each murder was staged, each victim placed just so, as though the killer was trying to send a message. And every time she looked at the crime scenes, every time she walked through the blood-splattered rooms, Rio couldn’t help but feel that she understood Darkhold’s mind a little too well. Maybe that was the problem. The more she immersed herself in the case, the more she became like the one she was chasing.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she navigated through the city, her thoughts drifting back to the case. The clues were so damn cryptic. Darkhold wasn’t like any other killer she’d encountered. There was something deliberate in the way the bodies were arranged, a message hidden in each one. He wasn’t just killing for the sake of it—he was trying to make a statement. But what was it?

And then there was Agatha. It had started innocently enough—an accidental falling asleep across Agatha’s prison, a moment of weakness. But it had lingered with her, gnawing at her like a festering wound she couldn’t ignore. What was that? She had asked herself that over and over, and the answer scared her more than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t just fallen asleep. No, she had surrendered—surrendered to exhaustion, to the weight of everything.

And Agatha had let her.

That thought unsettled Rio. Agatha knew exactly what was happening, didn’t she? She had seen it all before—seen people fall under her spell. Seen them crack and break. And Rio, for the first time, wondered if she was one of those people.

She’d tried to brush it off. She had tried to convince herself that it was just fatigue—just the case, the pressure, the lack of sleep. But the truth was, it was more than that. And Rio was starting to lose herself in it.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she turned onto the street leading to the facility. The car drifted through the intersection without her even realizing it.

Rio stood before the cold, steel bars of Agatha Harkness’s cell. The dim light of the prison hallway cast shadows on her face, making her appear almost spectral. She wasn’t the woman she’d been the last time she visited Agatha—not in the way she moved, not in the way she held herself. The weariness was still there, deep in her bones, but there was something else too, something that made her seem more dangerous, more... detached.

Agatha studied her from across the room, her sharp gaze never leaving Rio. She could see the tension in Rio’s jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes—she wasn’t the eager agent, the one who sought answers with a passion that had once driven her. No. Rio had become something else. Something colder.

“You’re late,” Agatha remarked, her voice cool but laced with curiosity.

Rio didn’t respond immediately. She stood there for a long moment, just staring at Agatha, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was standing just a bit too still, just a bit too rigid. Agatha noticed how her hand gripped her sleeves as if to steady herself, as if trying to hold on to something—or maybe someone.

Finally, Rio exhaled, her voice coming out as nothing more than a murmur. “You were right about me, Agatha.”

The words hung in the air, charged with an ominous undercurrent. Agatha raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Agatha replied slowly, though her eyes never left Rio’s. The air between them was thick with something unspoken.

Rio took a step closer to the cell, her eyes locked onto Agatha’s as if daring her to say something. She was quiet for a long time, her hands trembling only slightly—barely noticeable, but Agatha could see it. She could feel the change in the air.

“I’ve been thinking,” Rio finally said, breaking the silence, her tone quieter than usual. “About how much I’ve learned from you. More than anyone else, you... seem to understand the way things work.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow at that, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re starting to sound like me, Rio. Be careful—one slip, and you might just lose yourself.”

Rio didn’t flinch at the warning. Instead, she took a step closer to the glass, leaning forward slightly as she studied Agatha’s face. “Maybe I want to understand. Maybe I need to, to solve what’s happening out there. To stop Darkhold.”

Agatha’s gaze remained fixed on Rio, studying her. She didn’t speak, but her mind was racing. She was trying to piece together the woman standing before her, trying to reconcile the agent who’d once been desperate for answers with the woman who now seemed to almost embrace the darkness that had clouded her judgment.

“So, what? You’re becoming him?” Agatha’s voice was a whisper now, dangerous and calculating. Her words seemed to hang in the air like poison.

Rio’s eyes flickered. There was no denying it. It wasn’t just about the case anymore. It was about the control, the power, the desire to understand the twisted mind of someone like Darkhold.

“No,” Rio said, her tone far too calm. “I’m becoming what I need to be to catch him.”

Agatha felt something twist in her gut. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified. Rio was so close to the edge, so close to becoming exactly what she feared.

The silence between them was suffocating, and for the first time, Agatha felt the weight of it settle between them. Rio wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the eager, questioning agent she’d first met. She was someone else now—someone who had learned, perhaps too well, the mind games of someone like Agatha herself.

“Are you going to just stare at me, or are you going to speak?” Agatha asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

Rio’s lips twitched into a small, tight smile. She didn’t immediately respond, instead, her gaze moved over Agatha, tracing her every movement. Agatha could almost feel the weight of Rio’s thoughts, her struggle to put into words whatever it was she was dealing with.

“I need your help,” Rio finally said, her voice low and unshaken, though there was a hint of something different in it—something Agatha hadn’t heard before. She wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion, uncertainty, or something darker beneath the surface.

Agatha tilted her head slightly, studying Rio as if she were a subject to dissect. “Help?” she echoed. “You’ve never needed my help before. What makes today different?”

Rio clenched your jaw. "I- I need you." Agatha's cold gaze stayed on her taking in the words. "The first day we met you told me that you wanted my time, you miss intimacy. But right now, I need you. I need you to tell me if this is some part of your manipulation or if there's something I can do so I can continue this case because I'm tired. I feel like a different person and it scares me. So I need you to tell me something, anything at all. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Agatha.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes before nodding with a small hum. "You’re too focused on the task—on the end result. You’re letting the case define you, and that’s where you’re going wrong.”

Rio’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She was listening, her body tense, as if she were waiting for Agatha to say something more, something that would make sense of what had been bothering her.

Agatha continued, her voice almost tender. “You’ve been walking a thin line, Rio. When you focus too much on something—when you let it take over your every thought—you forget who you are. You forget the things that keep you grounded. Your work can’t become your identity, or else you’ll lose everything.”

There was a pause as Rio absorbed Agatha’s words. The silence between them felt thick, charged with an undercurrent of unspoken understanding. Agatha wasn’t using her usual tricks, her mind games, to manipulate Rio like she did with everyone else. Instead, she was offering something else—a warning. It was subtle, but it was there, lurking in the space between them.

“You can’t let this case, or Darkhold, consume you,” Agatha continued. “If you do, you’ll lose yourself. You’re close to losing yourself already.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze intense. “Take a step back, Rio. Take a breath. And remember who you are before you go too far.”

Rio’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in her eyes—something fleeting—that suggested Agatha’s words were reaching her. She didn’t speak for a long moment, just staring at Agatha as if considering the gravity of what had just been said.

“You should go,” Agatha said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “Before you lose yourself completely.”

Rio didn’t flinch at the words. She didn’t even blink. Instead her gaze went to the familiar book on Agatha's desk, a flicker of recognizable appeared in Rio's eyes, something deeper in her soul and heart. 

Agatha noticed instantly and got up reaching for the book but the second her fingertips grazed the cover. 

"Don't." 

A sharp order halted Agatha's movements. Her expression perplexed for a moment before hiding it looking back at Rio. 

Rio shook her head. "Keep it, I don't want it around me right now." She breathed out tensely. "Just take care of it."

Agatha stood there for a moment, watching as Rio slowly turned to leave. She felt a strange pull in her chest as she glanced down at the book, the heavy silence in the room now almost suffocating.

Before Rio could make it to the door, Agatha’s voice stopped her. "Rio."

The agent paused, her back to Agatha. Without turning, Rio spoke. “I’ll come back... when I’m ready.”

Agatha gave a slight nod, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the book in her hands, but she said nothing else. She knew Rio had changed. There was no mistaking it now. The agent had once been sharp and unwavering, but now, something in her was different—more fragile, yet somehow more dangerous. And Agatha was starting to realize that she might not be the one to see it through to the end.

“I’ll be here,” Agatha finally said, her voice steady and cold, like a warning.

As Rio walked away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, Agatha leaned back against the cold wall of her cell. Her gaze followed Rio’s retreating form, her sharp eyes lingering on the way the agent’s shoulders slumped slightly, as though carrying a weight too heavy to bear.

Agatha remained seated on the edge of her cot, her sharp eyes following the agent’s retreating form. She tilted her head slightly, her usual smirk absent, replaced by something softer, more contemplative.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the facility. Then, as the faint sound of the outer door closing reached her, Agatha murmured, her voice low and almost tender, “Take care of yourself, Rio.”

The words hung in the air, quiet but sincere, as though meant for no one but the empty space between them. Agatha leaned back against the wall, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the book Rio had left in her care. Her expression softened, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through her usual facade.

“You’re not as strong as you think,” she whispered, almost to herself. “But maybe you’re stronger than I give you credit for.”

The words were soft, almost wistful, as if meant more for herself than for the woman leaving. Agatha’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, her expression hardened, She exhaled quietly, her gaze lingering on the spot where Rio had stood. Whatever game they were playing, whatever line they were walking, Agatha found herself hoping—just for a moment—that Rio wouldn’t fall too far.

Chapter Text

For the first time in months, Rio allowed herself to exist outside the suffocating walls of the case. She left her badge untouched in a drawer, the files stacked in her office gathering dust. No calls, no emails, no Agatha. Just her and the simple rituals of life.

Her morning began the same way: a cup of coffee brewed slowly in her kitchen, the faint aroma weaving through her small apartment. She sat at the counter, staring out the window at the gray city skyline, her fingers wrapped tightly around the mug as if it anchored her.

She spent her afternoon tending to her plants. Her collection was modest but vibrant, a small jungle thriving in the corner of her living room. The peace of watering them, trimming the leaves, and repotting those that needed it was a balm to her frayed nerves.

Her evening was her quiet retreat into documentaries. She watched stories of the wild—wolves prowling through snow, birds weaving intricate nests, the silent strength of predators stalking their prey. The narrators’ soothing voices filled her apartment, drowning out the noise of her thoughts.

She walked, her boots crunching against gravel paths in the park near her building. The crisp autumn air cooled her flushed skin, the rhythm of her steps matching the steady beat of her heart. She let herself breathe, let the case fade to a dull hum in the back of her mind.

But the nights were harder. Sleep eluded her, leaving her staring at the ceiling, shadows dancing across her walls. Memories of the past weeks crept in—Agatha’s voice, Darkhold’s victims, the strange pull between herself and the woman locked behind bars.

It was just her and a whole week of isolation.

Day One

Rio woke up groggy, her body heavy with the remnants of restless sleep. The sun had already climbed halfway through the sky, its light slipping through the blinds to paint faint patterns on the ceiling. She lay in bed longer than usual, staring at the cracks in the paint, willing herself to feel normal again.

When she finally got up, she shuffled into the kitchen, her bare feet cold against the tiles. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the small apartment, and she cradled the mug in her hands, the warmth grounding her. She perched on the windowsill, staring out at the city below. Cars moved sluggishly in the afternoon traffic, and a mother was walking her toddler along the sidewalk.

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room where her favorite book usually sat. The absence hit her like a whisper of regret, and her thoughts immediately turned to Agatha.

To distract herself, she spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning her apartment. Every surface was dusted, every corner vacuumed. She scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed and rearranged her bookshelf, placing novels in neat categories.

By the evening, exhaustion crept in, but her mind refused to settle. She curled up on the couch with a documentary about wild cats on the screen. The narrator’s voice was soothing, the footage mesmerizing, but her thoughts kept drifting to the case, to Agatha, to Darkhold. She fell asleep halfway through, the remote slipping from her fingers.

Day Two

The second day began with a chilly walk through the park. Rio pulled her jacket tighter around her as she navigated the familiar trails. The trees were losing their leaves, and the ground was a patchwork of gold and crimson. She stopped near a pond and watched the ducks paddle lazily through the water, her breath misting in the cold air.

Afterward, she ducked into a small café near her apartment. The smell of fresh pastries and brewed chai filled the air, and she indulged in a warm chai latte with a croissant. She sat by the window, the faint hum of chatter around her oddly comforting.

Back at home, her plants demanded attention. She carefully inspected each one, checking for wilting leaves or dry soil. Her monstera had a new split leaf, which made her smile faintly. She spoke to them as she worked, her voice soft, almost maternal. “You’re looking better,” she murmured to her spider plant. “Keep it up.”

The evening was spent cooking. She pulled out fresh vegetables and herbs she’d bought earlier in the week and made a hearty vegetable stew. Sitting at the small table, the aroma of thyme and rosemary in the air, she ate slowly, savoring the quiet.

Day Three

Sleep had eluded her the night before. She had tossed and turned, her dreams plagued by vague, shadowy figures. She rose late, groggy and irritable, her temples aching faintly.

Determined not to let her restlessness win, she threw herself into tasks. She did laundry, folded clothes with meticulous precision, and cleaned out her fridge. Around midday, she decided to take a longer walk, the brisk air helping to clear her head.

The city felt different that day, quieter, almost subdued. She walked without a destination, letting her feet carry her to a small bookstore tucked into a side street she rarely visited. Inside, she browsed aimlessly, her fingers brushing against the spines of novels and memoirs.

By the time she returned home, the sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow through her apartment windows. She brewed a cup of chamomile tea and settled onto the couch, trying to read a novel she’d started months ago. But her mind wouldn’t focus. She reread the same paragraph three times before giving up.

Day Four

The itch began on the fourth day. The need to do something, to be part of the action again. But she ignored it. Instead, she started her day with coffee and sat on her windowsill, watching the world outside.

Her afternoon was spent fixing small things around her apartment—a squeaky cabinet door, a loose drawer handle. She found satisfaction in the simple tasks, her hands busy while her mind wandered.

The park called to her again, and she spent hours walking its trails, the crunch of leaves underfoot a soothing rhythm. She sat on a bench for a while, watching a family play catch with their dog. For a moment, she let herself pretend that life was simpler, that her world didn’t include serial killers and unsolved cases.

That night, she pulled out an old sketchpad and tried to draw, something she hadn’t done in years. Her lines were hesitant, shaky, but it felt good to create something, even if it wasn’t perfect.

Day Five

The fifth day felt heavier. She woke up late, her dreams a blur of unsettling images. Her coffee tasted bitter, and the sunlight streaming through the windows felt too bright.

She spent most of the day in her apartment, cleaning already-clean surfaces and watering her plants again, even though they didn’t need it. The sense of being watched crept in again, a prickling at the back of her neck. She glanced toward the windows, but there was no one there.

By the evening, the solitude began to feel suffocating. She turned on the television, but the noise only irritated her. She considered calling someone—Alice or Jen—but decided against it. What would she even say? Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine and stared at the city lights through her window, the glass cold against her palm.

Day Six

She tried to shake off the unease on the sixth day. Her morning started with a walk, but the usual comfort of the park eluded her. Every shadow felt too long, every passerby a potential threat.

Her trip to the café was brief; the bustling energy of the place felt overwhelming. She grabbed her chai latte to go and walked home, the streets feeling emptier than they should.

The afternoon was spent watching documentaries, but none of them held her attention. She flipped through channels restlessly before giving up entirely. That night, she sat in the dark with her wine, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

Day Seven

By the seventh day, the itch was unbearable. The urge to do something, to be part of the case again, gnawed at her. She woke up early, her sleep restless and broken.

Her walk that morning was aimless, her steps heavy. She stopped at a bench in the park and sat there for what felt like hours, watching the world move around her.

Back at home, the prickle of being watched returned, stronger this time. She turned sharply, her heart pounding, but the room was empty. She closed the blinds and locked the door, telling herself it was nothing.

She shook her head. Paranoia, she thought. Just the weight of the case still pressing on her.

Outside, a figure shifted in the shadows across the street. They stayed there, silent and still, watching her light flicker on through the window.

Rio poured herself a glass of water, oblivious to the eyes that followed her every move.

Rio was sprawled on her couch, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees as she absentmindedly scrolled through case files. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling her from her half-hearted focus. She reached over, expecting Jen or maybe Alice, but the number was unfamiliar.

Her thumb hovered over the green button. Something about the situation felt... off. Against her better judgment, she answered.

“Hello?” Rio said cautiously, her voice low.

A pause. Then, a voice like silk and steel slithered through the line. “Agent Vidal.”

Rio froze, her mind immediately sharpening. “Agatha? How are you—?”

“Shh,” Agatha interrupted, her tone laced with amusement. “You ask too many questions, Agent. Why not enjoy the mystery for once?”

Rio sat up, her laptop sliding off her lap. “You’re in prison, Harkness. You don’t just get to pick up the phone and call whoever you want.”

“And yet, here we are,” Agatha replied, her voice dripping with mischief. “Relax, it’s not like I’m calling to confess anything. Or threaten anyone. This is a... casual conversation. How are you?" 

Rio pinched the bridge of her nose. “Casual? You’re a convicted serial killer calling a federal agent. Nothing about this is casual.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Agatha said lightly

Rio’s grip tightened on the phone. “You’re in a maximum-security facility. This isn’t exactly legal.”

“I’m aware,” Agatha said casually, as if they were discussing the weather. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

"I'm not answering anything. Why are you calling me?" 

“To check in,” Agatha replied nonchalantly. “It’s been... what, a week? How are you, Rio?”

There was a pause as Rio processed the absurdity of the situation. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

“Why not?” Agatha countered. “You’ve been so quiet lately. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

Rio scoffed, pacing across her small apartment. “Im on break. Better than having a psychotic breakdown."

“Touché,” Agatha said with a chuckle, there was a slight pause and Rio could hear rustling from the other side of the phone “So what do you do outside of chasing bad guys?”

Rio hesitated, her suspicion growing. “Why do you care?”

“Consider it curiosity,” Agatha replied smoothly. "I like to keep tabs on people who don't bore me within minutes. Think of it as special treatment."

"Flattering." The agent deadpanned already imagining Agatha's smug smirk. Rio sighed, leaning against her kitchen counter. “I don’t know… I read, watch documentaries, take care of my plants. Walk. Normal stuff.”

“Normal,” Agatha echoed thoughtfully. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

Rio rolled her eyes. “And what about you? What do you do, Harkness? Aside from causing chaos.”

“Hmm,” Agatha mused. “Not much to do in a cell, is there? Reading, meditating, occasionally entertaining myself by terrifying the guards. The usual.”

“That tracks,” Rio muttered.

“But let’s not deflect,” Agatha said smoothly. “You watch documentaries, you say? Nature, I presume?”

“Mostly,” Rio admitted reluctantly. “Wildlife, ecosystems, stuff like that.”

“Interesting,” Agatha said. “But what about television?”

Rio blinked at the sudden shift. “What?”

“You heard me,” Agatha pressed. “Surely even you indulge in some mindless entertainment now and then.”

Rio shrugged, even though Agatha couldn’t see her. “I guess. I like dramas.”

“Anything specific?”

Rio hesitated. “There’s this show called Scandal. Involving stuff with the president, a mistress, crime scenes.”

“Never heard of it,” Agatha said, though there was a faint note of frustration in her voice.

Rio chuckled softly. “Figures. You’ve been locked up for years. You probably don’t know half the stuff on TV now.”

“Careful,” Agatha warned, her tone light but edged with mock threat.

Rio smirked. “So, what’s the last movie you watched? The Silence of the Lambs?”

“Very funny,” Agatha deadpanned. “But no, I’m not that predictable.”

Rio snorted. “Sure you’re not. Can I guess?" 

"Knock yourself out." 

"Romance." 

"No."

"Thrillers?" 

"Boring."

"Devil wears Prada?" 

"What the fuck is that." 

Rio snorted. "That movie would seem more like your style. Ok, uh, well I'm not sure. Some type of musical?"

Dead silence on the other side.

"Agatha?" 

"Well..."

Then it all clicked for Rio as her eyes widened. "A musical? Oh, this is good." 

"I'm going to kill you." Agatha threatened.

"What happened to casual conversation?" Rio replied in a smug tone.

There was a brief pause before Agatha spoke again, her voice softer this time. “Fine, Sweeney Todd. Now back to you... You're really fond about your plants, aren't you?" 

Rio frowned, thrown by the question. “Yeah… why?”

“The notes from your book,” Agatha replied. “It’s grounding, isn’t it? Tending to something alive. Watching it grow.”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Rio said cautiously.

“Good,” Agatha said simply. “You should hold on to that.”

Rio was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, she cleared her throat. “This… this has been weird.”

“Hasn’t it?” Agatha said with a smirk audible in her tone.

Rio shook her head. “I should hang up.”

“But you won’t,” Agatha said knowingly.

Rio sighed heavily, the phone still pressed to her ear. “You don’t make this easy, do you?”

“I’m not known for being easy,” Agatha quipped, her tone laced with amusement.

Rio rubbed her temple. “Alright, let’s get this over with. You clearly called for something.”

“Maybe I did. Or maybe I didn’t,” Agatha said airily. “I’m not a fan of straightforwardness. It’s so… boring.”

Rio groaned softly. “You’re impossible.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Agent Vidal.”

Rio leaned against her kitchen counter, staring out the window into the city night. “You’re seriously just calling to talk about nothing?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Agatha’s voice dipped slightly, becoming almost soft. “Perhaps I simply wanted to hear your voice.”

Rio froze, her hand tightening on the phone. “Why?”

Agatha chuckled. “Don’t sound so alarmed. It’s not as sinister as you think.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Rio said dryly.

“I imagine not many people in your life make you feel truly seen,” Agatha mused.

Rio stiffened. “If you analyze me right now I swear-”

“Oh, calm down,” Agatha countered, her voice smooth and steady. “You think about things most people ignore. You notice details. It’s why you’re good at what you do. Think of it as a compliment."

Rio frowned, her mind racing. “That’s just an observation. Nothing special.”

“Don’t downplay yourself,” Agatha said with surprising sincerity. “The world has enough people who ignore their potential. You’re not one of them.”

There was a long pause. Rio didn’t know what to say, and for once, Agatha didn’t push her.

Finally, Rio cleared her throat. “Okay, since you’re asking all these questions, let me ask one. Do you ever regret it?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Regret what?”

“Any of it,” Rio said. “The lives you took. The people you hurt.”

Agatha’s voice turned colder, more measured. “Regret is for those who didn’t know what they were doing, Agent. I always knew.”

Rio swallowed hard, feeling a chill creep down her spine.

“And you?” Agatha asked suddenly. “Do you regret anything?”

Rio hesitated. “That’s not the same.”

"Moving on then..." 

Rio leaned against the counter, staring at the phone like it might bite her. The conversation with Agatha had already lasted longer than she intended, but there was something magnetic about the woman’s voice. A mix of calm, control, and sharp wit that drew her in against her better judgment.

“So,” Agatha began, her tone airy but precise. "Surely you don’t make a habit of entertaining phone calls from murderers.”

“Funny,” Rio replied, tilting her head. “I was just wondering what kind of strings you had to pull to get a phone in there. Or how you even got my number.”

 “Oh, Agent, you’re adorable,” Agatha said with a faint chuckle. “But let’s not spoil the fun with technicalities, shall we?”

Rio let out a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “You really don’t care how much trouble this could get you into, do you?”

“Trouble?” Agatha sounded genuinely amused. “Rio, I live in trouble. I bathe in it, I thrive on it. This little call is hardly going to tip the scales.”

Rio rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here, talking to me,” Agatha countered smoothly.

“I’m trying to figure out why,” Rio admitted, half to herself. “What’s the real reason you called?”

There was a pause. Then, Agatha said, “I was bored.”

“That’s it? You called me because you were bored?”

“Would you prefer I said I missed you?” Agatha quipped.

Rio groaned. “You’re impossible.”

Agatha let out a small scoff. "Why is it so hard to believe that I was bored? I mean, you're speaking to the woman who turned herself in because she was bored."

"And how is that decision going for you?" 

"Still deciding." 

"Even after a decade?" 

Agatha hummed. "Life's a mystery."

"Unbelievable." Rio muttered. “But why were you really asking about all that earlier? About my life.” Rio asked, her voice softer now.

Agatha hesitated before answering. “Because I think it’s important to remember who you are outside of all… this.”

Rio’s grip on the phone tightened. “Agatha…”

“Don’t overthink it,” Agatha cut in. “Just consider it friendly advice from your favorite murderer.”

Rio huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here you are,” Agatha said smugly. 

She had no idea why she hadn’t ended the call already. Agatha had been relentless for the past five minutes, how has she not been caught with the phone?

“So, what’s next, Agent?” Agatha’s voice carried a light, mocking lilt. “Are you going to regale me with tales of your thrilling Tuesday night movie marathons?”

“Actually,” Rio shot back, “I don’t have time to waste on movies when I’m stuck answering calls from criminals who somehow get access to phones they shouldn’t have.”

“Touche,” Agatha said, clearly entertained. “But I’m not just any criminal. I’d like to think I’m a rather exceptional one.”

Rio snorted. “Exceptional at being a pain in my—”

“Oh, language, Agent,” Agatha interrupted smoothly. “No need to be crude. I’d hate for you to tarnish that professional image of yours.”

“Professional?” Rio quipped, pacing now. “This conversation is anything but.”

There was a pause on Agatha’s end before she spoke again, her tone deceptively sweet. “Tell me, do you even know how to relax? Or are you so tightly wound that even a day off feels like a chore?”

“Relaxing isn’t exactly a luxury I have,” Rio replied tersely.

“Hmm,” Agatha hummed thoughtfully. “That’s no way to live. What’s the harm in a little indulgence now and then?”

Rio rolled her eyes. “Like you’d know anything about that.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Agatha said coyly.

Rio smirked, finally feeling like she had the upper hand. “You sound like you’re about to give me life advice, and somehow, I’m not buying it.”

“Suit yourself,” Agatha replied breezily. “But I’ll have you know I’m an excellent conversationalist. People would kill for my insight.”

“That’s not a metaphor you should use lightly,” Rio muttered dryly.

Agatha laughed—a low, warm sound that somehow caught Rio off guard. Feeling the tiniest smile tugat her lips despite herself, Rio sighed. “Okay, that’s enough. I’m hanging up now.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Agatha teased.

Without missing a beat, Rio responded, “Watch me.” She pressed the button, cutting the call.

For a moment, the kitchen felt quieter than it had in years. Rio set the phone down and stared at it, shaking her head. “What the hell am I doing?” she muttered.

Chapter Text

Rio sat at her desk, staring at the chaos sprawled before her. A mountain of reports, photographs, and case notes teetered on the edge, threatening to spill onto the floor. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on a tangle she hadn’t bothered to brush out this morning. Her coffee sat untouched beside her, the faint steam spiraling upward and vanishing into the cool air.

She rubbed her temples, trying to chase away the dull ache that had settled at the base of her skull. The week off had given her time to breathe—or at least it should have—but the moment she’d stepped back into the office, the weight of everything she’d been avoiding crashed down on her. Darkhold’s latest crime scene, the questions circling Agatha Harkness, and the lingering embarrassment of falling asleep outside a serial killer’s cell all churned together in her head.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Rio sat at her desk, flipping through the latest case reports. Her hair was neatly tied back, her posture straight, and her suit crisply pressed. Outwardly, she looked every bit the efficient agent. But beneath the polished surface, something was off.

She was quieter now, barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. Conversations with her colleagues had dwindled to polite nods and brief exchanges. Even J, her closest ally in the bureau, noticed the shift but chose to give Rio space—for now.

Darkhold had struck again.

Another body, another twisted tableau staged like a scene from an eerie, macabre play. This time, the victim was posed as if mid-dance, arms raised in a pirouette, with a delicate mask painted directly onto their face. The file landed on Rio's desk that morning, accompanied by a pointed look from Jen.

"You okay to handle this?" Jen asked, leaning against Rio's desk. Her voice was cautious, not condescending.

Rio barely looked up. "I'm fine."

"You sure? You haven’t been yourself lately."

"I'm fine," Rio repeated, her tone sharper than intended.

Jennifer held up her hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Just... don’t bottle it all up, okay?"

Rio waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in her chair. “I’m fine. Just getting back into the swing of things after my break. That’s all.”

Jen didn’t move, her gaze unwavering. “You’re not exactly convincing me, you know.”

Rio exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m just a little out of it. A week off, a mountain of work to do, and now Darkhold’s latest masterpiece—great timing, as always.”

Jen frowned. “You mean the murder in that theater set? You’ve barely said anything about it since you got back.”

“I’ve read the file,” Rio replied evenly, her tone clipped. “Just… piecing it together.”

Jen studied her for a moment longer, then relented with a shrug. “Alright, but if you need help or, you know, someone to talk to…”

“I’m good,” Rio interrupted, her lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But thanks.”

As Jen walked away, Rio’s gaze drifted back to the file in front of her. She knew Jen was right—Darkhold thrived on chaos and attention. But pushing the thought aside, she grabbed her pen and started scribbling notes in the margins.

The office buzzed around her, but Rio barely noticed. She was lost in her thoughts, the gruesome crime scene photographs burned into her mind. Her pen tapped rhythmically against the desk as she tried to focus, but there was an ache in her chest she couldn’t ignore.

The sensation of being untethered, of slipping into darker corners of her own mind, lingered like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

As she finished scanning the scene she placed all the papers in the folder and got up having one more destination in mind.

Rio gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles pale against the leather. The low hum of the engine was the only sound in the car, the sky was overcast, a muted gray that seemed to seep into her mood.

Her thoughts wandered as she drove, jumping from Darkhold’s latest crime scene to the peculiarities of Agatha herself. The way Agatha always seemed to know what Rio was thinking before she even said it, the strange flashes of vulnerability that surfaced in her otherwise impenetrable demeanor.

As the road stretched on before her, her phone buzzed against the center console. She glanced down at the screen. Alice.

With a sigh, she hit the button on her steering wheel to answer. “Hey.”

“Rio Vidal!” Alice’s voice rang with faux enthusiasm. “The elusive agent finally picks up her phone. I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

Rio managed a small smile. “You’re dramatic, Gulliver.”

“Dramatic? No, dramatic is not hearing from your best friend for weeks and wondering if she’s buried under paperwork or something worse.”

Rio sighed, her fingers tightening on the wheel. “Sorry. Work’s been… intense.”

“That’s all I ever hear from you,” Alice quipped. “Intense work, long hours. You do realize there’s life outside the FBI, right?”

“Vaguely,” Rio muttered, earning a laugh from Alice.

“Alright, let’s try this: how’s everything else? Are you eating? Sleeping? Watering your weird little plant collection?”

Rio glanced at her rearview mirror, avoiding the question for a beat too long. “The plants are fine.”

“Oh, good,” Alice said with mock relief. “At least the plants are thriving while you’re running yourself into the ground.”

Rio huffed a laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“Someone has to be. I know you’re married to your job, but even workaholics need a break. When’s the last time you did something for you?”

Rio thought about the past week—the sleepless nights, the hours spent dissecting case files, the creeping sense of unease she couldn’t shake. “I took a walk the other day,” she offered weakly.

Alice groaned. “A walk? Really, Rio? That’s the best you’ve got? What happened to movie nights? Or reading something that isn’t a file on some lunatic?”

“I’ve been busy,” Rio said, her voice edging on defensive.

Alice softened. “I know. But, seriously, take care of yourself, okay? You’re no good to anyone if you burn out.”

“I’m fine,” Rio said automatically, though the words felt hollow even to her.

“Sure you are,” Alice said, not convinced. “Just… promise me you’ll actually call next time, instead of me having to hunt you down.”

“I’ll try,” Rio said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“You better. Take care, Vidal.”

“You too, Gulliver,” Rio replied before ending the call.

The silence returned, heavier now. Rio let out a slow breath, gripping the wheel tighter. The facility loomed closer with every passing mile, and with it came the familiar knot of tension in her chest.

The corridor was alive with the low hum of guards murmuring, the clanking of heavy boots, and the metallic scrape of cell doors opening and closing. Rio paused mid-step as she caught sight of a familiar figure being escorted down the hallway, flanked by two heavily armed guards. Wanda Maximoff.

Her disheveled hair framed a face of eerie calm, and her green eyes glinted with something unreadable. Even restrained, Wanda moved like she owned the space, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. She wore her restraints like jewelry, the chains rattling a quiet symphony as she walked.

“Agent Vidal,” Wanda’s voice cut through the din, soft and melodic yet carrying a sharp edge. She tilted her head in recognition, her expression flickering between amusement and curiosity.

Rio crossed her arms, standing her ground as the guards hesitated, waiting for her signal to proceed. “Wanda. What’s going on?”

The guards shifted uncomfortably, clearly eager to keep moving, but Wanda stopped in her tracks, ignoring their insistence. “Oh, just a little misunderstanding,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “They think I’m too... unpredictable. They moved Agnes away from me because of that.” Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Can you believe that?”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine why.”

Wanda chuckled, a low, throaty sound that seemed to make the guards even more uneasy. “Jealousy, maybe. She’s quite the magnet for attention, isn’t she?” Wanda leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But then, you already know that.”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here to entertain your games, Wanda. Why the move?”

Wanda straightened, her grin fading as her tone turned quieter, almost somber. “She isn’t happy.”

Rio blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected response. “She?” she repeated, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

"Mrs. O'Connor,," Wanda’s eyes bore into hers, the teasing glint replaced by something darker, heavier.

Rio blinked. "Who?" 

Wanda huffed. "Agnes O'Connor, keep up."

"So Agatha is married?" 

Wanda rolled her eyes. "No, Mrs. O'Connor.

Rio glanced at the guards who simply shook their head not to ask anymore questions. "Right yes, Mrs. O'Connor."

Wanda smiled with delight although her eyes seemed to see more. “She’s not like you, Rio. Not like me either. She answers to someone... something. And it’s not thrilled with all the little disruptions lately.”

Rio stared at her, unsure whether to press for more details or dismiss the cryptic statement as more of Wanda’s peculiar rambling. “Disruptions like you?”

“Disruptions like you,” Wanda corrected, a small smile tugging at her lips again. “You’ve been keeping Agnes... distracted. Off-balance. I can see it in her eyes. Mrs. Connor doesn't like that."

Rio didn’t reply, her stomach twisting uneasily. Wanda tilted her head again, studying her with unnerving intensity. “Careful, Agent Vidal. Agnes might not admit it, but she has her limits. Push her too far, and you’ll see why they call her Harkness.”

The guards shifted impatiently, one clearing his throat. “We need to move,” he said, his voice gruff but tinged with nervousness.

Wanda sighed dramatically, turning to them with a mock pout. “Oh, fine. Take me away, then. But don’t forget, Agent,” she added, glancing back at Rio with a sly smile, “you’re always welcome to visit me too.”

Rio said nothing, her gaze following Wanda as she was led down the corridor. The unsettling mix of truths and riddles lingered in the air, wrapping around Rio like a fog.

Wanda’s parting words echoed in her mind. Mrs. O'Connor. Wanda could be referring to a mother.

As the guards and Wanda disappeared from view, Rio exhaled sharply, the tension in her chest refusing to ease. Whatever Wanda meant, it was clear she wasn’t just being provocative. There was a storm brewing, and Rio was standing directly in its path.

By the time Rio stood outside Agatha's cell that afternoon, the weight of the case file felt heavier than ever. She clutched it tightly, hesitating before stepping closer. The guards gave her wary looks but didn’t say anything.

Inside, Agatha was seated cross-legged on her cot, her head tilted as she watched Rio approach. There was a flicker of surprise in her expression—a rare emotion for someone like Agatha.

"Agent Vidal," Agatha said smoothly, standing and walking toward the bars with her hands clasped behind her back. "Long time, no see. What brings you to my humble abode this time?"

Rio didn’t answer immediately. She stepped closer, sliding the case file through the slot in the door without a word.

Agatha raised an eyebrow. "Oh, how thoughtful of you. A gift?"

Rio sighed, rubbing her temples briefly before meeting Agatha’s gaze. "Another body. Darkhold."

"Ah, the theatrical fiend strikes again," Agatha said, flipping open the file with practiced ease. Her eyes scanned the pages, her expression giving away nothing.

Rio leaned against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared at Agatha, waiting.

"You’re unusually quiet today," Agatha remarked without looking up. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Just... read," Rio muttered, her voice flat.

Agatha chuckled softly but complied. She took her time flipping through the photographs and notes, occasionally glancing up at Rio.

"Mid-pirouette," Agatha mused, studying the victim’s pose. "Impressive balance. Darkhold certainly has a flair for the dramatic."

"Any insights?" Rio asked, her voice clipped.

Agatha shut the file and leaned against the bars, watching Rio intently. "Why don’t you tell me what you think? You’re good at this—better than most of your colleagues, I’d wager. So, indulge me, Agent Vidal. What’s your theory?"

Rio hesitated, her jaw tightening. "The victim was staged to look like they were dancing. The mask… it’s symbolic. But I don’t know what it means yet."

Agatha nodded slowly. "And the location?"

"An abandoned theater. Closed down years ago," Rio said.

"Ah," Agatha murmured. "Fitting. Our dear Darkhold enjoys leaving clues, doesn’t he? Little breadcrumbs for you to follow."

Rio nodded, glancing up to gauge Agatha’s reaction. “Theatrics seem to be his thing. Every detail screams performance.”

Agatha leaned back against the wall, her gaze drifting upward as if in thought. “Art imitates life, or so they say. But this... this is something else entirely. An obsession, perhaps?”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “Or a message.”

A beat of silence passed between them, heavy and charged. Agatha’s piercing gaze returned to Rio, her lips curling into a faint smile. “And what do you think he’s trying to say, Agent?”

Rio exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That he’s in control. That he’s always two steps ahead.”

Agatha’s smile widened, though it lacked warmth. “Ah, but isn’t that what all great performers desire? To hold the audience captive, to make them feel something?”

Rio’s brow furrowed, the weight of Agatha’s words pressing down on her. “This isn’t a performance. It’s murder.”

Agatha chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Rio’s spine. “And yet, here we are, dissecting his work like critics at a gallery.”

Rio rubbed her temples again, frustration evident in her posture.

Agatha studied her carefully. "You would have stayed home another week, you look like shit."

Rio shot her a sharp look. "I didn’t come here for judgement."

"No, you came here because you’re running out of options," Agatha countered, her tone softening slightly. "But if you’re going to unravel this thread, you need to stay sharp. Darkhold wants you to be desperate. Don’t give him the satisfaction."

Rio’s shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of the case pressing down on her.

"Take a breath," Agatha said, her voice almost gentle. "Think it through. You’re better than this."

Rio looked up at her, the tension in her face softening just a fraction. "You don’t know me."

"Don’t I?" Agatha replied, her lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

Rio leaned against the cold steel table in Agatha’s cell block with a small sigh. She didn’t look at Agatha; instead, she studied the grooves in the floor. The air around Rio felt heavier today, perhaps from Wanda's cryptic comments still lingering in her mind.

Agatha sat calmly on her cot, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. Her sharp eyes studied Rio, reading her mood before a word was spoken.

“You look troubled,” Agatha said, her voice as smooth as silk. “More so than usual. Care to share?”

Rio finally glanced up, her brow furrowed. “I saw Wanda being escorted to another cell earlier. She said something odd.”

“Wanda says a lot of odd things,” Agatha replied, smirking. “That’s kind of her whole thing.”

Rio crossed her arms, ignoring the jab. “She mentioned something about your mother, I'm guessing, not being happy.”

For a split second, Agatha’s expression froze, her smirk faltering. Then, she rolled her eyes with a small scoff and leaned back against the wall. “Of course, she did. Mrs. O'Connor, right? It’s one of her favorite tales to spin when she’s feeling especially unhinged. My mother, my rabbit, my imaginary evil twin. Honestly, it’s all quite exhausting.”

Rio tilted her head, scrutinizing Agatha’s face. “So, there’s no truth to it?”

“None,” Agatha said flatly. “My mother has been dead for years. Wanda’s just having one of her schizophrenic episodes. You can’t take her seriously when she starts spinning those kinds of yarns.”

Rio frowned, leaning forward slightly. “It didn’t feel like one of her usual ramblings. She seemed... certain. Like she was warning me about something.”

Agatha’s smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wanda always seems certain. That’s what makes her so convincing. But don’t let her fool you, Rio. She doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about most of the time.”

Rio hesitated, still unsettled. “She also said I was a distraction for you. That I’ve been keeping you... off-balance.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Did she, now? Well, that’s rich coming from someone who can barely keep her own head on straight.”

Rio didn’t respond immediately, her thoughts still tangled. Agatha sighed, standing and pacing slowly toward the bars.

“Look,” Agatha said, her tone softening just a fraction, “Don’t let her stories derail you. She likes to stir the pot, and you’re an easy target because you actually listen to her.”

“I listen to you too,” Rio said pointedly, her eyes meeting Agatha’s.

“That’s different,” Agatha replied smoothly, leaning casually against the bars. “You listen to me because you want answers. You listen to Wanda because you think she’s giving you some deeper truth. Let me save you the trouble: she’s not.”

Rio didn’t answer, her gaze dropping. Agatha’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, the amusement fading from her expression.

“Let it go, Rio,” Agatha said, her voice unusually gentle. "Believe me, my mother is dead."

Rio glanced up, meeting Agatha’s gaze. For a moment, she thought she saw something almost... protective in the woman’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Fine,” Rio muttered, straightening and stepping back. “I’ll drop it. For now.”

“Good girl,” Agatha quipped, a sly grin returning to her face. “Now, anything else?”

Rio shook her head, turning toward the door. “No. That’s it for today. Thanks for nothing," she muttered, grabbing the file and turning to leave.

The cool evening air wrapped around Rio as she exited the building, her footsteps echoing against the pavement of the nearly empty parking lot. She clutched her bag tightly, her mind still buzzing with the cryptic conversation she’d just had with Agatha.

Her car was parked at the far end of the lot, where the light barely reached. She shook her head, irritated at herself for not choosing a closer spot earlier that morning. Each step felt heavier, her exhaustion weighing her down as she replayed Agatha’s dismissive tone and Wanda’s unsettling words.

"Why do I even bother?" she muttered under her breath, fishing her keys from her pocket.

As she neared her car, a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. Something felt... off. She glanced over her shoulder, but the lot was empty, save for the faint hum of the streetlights.

"Get a grip, Rio," she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

She turned back to her car, unlocking it with a beep. The sound seemed deafening in the stillness of the night. Just as she reached for the handle, a sharp noise—a faint shuffle—caught her attention.

Before she could fully turn to look, pain exploded at the back of her head. The world tilted violently as her vision blurred, and her knees buckled beneath her. The last thing she saw was the cold, unforgiving silhouette rushing up to meet her before everything went black.

The parking lot fell silent once more, the faint hum of the streetlights.

Chapter Text

The facility had its own rhythm—sterile, suffocating, and endlessly gray. From the hum of fluorescent lights to the faint, antiseptic tang in the air, everything about it felt cold and artificial. It was exactly as it should be for a place housing the worst humanity had to offer.

At her post, she stood rigid, her stiff uniform emphasizing her thinning frame. Years on the job had made her posture almost mechanical, her expression perpetually sour. Deep wrinkles etched themselves into her face, and her lips pursed as if she’d bitten into a lemon. She might have looked like someone’s grandmother, if not for the hard glint in her eye and the palpable aura of disdain that clung to her like cheap perfume.

Her name didn’t matter much here, not to her coworkers, and certainly not to the revolving door of agents and visitors. She had seen the facility change hands, policies tighten, and her patience dwindle. It was a thankless job, but someone had to do it. Someone had to keep the monsters in their cages.

And then there was her.

Rio Vidal.

The name alone was enough to make her blood simmer. Every time Vidal walked in, it was like the air thickened with something she couldn’t stand—a mixture of arrogance, carelessness, and some infuriating aura of self-assurance.

Every time Agent Rio Vidal walked through those steel-reinforced doors, the air seemed to shift, and the woman felt her muscles coil in silent resentment. It was a reflex at this point—a deep, gnawing irritation that had grown into something almost physical.

She didn’t know what it was about Vidal that set her off so completely. Maybe it was the way she moved through the facility like she belonged here, like she wasn’t walking into a den of monsters. Maybe it was the way she didn’t flinch when she passed by the cells, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable. Or maybe it was the sheer audacity of her.

Who does she think she is?

The agent had a way of commanding attention without asking for it, and that infuriated her. It wasn’t just the guards, either. The prisoners noticed her. Even the ones who usually stared at the floor or at their walls seemed to perk up when Vidal was around.

She couldn’t stomach it. Not Vidal’s tailored suits, not her measured tone, not the way she carried herself like she was above it all. But what really turned her stomach was where Vidal went.

To her.

Agatha Harkness.

The thought of that woman’s name was enough to sour her already bitter mood. A murderer, a manipulator, a creature of sheer malice. Harkness didn’t deserve visitors. She didn’t deserve sympathy. She deserved to rot in the dark, forgotten by the world she had terrorized.

But no.

Every few days, Vidal would saunter through the steel doors, flash her credentials like some kind of golden ticket, and make her way to Harkness’s cell. And nobody stopped her. Nobody questioned her.

The first time she saw Vidal’s credentials, she almost laughed. Some hotshot FBI agent, dragging herself down here to play therapist to a monster? She had asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “What’s a Bureau agent doing in this hellhole? Can’t get enough of the glamour?”

Vidal had barely looked at her. “Just doing my job.”

It was maddening. Vidal had brushed her off like she was just another cog in the machine. No respect. No acknowledgment of the absurdity of what she was doing. And now, months later, the pattern hadn’t changed.

Every time Vidal walked past her station, the woman felt her blood pressure spike.

Why?

Why would anyone willingly sit across from someone like Harkness? Talk to her? Treat her like she was worth the time of day?

And Harkness. The smug, calculating look in her eyes whenever Vidal visited. Like she’d won something. Like the mere act of having a visitor was a victory in itself.

Her gnarled hands clenched at the edge of her station desk as her eyes followed Vidal’s path through the facility. Barely anyone batted an eye at her presence anymore. She was just another fixture in the routine. It made the woman’s stomach churn.

These people didn’t understand. They didn’t see what she saw. Harkness wasn’t just a prisoner. She was a predator, waiting for the right moment to strike. And Vidal was willingly stepping into her den, over and over again.

It was wrong. All of it.

She sat back in her chair, her spine stiff and her scowl deepening. Around her, the facility continued its humdrum operations—guards on patrol, distant clatters of metal, the occasional muffled voice from a cell. None of it mattered.

Her eyes remained fixed on Vidal as she disappeared deeper into the building.

“This place is going soft,” she muttered under her breath. “Rotten from the inside out.”

She adjusted her chair, the creak of worn leather echoing in the silence. Her mood was darker than usual, her thoughts swirling with disgust and anger.

Vidal didn’t belong here. Not with her self-assured stride, not with her misplaced sense of duty. And certainly not in Agatha Harkness’s cell.

The woman stood in the dimly lit hall, her posture rigid as she checked the clipboard in her hand. The sound of approaching footsteps made her glance up, and she stiffened when Wanda came into view from the cell. Wanda was wearing her usual strange smile, her eyes glinting with something the woman couldn't quite place.

"Hello Eve... Lady Death's been visiting again," Wanda said with a soft, almost amused chuckle, her voice light but carrying a heavy undercurrent of something else—something darker.

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t want to hear Wanda’s absurd nickname for Rio or herself. But as always, she was forced to listen.

"Don’t call her that," She muttered, barely masking her irritation. "It’s disrespectful."

Wanda tilted her head, studying her with those wide, knowing eyes. "She walks around like she’s got a deal with death. Don’t tell me you don’t see it."

She narrowed her eyes at Wanda, her lips curling into a tight frown. She clenched her clipboard tighter. "She’s just doing her job. And you’re overanalyzing things."

Wanda smirked. "Maybe, but you can’t tell me you don’t see the way she looks at the world. Like death is her only friend. Like she’s already accepted it."

She narrowed her eyes but didn't answer immediately. She gripped the edge of the security desk, feeling a tightening in her chest. 

Wanda just shrugged and leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with that unsettling amusement. "What’s your problem with her? You’re staring at her like she’s some kind of plague." She finally asked

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "She is," she muttered, barely audible.

Wanda chuckled darkly. "She’s just doing her job, Evie. It’s not like Agatha can do any more damage than she already has. Right?"

"She should be left alone," She snapped, her voice suddenly louder, the frustration spilling over. "A monster like Agatha doesn’t deserve company. She should rot in isolation, not get visits. Especially not from someone like her."

Wanda raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by Eve’s outburst. "Someone like her? Rio’s hardly a monster, Eve."

Her expression hardened, her gaze shifting toward the security monitors. She didn’t want to be the one to explain why she couldn’t stand Rio’s visits. "She’s… naive. She doesn’t understand what she’s dealing with. Agatha should be forgotten, left to wither away in her cell. Not given attention. Not allowed to… thrive."

Wanda’s smirk never wavered, though there was something oddly sympathetic in her eyes. "I think you’re missing the point. Rio’s more like Agatha than you realize."

Eve’s blood ran cold at the insinuation. She shook her head sharply, her grip on the desk tightening. "Enough of your nonsense, Wanda. You don’t know her, you don’t know anything about her."

Wanda’s eyes gleamed, but she said nothing more, instead offering a mocking, almost pitying smile. "Maybe I know more than you think."

The old woman’s fingers drummed incessantly against her desk, the sound sharp and steady, mirroring the rhythm of her festering thoughts. Each day that Rio Vidal walked through the facility doors, her resolve weakened, fraying like a taut thread stretched beyond its limit. It was no longer just irritation or disdain—it was something deeper now. A gnawing obsession, one that consumed her every waking moment.

Agatha Harkness was a blight on this world. And Rio Vidal… Vidal was watering it, feeding it, nurturing it like some kind of grotesque flower.

The whispers of the guards still rang in her ears, fanning the embers of her fury. Harkness, threatening them on Vidal’s behalf. Vidal, asleep across from that woman’s cell, unguarded, vulnerable, as if she trusted her. It was insanity. Absolute insanity.

Her thoughts turned darker with each passing day, her mind spiraling as she watched Rio’s routine unfold. She knew Vidal’s schedule by heart now. The way the agent would stride through the halls with her file tucked under her arm, that maddening look of focus etched into her face. The guards, spineless and complacent, would wave her through without a second thought, and Vidal would vanish into the depths of the facility where Harkness lay in wait.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t natural.

Agatha Harkness didn’t deserve this attention, this validation. She deserved to be utterly alone, her madness festering in isolation. And Vidal—Vidal was undoing all of it. Every last bit.

The old woman clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the monitor on her desk. The security feed flickered, showing static-filled images of the sterile halls and locked doors that housed the worst humanity had to offer. She knew the layout of this place like the back of her hand, every camera angle, every blind spot.

And she knew exactly where Agatha Harkness had been moved after her latest “incident.”

The memory of it made her stomach churn. The reporter had gotten too close, and Harkness had toyed with them like a cat playing with its prey. The aftermath had been a media nightmare, and the facility had scrambled to contain the fallout. Harkness had been relocated to a different wing, a supposedly more secure cell. The woman had seized the opportunity to slip into the shadows and watch the transfer.

She had hidden behind a supply cart, her heart pounding as she caught sight of Harkness being escorted down the hall.

The infamous Agatha Harkness.

Even shackled and flanked by guards, there was an air about her that made the woman’s skin crawl. Harkness’s eyes had been sharp, cold, and calculating, flicking around the corridor as though she were cataloging every detail. The woman had held her breath, pressing herself further into the shadows as Harkness passed by.

It wasn’t just arrogance—it was mockery. Harkness having a smirk walking as she owned the place.

The thought made her blood boil.

Back at her desk, the woman’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for her mug of coffee, now long cold. Her thoughts churned like a storm, chaotic and relentless. She couldn’t sit idly by anymore, couldn’t watch this madness unfold without doing something.

Her coworkers were blind to the danger. The guards were complacent, their whispers filled with amusement rather than fear. Even the higher-ups seemed to have no issue with Vidal’s incessant visits to Harkness.

But she saw the truth.

She saw the danger.

Agatha Harkness was thriving, manipulating everyone around her, and Vidal was her puppet, willingly dancing on her strings.

The woman’s grip tightened around the mug until her knuckles turned white. Her disgust turned inward, festering like a wound. Someone had to stop this. Someone had to restore the balance.

Her thoughts turned darker still, dipping into uncharted waters.

Vidal was the key. If she could just… remove her from the equation, everything would fall back into place. Harkness would be alone, abandoned, left to rot in the isolation she deserved. No more visits, no more games, no more whispers of favoritism.

Justice could be restored.

Her heart raced at the thought, a twisted sense of purpose settling over her like a shroud. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the storm in her mind refused to quiet.

She had to act. She had to do something.

And she would. Soon.

She stood silently before Wanda's cell, her posture rigid and her face lined with a lifetime of grievances. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a pallid glow on Wanda’s pale complexion. Wanda sat cross-legged on her cot, her hands resting in her lap, her expression calm but distant.

For a moment, the two women stared at each other. Eve broke the silence first, her voice sharp and cold.

“Do you know why she’s here?” the woman asked, the disdain in her voice unmistakable.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Who?”

“Rio,” She spat the name like it was venom on her tongue. “She’s here again. Wasting time, entertaining her.”

Wanda shifted, leaning forward slightly. There was no smirk, no amusement—only a steady, calculating look. “Lady Death,” she murmured, almost to herself. “She walks willingly into the lion’s den. Always has.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands gripping the cold metal bars in front of her. “It’s unnatural,” she hissed. “Someone like her shouldn’t be allowed near someone like Agatha. It disrupts everything—justice, order. Agatha should be rotting, alone, forgotten. Not—” She stopped, her voice trembling with rage. “Not thriving under someone’s care.”

Wanda’s gaze remained locked on the woman, her tone measured. “And you think it’s your job to fix it? To make sure Agatha gets what she deserves?”

“Yes,” She snapped. “Because no one else will. The guards, the doctors, even the warden—they’ve all turned a blind eye. She’s turning this place into her stage, and that girl—Rio—is her willing puppet.”

Wanda leaned back, her eyes darkening. “You hate her,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you? Not about Rio, not really. It’s Agatha, isn’t it? You want her alone. You want her forgotten."

Her lips curled into a grimace. "She deserves to be forgotten. Forgotten and left to rot like the monster she is."

Wanda’s eyes twinkled with something darker. "If you think Rio's keeping Agatha company for all the wrong reasons, then maybe you don’t know her as well as you think. There’s something... complicated between them."

"Complicated?" She sneered. "Don’t make excuses for her. She's just another fool, believing she can fix a monster."

Wanda’s expression softened slightly, though her tone remained teasing. "Well, if she’s a fool, she’s got company in the rest of us, doesn’t she?"

The transfer was quieter this time. Agatha Harkness, unshackled but still flanked by armed guards, walked with a grace that felt entirely out of place in the cold, sterile corridors of the facility. Her dark eyes were sharp, scanning everything with an unnerving calm, as though the entire situation amused her. She was being returned to her usual cell after the “incident” with the reporter.

The old woman sat at her desk, pretending to work but watching the security feed intently. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her heart racing as the camera caught the fleeting image of Agatha. The murderer’s composed demeanor made her blood boil. Agatha should have been defeated, broken by now, not walking as if she owned the place.

“Returning to her throne,” the woman muttered under her breath, her voice dripping with disdain.

It wasn’t just Agatha’s poise that got under her skin—it was what she’d overheard that morning. The guards, huddled together near the breakroom, whispering like schoolboys passing secrets.

About Agents Vidal's visit.

“You hear what Vidal did?” one had said, his voice carrying just enough to reach her ears.

“Yeah, gave Harkness a book,” another replied, his tone tinged with disbelief. “Who does that?”

“Agent Vidal,” the first guard said, shaking his head. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Giving Harkness a book… She’s not afraid of her at all.”

A young junior guard with curly hair fidgeted looking down at the table. "Three days ago, I heard Rio tell Agatha to behave... There hasn't been any incidents so far, when I went to give Harkness her lunch she only nodded. She didn't give me a hard time as usual. Then today the agent came back with the book..." 

“She’s too close, and with Agatha now listening to her...” the third guard muttered. “It’s unnatural.”

Unnatural.

The word stuck in the woman’s mind like a splinter.

She’d clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. A book. A book. Vidal had given Harkness—Agatha Harkness—a gift, as though she were a friend or colleague instead of a manipulative, cold-blooded killer.

The old woman’s disgust had turned to fury. It wasn’t enough that Vidal spent her days visiting Harkness, indulging her twisted games. Now she was bringing her presents? Feeding her ego? Treating her like she deserved human decency?

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

When Agatha finally reached her cell and the heavy door slammed shut behind her, the woman exhaled sharply, pushing her chair back from the desk. Her stomach churned as she imagined Vidal appearing again, as she always did.

The woman returned a few hours later, her anger now a smoldering fire barely concealed behind her icy demeanor. Wanda was standing this time, her hands gripping the bars of her cell, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You again,” Wanda said quietly, her voice devoid of mockery. “What is it this time?”

She stared at her, her eyes filled with loathing. “She brought her a book,” she said, her voice trembling. “A gift. For a murderer.”

Wanda’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes. “What book?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” She snapped, her voice venom. “It’s not the book that matters—it’s the principle. She’s enabling her. Feeding her delusions. Agatha doesn’t deserve kindness, let alone... companionship.”

Wanda studied Eve carefully. “You think kindness is a weakness,” she said finally. “You think it makes her complicit.”

“It is complicity,” Eve said, her voice rising. “Every smile, every word, every second spent in that monster’s presence—it’s all fuel for the fire. And that girl is too blind to see it.”

The old woman sat at her usual post, her sharp eyes narrowing as she watched Rio Vidal pass through the checkpoint. She had memorized the agent’s routine by now—the crisp suits, the confident stride, and that damnable air of purpose that clung to her like a bad perfume. Vidal moved as though she owned the place, her credentials granting her access to the belly of this damned facility and to the one person who didn’t deserve anyone’s time or attention.

Agatha Harkness.

Her lips curled into a thin, disapproving line. The very name sent a ripple of bitterness through her. Harkness was a creature of pure malice, a manipulator who thrived on the suffering of others. Her cell should have been her final punishment—a cold, silent cage where she could rot in isolation, forgotten by the world she had tormented.

And yet, Vidal went to her. Over and over again. Like clockwork.

At first, it had been mildly irritating. A federal agent with too much self-righteousness and a misguided belief in second chances, perhaps. But then, one day, Vidal had arrived in something completely different.

Instead of her usual suit, Vidal walked in wearing casual clothes—jeans, a sweater, and sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked… different. Off. The tailored professionalism was gone, replaced by something much more vulnerable, almost unguarded.

The sight of her dressed down made the old woman’s stomach churn. It was wrong, unnatural even, for someone like Vidal to appear so casual, as though she were visiting an old friend instead of a dangerous murderer. The image clashed with everything the facility stood for.

Worse still, the guards had started whispering about her.

The woman had overheard snatches of their conversations in the breakroom and along the corridors:

"Did you hear about Vidal?"

"Yeah, she fell asleep across from Harkness's cell."

"Across from her cell? Are you serious?"

"And get this—Harkness threatened us. Said if anyone dared wake Vidal up, there’d be hell to pay."

"She allowed it. Like she was protecting her."

"It's unnatural. Who falls asleep across from a serial killer like that?"

The whispers were relentless, feeding her growing disgust.

She clenched her fists, her knuckles whitening as she processed the absurdity of it all. Vidal, asleep across from a monster like Agatha Harkness. And Harkness—Harkness—of all people, had defended her. Threatened the guards to keep them from disturbing her precious visitor.

The idea made her stomach roil.

Agatha Harkness wasn’t supposed to be protective or cooperative. She was supposed to be alone, isolated, and utterly mad. That was the point of this place. To break her spirit, to strip her of any sense of humanity. Not to let her thrive under the attention of some misguided agent.

And Vidal…

What was she doing? What kind of person willingly gave a serial killer that kind of power? Falling asleep across from her cell, showing up in casual clothes like she wasn’t walking into the lion’s den. It was a betrayal of justice, plain and simple.

"She’s ruining the balance," the old woman muttered to herself, her voice laced with venom.

The balance of justice relied on people like Harkness being contained, forgotten, and reviled. Not indulged. Not visited like some misunderstood antihero. And Vidal was shattering that balance with every step she took toward Harkness’s cell.

Her gnarled fingers tapped against the desk, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. The thought of Harkness thriving, smirking in her cell, playing her twisted games with Vidal, was unbearable. It was unnatural. Unholy.

Justice wasn’t meant to be kind or forgiving. It was meant to be cold and unrelenting, driving monsters like Agatha Harkness to madness, not giving them an audience.

She scowled, her eyes narrowing as Vidal disappeared into the depths of the facility once more. This wasn’t right. None of it was right.

And yet, no one else seemed to see it.

None of the guards seemed inclined to report the incident, their cowardice overshadowed by their fascination with the bizarre bond forming between the agent and the killer.

But she wasn’t like them. She couldn’t let this slide.

Without hesitation, she made her way to Dr. Hayward’s office, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floors.

Hayward was seated at his desk, his head buried in paperwork when she arrived. He looked up as she knocked once and stepped inside, his brow furrowing slightly at the sight of her.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked, setting his pen down.

“I’m here to report a serious breach of professionalism,” she said, her voice tight with barely concealed disdain.

Hayward leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “Go on.”

She hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing her words. “Agent Vidal. She... fell asleep across from Harkness’s cell during one of her visits.”

Hayward’s brows shot up in surprise. “She what?”

“She fell asleep,” the woman repeated, her voice gaining a sharper edge. “Right there on the floor. And not only did Harkness allow it, but she also threatened the guards to ensure they didn’t disturb her. The guards failed to report this, likely out of fear of Harkness.”

Hayward pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to process the information.

“This is a problem,” the woman pressed, her tone urgent. “Agent Vidal’s behavior is not only unprofessional but also dangerous. She’s clearly compromised, and this situation is unprecedented. Harkness is a manipulative killer, and Vidal’s involvement with her is a threat to the integrity of this investigation.”

Hayward sighed. "Yes, you're right. First the physical contact with Wanda... Now this."

Physical contact with Maximoff? Her blood started to boil. 

Hayward looked at her, his expression unreadable. “But you're suggesting we revoke Agent Vidal’s clearance to see Harkness?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “This has gone too far. Harkness should be isolated. She thrives on manipulation, and Vidal is playing right into her hands. If you don’t act now, who knows what could happen?”

Hayward leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. For a moment, the woman allowed herself to hope that he might actually listen to reason.

But then he shook his head.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “Agent Vidal is actively working on the investigation, and as much as I agree that this incident is concerning, there haven’t been any disturbances to justify revoking her clearance. Harkness hasn’t caused any issues since her transfer, and Vidal’s visits seem to be keeping her cooperative. For now, the arrangement stays.”

The woman’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “With all due respect, Dr. Hayward, this is a mistake. Vidal is too close to this, and her actions are jeopardizing the balance of justice. You’re letting a killer thrive instead of rot in isolation where she belongs.”

Hayward’s gaze hardened. “I understand your concerns, but this isn’t up for debate. If something changes, I’ll reassess the situation. Until then, leave this to me.”

She opened her mouth to argue further but stopped herself. Instead, she nodded stiffly and turned to leave, her hands trembling with barely restrained fury.

As she walked back to her station, her thoughts spiraled.

He doesn’t see it. None of them do.

To her, it was painfully obvious. Rio Vidal was being manipulated, pulled into Agatha Harkness’s web, and everyone else was too blind—or too complacent—to stop it.

She would have to keep watching. Waiting.

Because if no one else was willing to act, she would find a way to fix this herself.

She stood just outside Wanda’s cell, her arms crossed tightly, her face a mixture of disgust and fury. Wanda sat on the cot, her back against the wall, her fingers absently tracing the chipped paint. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh glow.

“I heard the whispers,” She started, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “About her... sleeping across from that murderer’s cell.”

Wanda didn’t look up immediately. When she did, her expression was unreadable, her dark eyes steady as they locked onto Eve. “Lady Death,” she said softly, almost to herself. “She keeps surprising me.”

“Don’t call her that,” She snapped, her voice trembling with anger. “She’s not some mythical figure. She’s a fool—a reckless, naïve fool.”

Wanda tilted her head, studying the woman with an intensity that made the older woman shift. “And yet, here you are,” Wanda said, her tone calm. “Obsessing over her as much as she obsesses over Agnes.”

“Agatha,” The woman corrected through gritted teeth, her face twisting. “And this isn’t an obsession. It’s outrage. It’s disgust. She—Rio—fell asleep across from a serial killer, like it was nothing. Do you understand how unnatural that is? How... vile?”

Wanda leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. “And why do you think she did it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care why. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it happened. And the guards—they didn’t do a thing to stop it. They just stood there, letting her... letting her dictate the rules.”

Wanda smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Agnes has a way of bending people to her will. Even without the... usual tools.”

“This isn’t about Agatha’s manipulation,” She hissed, her voice rising. “It’s about that girl, that agent, throwing everything away. Her professionalism, her morals—just to sit there, across from a monster. To sleep there, as if she wasn’t in danger.”

Wanda’s smirk faded, her expression turning contemplative. “Maybe she didn’t feel in danger.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s the problem. She should have. Anyone with a shred of common sense would have.”

Wanda’s gaze sharpened, her tone growing more serious. “You’re angry because she didn’t react the way you think she should. Because she didn’t cower or run. Because she saw something in Agnes that you refuse to.”

“I see exactly what Agatha is,” Eve snapped, her hands clenching into fists. “She’s evil, born evil. A manipulator. A murderer. And Rio...” She trailed off, her voice quivering with fury. “Rio is ruining everything. She’s making Agatha thrive when she should be rotting.”

Wanda leaned back, her expression thoughtful. “And what are you going to do about it, Mrs. O'Connor?”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes blazing with anger. “Whatever it takes. I won’t let this go on. Not anymore.”

Wanda’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Be careful,” she said softly. “You’re walking a dangerous path. And paths like that... they tend to lead straight to Agnes.”

She didn’t respond. She turned on her heel and stalked away, her mind racing, her hatred burning brighter than ever. Wanda watched her go, her expression unreadable, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the cot.

“Rio,” Wanda murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. “You’ve stirred the wrong beast. Be careful."

The day Rio Vidal last walked into the facility was burned into the anonymous woman’s mind like a vivid nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

It had started like any other day. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the stark white walls reflecting their cold glare. The guards exchanged routine chatter, and the security feeds flickered with their grainy images. Agatha Harkness, as usual, lounged in her cell, a predator at rest, her unsettling calm only sharpening her menace.

And then Rio walked in.

The woman had been sitting at her station when she first saw her. At a glance, everything seemed normal—Agent Vidal in her tailored suit, her strides purposeful, her expression focused. But something about her was off.

It wasn’t until Rio approached Agatha’s cell that the full weight of it hit.

She stood there, just beyond the glass, her posture rigid and composed, her face unreadable. But her eyes…

They were cold. Detached.

The woman felt a chill run down her spine. There was no trace of the warmth or determination she had come to begrudgingly associate with Rio Vidal. Instead, what stared back at Agatha from the other side of the glass was something far more unnerving.

It was as though Rio had donned a mask—a mask that looked far too much like the one Agatha wore every day.

The anonymous woman couldn’t hear their conversation from where she sat, but she didn’t need to. The sight of them standing there, facing each other, was enough. Agatha, the unrepentant serial killer, smirking faintly as though amused by whatever this version of Rio had become. And Rio, with her shoulders squared and her face carved from stone, looking as though she was ready to walk the same line Agatha had.

It’s unnatural, the woman thought, her stomach twisting in disgust and dread. It’s an abomination.

When the guards murmured among themselves later, the woman picked up bits and pieces.

“She’s different today.”

“Yeah, no kidding. She gives me the creeps.”

“Are we sure she’s on our side?”

The woman clenched her jaw as she listened, her hand tightening around the edge of her desk.

By the time Rio finally left the facility that day, the woman was trembling—not with fear, but with anger. She had always hated Vidal for her willingness to visit Agatha Harkness, for daring to step into the den of a monster as though she could tame it. But this?

This was something else entirely.

Rio hadn’t tamed the monster. She was becoming it.

But another unnerving scene she was was Agatha's eyes softening, to the blind it wouldn't be noticable. But she could see it, it almost looked like she was speaking tenderly.

Impossible. 

Evil doesn't understand kindness or care.

As she watched Rio leave through the security feed, her movements slow and deliberate, the woman felt something dark bloom in her chest. A bitter hatred, deeper than before, mixed with a simmering terror that churned in her gut.

She couldn’t let this continue. She wouldn’t let it.

The balance of justice was teetering, and Rio Vidal was the crack in the foundation. If no one else would stop this abomination, she would.

The absence was palpable.

For nearly a week, Agent Rio Vidal had not set foot in the facility. It was unusual, to say the least. She was a regular presence, walking the halls with purpose, her visits to Agatha Harkness’s cell almost as routine as the guards’ daily rotations. But now, her absence had not only disrupted the facility's rhythm—it had shifted the atmosphere entirely.

It started with whispers.

“Has anyone seen Vidal?” one of the guards asked near the breakroom, his voice low.

“Nope. Not since last week. You think something happened?”

“Maybe she’s taking a break. God knows she needs it.”

“She’s probably finally done with Harkness’s crap. About time.”

But that theory didn’t hold for long.

Inside her cell, Agatha Harkness was not herself.

Her usual aura of control—calm, calculating, and unnervingly confident—had frayed at the edges. The guards noticed how she sat in silence longer than usual, staring at the wall as if deep in thought. Her sharp, biting remarks, once an unwelcome yet familiar staple of their routine, had dwindled to nearly nothing.

“She hasn’t said a word today,” one guard mentioned to another during a shift change.

“She didn’t say anything yesterday either,” the other replied, glancing at the security feed where Agatha sat motionless on the cot. “It’s weird. She’s usually got some comment, even if it’s just to piss us off.”

“And she hasn’t asked about Vidal?”

“Nope.”

That was the strangest part of all.

Harkness hadn’t once inquired about Rio Vidal, though her absence was obvious. For someone as sharp and observant as Agatha, it was unlike her to let anything slip by without a remark or question.

But the guards weren’t the only ones noticing the change.

In the administrative offices, Tyler Hayward had noticed the growing tension in the facility, though no one dared say it outright. Agatha Harkness’s mood was unsettling—less volatile but more… off. It was as if something crucial was missing, and though Hayward wasn’t sure what that was, he had his suspicions.

“Do you think Vidal’s absence has something to do with this?” Hayward had asked one of the senior guards during a meeting.

“Who knows?” the guard had replied with a shrug. “Maybe Harkness is just tired of playing games.”

Back in the security room, the anonymous woman sat at her desk, watching the feed intently. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she observed Agatha’s stillness, her lack of interaction with anyone or anything.

Good, the woman thought bitterly. Let her wither in that cell. Let her feel the silence.

But even she couldn’t ignore the unease creeping into her mind. Agatha Harkness was dangerous, yes—but she was also unpredictable. And this sudden shift, this silence, wasn’t natural for her.

By the end of the week, the whispers had grown louder, and the tension was undeniable.

“Do you think Vidal’s done with her?” one guard asked another as they walked past the cellblock.

“Maybe. But if she is, why does it feel like something’s wrong?”

“Maybe Harkness is planning something.”

“Or maybe she’s just finally losing it.”

Inside her cell, Agatha sat on her cot, her eyes closed. Her breathing was steady, but there was a tautness in her posture, a subtle tension that betrayed her apparent calm.

For all her silence, her mind was anything but quiet.

The guards could whisper and theorize all they wanted. Let them think what they would about her mood, her stillness, her apparent decline. But Agatha knew the truth, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself.

Vidal’s absence had unsettled her.

And though Agatha would never admit it, even to herself, the silence was beginning to feel suffocating.

Wanda sat on the floor of her cell, her knees pulled up to her chest. Eve stood outside, her arms crossed tightly, her face pale but set with determination.

“She hasn’t been here in days,” She said, her voice low. “It’s quiet again. The way it should be.”

Wanda looked up, her expression unreadable. “You think that’s a victory?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s balance. It’s justice.”

“No,” Wanda said simply. “It’s fear. Fear that if she keeps coming back, something will break. Something in you.”

She fists clenched at her sides. “She’s ruining everything.”

Wanda’s expression softened slightly, though her tone remained firm. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Eve. Whatever you think you’re fixing... it won’t end the way you want it to.”

“I don’t care how it ends,” She said coldly. “As long as she stays away from Agatha. Forever.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, the air between them heavy with tension. Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper when she finally spoke.

“Lady Death walks a fine line. But so do you, Mrs. O'Connor.”

She turned away, her jaw tight, her mind racing with thoughts of what had to be done.

The anonymous woman had never been particularly patient, but when it came to Rio Vidal, something inside her simmered—an unsettling mix of disgust, frustration, and the cold certainty that the agent was playing a dangerous game, one that would ruin everything if left unchecked.

She had spent the past few days watching from a distance, biding her time as she studied Rio’s every move. It was easy enough to keep an eye on her—Vidal was so predictable, so routine, and this woman had a knack for noticing patterns others missed. It was like clockwork: And every day, the woman followed, lurking in the shadows.

Rio’s apartment was tucked in a modest part of the city, quiet and unremarkable, just like its owner. The woman watched from across the street as Rio came and went, always alone, always seeming to keep herself at a distance from the world. Her movements were mechanical, almost robotic in their precision, and that made the woman’s skin crawl.

She had no idea what Rio did behind closed doors, but it didn’t matter. She knew enough.

She’s a fool, the woman thought bitterly as she watched Rio water her plants one afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the window behind her. Rio was so absorbed in the task that she didn't even notice the woman standing there, hidden in the shadows, her gaze fixed on the way the agent carefully tended to her plants, as though it could somehow ease the tension in her own mind.

You think those plants are enough to save you?

The woman sneered. The plants, the quiet walks—none of it was going to stop the inevitable. It didn’t matter how much Rio tried to isolate herself from the world, from the chaos she had gotten too close to. There was no escaping Agatha Harkness, and there was no escaping the truth.

As Rio walked down the street that evening, the woman followed at a safe distance. Rio seemed to be lost in her thoughts, her eyes downcast, shoulders hunched in the same way she carried herself at work. It was almost sad, really, watching her stumble through life with that haunted, distant look. The woman couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disgust at how easily Rio had been swallowed up by the world of Agatha and the darkness that came with it.

She’s deluded herself into thinking she can fix this, that she can control it. But it’s too far gone.

The woman kept walking, her steps deliberate and measured. Every now and then, Rio would glance over her shoulder, but she never seemed to notice the woman lingering in the background, as though she were just another shadow in the night.

And then there were the moments that made the woman’s stomach churn—the moments when Rio would stop in front of a café or a small store, pausing as if waiting for something to happen, or maybe just giving in to the silence. She never stayed long, and never went inside, but the woman could see the longing in her eyes, that quiet desperation to feel something again.

It’s pathetic.

The woman didn’t know what was worse—watching Rio drown in her own isolation or knowing that she was walking down the same path that had already swallowed so many others.

One evening, the woman stood across the street from Rio’s apartment again, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched the agent through the window. Rio had lit a few candles, and the soft glow illuminated the room, casting long shadows on the walls. She sat at her desk, flipping through a stack of papers—work, no doubt. The woman’s eyes narrowed.

She’s too close to the edge. And it’s only a matter of time before she falls over it.

But she couldn’t just watch from afar anymore. No, that wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

The woman’s hand curled into a fist at her side, her nails digging into her palm. She couldn’t let Rio continue this charade. She couldn’t allow her to keep pretending that everything would be fine, that the life she had built could somehow survive all of this.

Soon enough, she thought, she’d have to intervene. And when she did, Rio would realize exactly how dangerous it was to get too close to the darkness—how it would consume everything, even the parts of herself that she thought she could protect.

The woman took one final glance at Rio’s apartment before turning and walking away, her mind already turning over the plans she had made. It wouldn’t be long now.

The woman’s eyes burned with fury, her breath shallow and tight as she watched Rio approach the facility once again. It had been a week. A whole week of waiting, of watching, as Rio tried to ignore the inevitable. But now, here she was, walking back toward that damned cell—Agatha’s cell.

It was as if Rio was willingly walking deeper into the darkness, toward something that would surely destroy her. Every time Rio stepped into that building, every time she interacted with Agatha, the woman felt something inside her break a little more. There was something twisted about it, a fundamental wrongness that gnawed at her core. Why can’t she see it?

Why can’t she understand?

The woman stood hidden, tucked behind a pillar just inside the facility, watching Rio move toward Agatha’s cell. Rio was different now—cold, detached in a way she hadn't been before. Her eyes were empty, void of any emotion, as if the things she had once cared about had been drained from her. That terrified the woman more than anything.

This was it. The breaking point.

The woman had told herself, for days now, that she would let Rio make her own mistakes. She would let her sink into the same pit that Agatha had crawled out of. She didn’t want to intervene, didn’t want to be the one to disrupt the balance, but every time she saw Rio, her resolve cracked just a little more. And now, it was too much. She had to do something.

This isn’t just about her, the woman thought, clenching her fist as Rio entered the corridor leading to Agatha’s cell. This is about keeping the balance of justice intact. If Rio stays here, if she keeps going back to that monster, it will all be ruined.

She could hear the faint murmurs of guards nearby, the faint sounds of whispers—They all know. They see it too. They know how dangerous this is.

The woman’s heart beat faster, blood rushing to her ears. She had to act. Now.

She waited, breathing slowly, calming herself as she moved silently through the corridors. She knew where Rio would go; she always did. There was no point in hesitation now. She had seen enough. The woman approached the exit, careful to remain unnoticed, and then... she struck.

Rio emerged from the cell, her shoulders slightly hunched, her gaze distant. The woman waited until Rio was outside, close enough to the car, but not too close. Then she sprang forward, her steps light and quick. She swung a metal pipe, concealed in her hand, with all the force she could muster.

The blow landed with a sickening crack against the back of Rio’s skull.

Rio’s legs buckled beneath her. She collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, her body limp and unresponsive, her face pale. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps as the woman stood over her, eyes gleaming with a mix of disgust and grim satisfaction.

For a long moment, the woman just stood there, watching. The silence was deafening. The world felt frozen. And yet, all she could feel was a sense of righteousness—that this was the only way. Rio was too far gone. She had let herself slip, and now the woman had to clean up the mess.

She knelt down, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for Rio’s wrist, checking for a pulse. It was faint but steady. A relief. Rio was alive, for now.

With a grunt, the woman hoisted Rio’s limp body into her arms. She was heavier than expected, but the woman was determined. Her heart raced as she moved through the hallway, dragging Rio’s unconscious form down toward the storage rooms, where no one would see her. No one would stop her.

The woman’s mind raced, calculating her next move. This is for the best. She’ll understand. When she wakes up, she’ll see. She’ll finally get it.

But in the back of her mind, the woman couldn’t help but feel a whisper of doubt. She wasn’t sure if Rio would ever see it the way she did. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

She had taken control.

And soon, she would make Rio understand.

Chapter Text

The parking lot of the facility was eerily quiet under the mid-morning sun. Lilia stood by Rio’s parked car, her brow furrowed. She glanced at the specks of blood near the driver’s side door, her chest tightening with unease.

“She’s never this late,” Lilia muttered, her voice barely audible.

Jen, standing a few steps away, surveyed the car with a sharp gaze. “She’s not late—she’s missing,” Jen said firmly, her tone clipped.

They both knew Rio. Complicated, yes, but predictable in her habits. She never deviated from her routine, even when life threw chaos her way. The thought that she hadn’t contacted anyone in over 24 hours was chilling.

“Blood.” Jen’s voice was cold as she crouched beside the car, examining the darkened stains. She pressed a handkerchief against it, then pulled out her phone to take a picture. “Not much, but enough to tell us something’s wrong.”

Lilia looked around, as if expecting Rio to appear, brushing everything off with a smirk. But no one came. The vast expanse of the lot and the starkness of the facility loomed over them, an oppressive silence stretching between them.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Lilia said, her hand instinctively moving to her phone. She checked her texts and calls from Rio—nothing. She hesitated before adding, “Do you think this has something to do with... her?”

Jen straightened up, meeting Lilia’s eyes with a dark intensity. She didn’t have to ask who her referred to. “Agatha Harkness,” Jen stated flatly. “You think she—?”

“No.” Lilia shook her head quickly. “Not directly. She’s been locked up tight. But Rio’s been... off. And you know how close she’s been getting to that woman.”

Jen frowned. She hated admitting it, but Lilia was right. Rio’s connection to Agatha, however professional she claimed it was, had started to blur boundaries. And now, with no sign of her? It was impossible to ignore the implications.

“We need to get inside,” Jen said, already striding toward the entrance with determination. 

As the doors slammed open all eyes went on Jen and her badge, then when they looked behind her they saw the legendary Lilia Calderu. She locked half the insane criminals in that very same facility she hasn't stepped in years... Until now.

The facility was a cold labyrinth of sterile hallways, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Lilia and Jen moved quickly, their steps echoing off the walls. At the reception desk, a young guard glanced up nervously.

“Agent Vidal,” Jen said sharply. “When was the last time she was here?”

The guard swallowed hard. “Uh... yesterday evening. She went in to see Harkness. Saw her leave.”

Jen’s jaw clenched. “Clearly she didn't leave, her car is still out there did no one bother to check?”

“She usually stays longer and as for the car...” the guard stammered, visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we, uh, we have night shifts so..."

“That's not an excuse.” Lilia snapped, her voice rising.

The guard hesitated, looking around as if searching for an escape. “We... well I could go get Dr. Hayward to, uh, show you the cameras.”

Jen’s face darkened. “Yes, go do that. And while you do that, we will talk to Agatha Harkness."

The guard shrank back. “Y-yes, Ma'am. Just be careful, no one near that cell lasts longer than three minutes. Well, until Agent Vidal.”

Lilia and Jen exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them.

“We’re checking her cell,” Jen said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

As they left, to Agatha's cell.

Agatha sat serenely in her cell as she hummed a soft tune. When she heard sharp footsteps she lifted her eyes lifted lazily as Jen and Lilia approached, their faces were tight with worry and anger, their usual composed demeanors shattered by Rio’s sudden disappearance.

Agatha noticed the shift immediately as they came into view. She was reclining on her cot with a book in her hands—the one Rio had given her weeks ago. As they stopped in front of her cell, she marked her place and looked up, her expression neutral, though her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Well, if it isn’t the cavalry,” she drawled, her voice smooth as silk.

“Where’s Rio?” Jen demanded, her fists clenched at her sides.

Agatha tilted her head, feigning confusion. “Agent Vidal? Why, I assumed she’d gone home. I haven’t seen her since our last... chat.”

Lilia stepped forward, her voice shaking with anger. “Stop playing games. She hasn’t contacted anyone in 24 hours. Her car is outside, and there’s blood near it. What did you do?”

Agatha’s expression hardened, the faintest flicker of emotion breaking through her mask. “What did I do?” she repeated softly, her voice carrying a dangerous edge. “Let me remind you, ladies, I’m locked in here. Whatever has happened to your dear Agent Vidal, I assure you, I had no hand in it.”

Jen glared at her, searching for cracks in her composure, but Agatha held her gaze, unyielding.

“Find her,” Agatha said, her tone suddenly low and commanding. “Because if someone has dared to touch her, you won’t be the only ones asking questions.”

Lilia felt a chill run down her spine. She wasn’t sure what terrified her more: the idea of Rio being in danger or the strange possessiveness in Agatha’s voice.

Agatha’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the book as she deeply sighed. “You said... Blood?” she echoed, her voice suddenly quieter.

“Yes, blood,” Lilia said firmly, her voice shaking with barely contained frustration. “Now tell us, did she say anything to you? Anything at all that could help us figure out where she went?”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, her face unreadable as she seemed to sift through her memories. “We spoke,” she said slowly. “But nothing that would suggest she was in danger.” Her tone grew sharper. “She didn’t exactly confide in me about her plans.”

Jen leaned closer to the glass, her voice low and biting. “Don’t play coy, Agatha. You were the last person to see her. She trusts you enough to sit outside your cell and fall asleep. Don’t tell me you have no idea what might’ve happened.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened at Jen’s words, though her expression remained composed. “You assume that just because she spoke to me, I know all her secrets. Agent Vidal is far more complicated than you realize.”

“She’s also not here,” Lilia shot back. “And we’re running out of time. If you care at all—”

“Care?” Agatha’s voice cut through like a blade, her tone sharp and dangerous. “You think I care? If you’re here for a show of sentimentality, you’ll leave disappointed. But…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing slightly as a sudden thought crept in.

Jen caught the shift in her expression immediately. “But what?”

Agatha tilted her head, her gaze growing distant for a moment, her jaw then clenched. “She did mention... Wanda.” she said finally, her tone contemplative.

Lilia frowned. “Maximoff? What does she have to do with this?”

Agatha’s lips curved into a small, humorless smile. “More than you’d think. Wanda’s riddled with delusions and riddles. She rambles about Mrs. O'Connor and Lady Death. Rio asked me about it the last time we spoke.”

Jen’s stomach turned uneasily. “What exactly did she say?”

Agatha leaned forward, her voice taking on a dark edge. “She mentioned that Wanda said something about my mother. A ridiculous claim—my mother’s been dead for years. But Rio seemed… unsettled by it.”

“Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” Jen demanded.

Agatha shrugged. “Because it sounded like another of Wanda’s nonsensical ramblings. Everyday it's Agnes this and Agnes that.”

"What exactly did Wanda tell Rio about your dead mother?" Lilia asked.

"That my mother wasn't happy." Agatha simply shrugged. "Can't say it's not true, that hag was anything but a ball of sunshine but at the same time she's not talking about my mother, she's talking about Agnes's mother." 

"Who's Agnes?" Jen frowned getting more impatient by the second.

"I am." The killer gave them a teasing smile.

"That's the same thing!" Jen snapped in fury.

Agatha lifted a finger while shaking her head. "No, Agnes is the character I'm supposedly playing in Wanda's little fantasy. It's not the same thing."

"Ok, well if you're Agnes then who is Mrs. O'Connor?" 

Agatha opened her mouth but paused as a unsettling thought occured. Her gaze darkened as her eyes narrowed. "Pet!" She shouted, her sharp tone causing the other two to flinch as her voice rang all over the cell and down the hall.

Quick footsteps appeared and so did the junior guard, William. "Yes, Agatha?" 

Her jaw clenched, her face filled with fury. "Get me Wanda Maximoff, right now." Her was tone low and menacing.

And yet, the guard... Kaplan didn't flinch simply nodded. "What shall I say if asked?" 

"Missing agent, investigation purposes... I'm cooperative, and I'll make Wanda talk. Now scam, pet." She demanded and without a second though he left in a rush doing exactly what he was told.

Lilia clenched her fists as . “You are not speaking to Maximoff, where is she now?”

“In her cell, I assume, soon to be out I believe” Agatha replied coolly. “But if you’re expecting coherent answers, good luck. She’s as mad as they come. But if you want her to talk, then I can make her talk."

Jen opened her mouth to remark but Agatha beat her to it with a glare."You want to waste time? Go ahead, Kale but whatever is happening to Vidal remember that it's your fault of the wasted time that I could have gotten in the first two minutes while your still struggling by the the time the clock hits thirty." She sneered a warning. 

Just in time the buzz and hard steel doors opened Wanda entered with two guards holding her tightly but the arms, her wrists shackled. Her red hair fell in disarray around her pale face, and her green eyes darted around the room, wary yet sharp.

"All yours." Agatha whispered to them as she leaned back against the wall.

The guards who had escorted her stood by her side, glancing nervously between the agents and Wanda as if unsure whether to stay or leave.

Lilia crossed her arms, leaning against the wall as Jen walk up a few feet closer to Wanda.

“You know why you’re here,” Jen began, her voice firm and without preamble.

Wanda tilted her head, a slow smile curving her lips. “Do I? Or do you just like the sound of your own voice?”

“Cut the act,” Jen snapped, leaning forward. “We don’t have time for your games, Wanda. Rio Vidal—where is she?”

At the mention of Rio’s name, Wanda’s smile faltered, and her eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Lady Death,” she murmured, her voice almost reverent.

Jen stiffened. “What did you call her?”

Wanda turned her gaze to Lilia, ignoring Jen entirely. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The way she walks. The way she moves. She doesn’t fear death. No, she welcomes it, embraces it like an old friend.”

Lilia pushed off the wall, her patience snapping. “Enough! We’re not here to hear your poetry. If you know something about what happened to Rio, you need to tell us. Now.”

Wanda chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down Lilia’s spine. “Why do you assume I know anything?"

Jen slammed her fist on the table, making the chains on Wanda’s wrists rattle. “Stop deflecting! You were the last person she asked about before she disappeared. Agatha mentioned that Rio talked to you. What did you say to her?”

Wanda’s gaze sharpened as her gaze went to Agatha who was standing in her cell taking every work in, Wanda's expression losing its humor. “Agatha,” she said, her tone laced with disdain. “Such a boring name, I prefer Agnes. Fits it doesn't it?"

“Enough games,” Lilia said firmly. “What did you tell Rio about Agatha’s mother?”

Wanda’s smile returned, but it was sharper now, almost mocking. “I told her the truth. That Agnes's mother wasn't happy. That she wouldn’t approve of her daughter’s little… entanglement.”

“Agatha’s mother is dead,” Jen said coldly. “So whatever you were implying is irrelevant.”

“Dead, yes,” Wanda agreed, her tone casual. “But the dead don’t always stay silent, do they? Not when there’s so much left unsaid.”

Lilia stepped closer, her voice low and steady. “Wanda, if you know anything about what happened to Rio, you need to tell us. This is your chance to prove you’re not completely lost to whatever madness has taken hold of you.”

Wanda’s expression shifted, her playful demeanor slipping away. She looked genuinely troubled for a moment, her brows furrowing as she stared at the table.

“Lady Death is gone,” she said softly. “Taken by something older than me, older than all of this.” She glanced up at Lilia, her green eyes wide and sincere. “You can’t save her. Not from this.”

Jen snapped. “Stop speaking in circles! Who took her? Where is she?”

“Stop,” Agatha said firmly, her voice cutting through the quiet tension. The cold tone made everyone freeze. They all glanced at Agatha and all her teasing energy was gone. The very air around them felt cold, as if she was draining them by their fear. “I need a word with her,” Agatha said, her tone deceptively calm but leaving no room for argument.

Wanda’s head snapped up, panic flickering in her eyes. “No,” she said, her voice trembling. “No, I’m not talking to her.”

Agatha tilted her head, her expression neutral but her eyes calculating. “Oh, but I think you should. You’ve said enough to pique my curiosity, Maximoff. And when you pique my curiosity, things tend to get… unpleasant.”

One of the guards hesitated. “Ms. Harkness, we’re under orders—”

“Put her in the cell,” Agatha interrupted, her voice sharp enough to make the man flinch.

Those five words made everyone shiver, no more than Wanda whose eyes widened in fear, her skin loosing all it's color. Both Lilia and Jen noticed the sudden change in Wanda, as much as they wanted to intervene they couldn't help but watch it unfold. 

The guard looked at Jen, who gave a reluctant nod. “Do it,” Jen said. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

Wanda’s resistance was immediate. She began thrashing against the guards’ grip, her voice rising in desperation. “No! Don’t leave me with her! Please! I’ll tell you what you want to know—just not here. Not with her!”

The guards struggled to contain Wanda as she clawed at their arms, her terror palpable. Agatha’s expression didn’t change; if anything, she looked more intrigued.

“You’re afraid of me?” Agatha said, her tone laced with mockery. “How quaint. And yet, you survived being my cell neighbor. Interesting contradiction, don’t you think? How much of it did you fake, Wanda?"

“Please,” Wanda begged, her voice cracking. “Please don’t let her near me. You don’t understand—she’s worse than you think.”

"Wanda, eyes on me doll." Agatha's tone softening a bit which was soothing that Wanda couldn't resist but look at Agatha again. Her breathing was erratic but she did as she was told. "Now, who plays Mrs. O'Connor in your fantasy?" 

Wanda's bottom lip quivered. "This isn't my fault... Don't look at me like that. I've told you many times that I see more than you."

Agatha pouted tilting her head. "Oh, honey, I don't blame you. I just need your help to find Rio."

"I- I don't know," Wanda squeezes her eyes shut as she started murmuring. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..."

Agatha scoffed lightly. "Great she's having an episode. Nice job, Kale." The agent gave her a seething glare in return.

Wanda continued to mutter. "Natural order of balance, justice, unnatural, justice, Agatha deserves to rot alone. She's evil, she was born evil..." 

Agatha's face paled suddenly as her eyes held a faint shock.

"She was born evil, she's evil. She deserves to be alone." Wanda continued as tears started to escape her eyes. "She evil, she's evil. Evil. Evil. Evil. Born evil."

"Harkness." Jen snapped.

Agatha blinked as she returned to the present. She inhaled shakily as she kept her gaze locked on Wanda. "Doll, open your eyes."

Wanda shook her head.

"Wanda... Please."

As if the 'please' meant something between the two, Wanda opened her eyes instantly. Her hysterical outburst seemed to be disappearing as her breaths started to slow down. 

Her green eyes glazed with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, I tried... I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you..."

Agatha leaned forward, voice dropped to a low, soothing tone. “Warn me about what?”

Wanda’s lip quivered as she hesitated, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

Agatha’s patience thinned, and yet, Lilia noticed how Agatha almost seemed... Afraid. She continued her facade with a warm tone. “Stop dancing around it, doll. Tell me what you know. I won't hurt you, just tell me and you're free to go."

Wanda’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with desperation. “She’s alive,” she blurted out.

Agatha froze, the words hitting her like a physical blow. For a moment, she didn’t breathe.

“What did you just say?” Agatha’s voice was barely above a whisper, her usual composure cracking at the edges.

Wanda’s tears spilled over as she shook her head. “I tried to tell you… she’s been here. She’s been watching you. All this time.”

Agatha’s chest tightened, her mind racing. “Who?” she demanded, though deep down, she already knew.

Wanda swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “Your mother, Evanora."

The air seemed to drain from the room, leaving an unbearable silence in its wake. Agatha stared at Wanda, her face unreadable, though her hands clenched into fists.

“That’s impossible, she's dead. She died." Agatha said, her voice tight. But she knew it was true, Agatha never told Wanda her mother's name. Ever. 

Wanda let out a shaky breath. “She didn’t,” she said softly. “She’s here, Agatha. She’s been here since you turned yourself in. She calls herself Eve now, but it’s her. I’ve seen her.”

Agatha shook her head slowly, as though trying to dispel the weight of Wanda’s words. “You’re lying,” she hissed, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I’m not!” Wanda cried, her voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t believe it at first either, but it’s her. The resemblance between you two... She’s been hiding in plain sight, working here, waiting. She talks to me sometimes, rants about you, about Rio.”

The mention of Rio made Agatha mask falter. “What does she want?”

Wanda hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the door as if someone might burst in at any moment. “She said she was going to fix the balance. That the world’s been tipped too far into chaos, and it’s your fault. She blames you for everything.”

Agatha leaned back in cell, her mind reeling. It didn’t make sense, but the weight of Wanda’s words pressed down on her like a crushing tide.

“What does this have to do with Rio?” Agatha asked, her voice deadly calm.

Wanda’s lip quivered as she shook her head. “She thinks Rio is the problem. That she’s disrupting justice, keeping you from the isolation you deserve. She said…” Wanda’s voice trailed off, her eyes filled with guilt.

“She said what?” Agatha pressed, her voice rising.

Wanda looked down, tears streaming down her face. “She said the only way to fix the balance was to get rid of Rio.”

The room went silent, the words hanging in the air like a death knell.

“Guards,” Agatha called, her voice cold and detached, their expressions became fearful. “Take her back to her cell,” Agatha ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Wanda began to cry harder, her body shaking as the guards dragged her away. “You have to stop her!” she screamed. “She’ll kill her, Agatha! She’ll kill Rio!”

Agatha stood motionless along Lilia and Jen watching Wanda until she disappeared down the hall. Then, slowly, Agatha sank back into cot, her head in her hands.

The dread that had begun as a cold shiver now twisted deep in her chest. It was like an insidious weight, pulling her down, down into a pit of uncertainty. Every word Wanda had said seemed to reverberate through her mind like a tolling bell.

She’s alive. 

She’s here. 

She’s working in the facility. 

She calls herself Eve now. 

She’s been watching you.

The room felt tighter now, suffocating. Agatha’s breath quickened, and her eyes darted around the room, unable to focus. Her own mind was spinning, each thought tangled and indistinguishable from the next. Her mother was here, but why? How had she survived? Why was she here now, in the same place where Agatha had turned herself in?

"Agatha..."

The soft voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. Agatha looked up sharply to see Lilia and Jen standing in front of the glass, their faces etched with concern.

Agatha opened her mouth to insult, to snap, but her voice caught in her throat. She could feel it—the suspicion in their eyes. They saw it in her. They saw something was wrong, something she couldn’t even begin to explain.

Jen broke the silence, her voice cautious yet urgent. “Agatha, what the hell is going on?”

Agatha didn’t answer. Her eyes remained empty, her mind racing. Pieces of the puzzle she’d long since buried began to rearrange themselves, forming an image she didn’t want to see. Her mother—stern, unyielding, and cruel—had always loomed over her childhood like a storm cloud. She remembered the lessons of control, the punishments for failure, the cold, sharp words that cut deeper than any knife.

Lilia stepped closer, her expression a mix of concern and determination. “Agatha, talk to us. If what Wanda said is true, then Rio—”

“Don’t.” Agatha’s voice came out sharper than she intended, her head snapping toward Lilia. The younger woman flinched, but Agatha softened slightly, realizing she couldn’t let her emotions unravel in front of them. Not yet.

The tension crackled between them, and Lilia intervened, her tone more measured. “If there’s even a chance she’s telling the truth, we need to act. Rio’s been missing for over a day, Agatha. We can’t ignore this.”

Agatha clenched her jaw. "Bring Dr. Hayward." 

"What-"

"Bring Dr. Hayward here, now. I need him to confirm this... If my m-mother is truly alive then you're going to wish Vidal is dead." Agatha said in a cold tone that it made Lilia and Jen flinch.

Agatha’s gaze flickered between them, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the storm of emotions beneath. Dread. Guilt. Fury. She hated that they were right. She hated even more that she couldn’t shake the truth buried in Wanda’s words.

She stood up sharply, pacing the length of the cell as she tried to think. “If she’s alive, and if she’s here...” Her voice trailed off, her mind already calculating. “She’s not targeting Rio randomly. There’s something... deliberate about this.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. “Deliberate how?”

Agatha stopped pacing, her hands tightening into fists. “My mother is obsessed with control. With order. She’s not doing this out of malice. She thinks she’s restoring some kind of balance.”

“Balance?” Lilia echoed, her brow furrowing.

Agatha nodded grimly. “She sees Rio as a disruption. An anomaly. Something that shouldn’t exist. That's what makes my mother dangerous, first she'll try to torture it out of you and when that doesn't work... Death is the only option."

The room fell into silence again, the weight of Agatha’s words settling over them like a heavy fog.

"Didn't you always wonder how I turned out like this?" Agatha questioned weakly. 

Jen’s voice was sharp, breaking the stillness. “Then we need to find her fast. I'll get Hayward, Lilia-" 

"I'll stay with Harkness, go Jen." Lilia gave her a nod which Jen took no hesitation to as she ran off. The second it was Agatha and Lilia alone the room grew stale. "It's been a while since we've both been this close before."

Agatha inhaled sharply. "Once was years ago." 

"You were a good partner, Agatha. How did you stray this far?" Lilia sighed at the memories of university and them starting the bureau together.  

"Why did you send Rio here believing that I asked for her?" Agatha deflected sign another question that made Lilia pause. "You have no idea the enemies I have, Calderu. And you threw her in the den like fresh lamb." 

"Agatha-" 

"Why." Agatha's tone hardened.

Lilia closed her eyes in guilt. "Because I knew you'd like her." 

A scoff was her response.

"Agatha, I'm still trying to understand how... Why did you murder all these people. If you need me to hel-"

"What I need is for you to get out of my sight and find your agent." Agatha snapped, her expression stoic.

Lilia sighed with a nod. "Any clue where your mother could have taken Rio?" 

"No." 

And that was the most helpless answer for them all.

Chapter Text

The first thing Rio felt was the throbbing ache at the back of her head. Her skull pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a dull, nauseating rhythm that refused to let her think clearly. When she tried to move, her arms screamed in protest, her shoulders pulled unnaturally tight. She blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and reality settled around her like a suffocating fog.

She was tied.

Her wrists were bound together above her head, the coarse feel of metal chains cutting into her skin. The weight of her own body pulled painfully on her shoulders, and she struggled to shift, to relieve the strain, but it was futile. Her feet barely brushed the floor, her shoes scraping against cold, uneven concrete.

The air was damp and heavy, tinged with the sharp tang of mildew and rust. It smelled old, forgotten, like a place buried deep beneath the surface of the world. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting an erratic yellow glow that made the shadows dance along the walls.

A basement.

Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the details. The walls were lined with cracked cinder blocks, their surfaces streaked with grime. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing faintly. Old tools and broken furniture were piled in one corner, a rusted saw catching her eye. Across from her, a small table stood against the wall, its surface littered with items she couldn’t make out in the dim light.

She tilted her head back, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that accompanied the movement, and tried to assess her wrists. The chains were looped through a metal hook embedded in the ceiling, thick and sturdy, the kind that wouldn’t give easily. The metal dug into her skin, her fingers numb from the lack of circulation.

Her breathing quickened, the panic threatening to take hold. She forced herself to focus.

She shifted again, testing the chains. They didn’t budge. Her arms burned from the strain, and she gritted her teeth, swallowing the curse that rose to her lips. She couldn’t let fear take over. She had to figure out where she was, who had taken her, and—most importantly—how to get out.

Her mind raced back to the last thing she remembered. She’d left the facility after seeing Agatha. The drive back was a blur, her thoughts tangled and heavy. And then—then what? She remembered walking to her car. A flash of pain. Nothing else.

The back of her head throbbed again, a cruel reminder. She tilted her chin down, the movement sending a sticky warmth trickling down her neck. Her hair was matted with blood, but the wound seemed to have stopped actively bleeding. For now.

The sound of footsteps above broke through her thoughts, slow and deliberate. Her body tensed, every muscle locking in place. She craned her neck, listening. The creak of wood underfoot grew louder, descending a staircase she couldn’t see.

And then the footsteps stopped.

Rio’s heart pounded, her breath catching in her throat. She waited, the silence pressing in around her like a vise. Whoever had taken her was here. Watching. Waiting.

The bulb above her flickered, casting the room in momentary darkness before buzzing back to life. Her eyes fixed on the staircase, half-hidden in shadows, and she braced herself for whatever—or whoever—was about to come through.

She clenched her jaw and inhaled deeply, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in her ribs. Her FBI training kicked in, forcing her to assess the situation methodically. She blinked again, her vision finally stabilizing enough to take in the room.

The light was dim, provided by a single flickering bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. It cast long, erratic shadows on the walls, making the space feel even smaller and more oppressive. The walls were made of rough, cracked cinderblocks, stained with grime and streaked with water trails that hinted at years of neglect. The floor beneath her toes was cold and uneven, slick with a dampness that made her shiver involuntarily.

Her gaze traveled upward, following the chains that held her wrists. They were attached to a rusted metal hook embedded in the ceiling. She studied the hook intently, noting the wear and corrosion around its edges. It didn’t look weak enough to snap under her weight, but it was a potential weak point.

Good. Something to work with.

Rio shifted slightly, testing the strength of her bonds. The chains were solid, but the cuffs weren’t fitted perfectly. She felt a faint give when she twisted her wrists a certain way. Pain radiated from her wrists where the metal had rubbed her skin raw, but she forced herself to ignore it.

Dislocate the thumb if you have to. You’ve done it before.

The thought sent a shudder down her spine, but she tucked it away for later. Her gaze dropped to the walls, and she noticed something odd. At first, she thought the jagged lines etched into the cinderblocks were cracks, but as she squinted in the faint light, they became clearer.

Runes.

The shapes were sharp and deliberate, carved deep into the stone. They were old, weathered, but undeniably purposeful. A chill ran down her spine, and her stomach churned uneasily.

What the hell is this place?

Rio had dealt with all manner of criminals and strange cases in her career, but this…this was something else entirely. Her heart pounded as she scanned the room again, looking for anything else out of place.

There was a pile of rusted tools in one corner—saws, hammers, pliers—each coated in a thin layer of grime. A coil of frayed rope lay nearby, along with shards of wood that looked like they had broken off a crate or some kind of makeshift furniture.

She cataloged every detail, her mind racing.

Stay calm. Stay rational. You’re not dead. Yet.

The faint sound of dripping water reached her ears, each drop echoing in the oppressive silence. She turned her head toward the sound, wincing at the sharp pull of her scalp where dried blood had matted her hair.

She was still scanning the room when she heard it.

Footsteps.

Her entire body went rigid, her heart slamming against her ribs. The sound was faint at first, a soft creak of wood overhead, but it grew louder with each passing second. Someone was descending a staircase—slow, deliberate steps that echoed like a countdown.

Rio’s breath caught in her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears, and every instinct screamed at her to fight or flee, but she was trapped. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to slow her heart rate, and focus.

Eyes open. Watch everything.

The bulb above her buzzed and flickered erratically, plunging the room into brief intervals of darkness. She strained her eyes, keeping them fixed on the door in the corner of the room. It was barely visible in the shadows, but she could see the faint outline as it creaked open.

A figure appeared, cloaked in darkness.

Rio narrowed her eyes, her body tense despite her suspended position. The person didn’t move at first, just stood there, watching her. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the faint hum of the light and the drip of water.

Say something, she thought, her mind racing. Show me who you are.

But the figure remained silent.

Rio clenched her fists, ignoring the sting in her wrists. “What? No introduction? That’s rude,” she said, her voice low and laced with defiance.

The figure stepped forward, just enough for the light to illuminate them briefly. Rio caught a glimpse of a tall frame, sharp features partially obscured by shadows, and eyes that gleamed with something she couldn’t place—malice? Curiosity? Control?

Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t let it show.

They didn’t speak, didn’t move any closer. The light flickered again, and when it steadied, the figure had retreated into the darkness. The door creaked shut with agonizing slowness, and Rio was left alone once more.

Her breathing was ragged, her pulse still racing, but she forced herself to calm down.

They didn’t kill me. That’s something.

She glanced at the runes again, unease creeping over her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were significant, though she didn’t know why.

Her mind churned with possibilities as she pulled at her bonds again. She needed to think of a way out—fast.

The room was unbearably still, the kind of silence that suffocated. Her eyes darted to the faint etchings on the walls—runes carved with precision into the concrete, their meanings unknown but their presence ominous. The dim light flickered sporadically, casting shadows that seemed to shift and crawl as though alive.

Her muscles quivered with effort, the pain in her head a steady throb that blurred her thoughts. Blood had dried in sticky patches down the back of her neck, and her entire body felt like it was teetering on the edge of collapse.

This isn’t how it ends. Not here. Not like this.

She froze at the sound of a door groaning open above her. Heavy, deliberate footsteps began their descent, the rhythm steady and unrelenting. Each step seemed to echo louder than the last, reverberating through the tight confines of the basement. The hairs on the back of Rio’s neck stood on end, her senses sharpening as adrenaline coursed through her veins.

When the footsteps stopped, Rio held her breath. The figure stood just beyond the reach of the faint light, cloaked in shadow. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she strained to make out any features, her muscles coiled tight like a spring.

The silence stretched unbearably, and then a voice sliced through it, low and mocking. “If it isn’t Lady Death herself.”

Rio’s breath hitched. The voice was a razor blade, smooth yet cutting, laced with a venom that set her nerves on fire. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the figure as it stepped forward, the dim light flickering across a face that made her blood run cold.

The woman’s features were sharp, aged with time but no less commanding. There was a cruel elegance in the way she held herself, her eyes—piercing and cold—fixing on Rio with an intensity that seemed to strip her bare. The corners of her lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only malice.

“Surprised?” she drawled, her tone dripping with mockery. She tilted her head slightly, studying Rio as though she were an insect pinned beneath glass.

Rio’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice came out rough, her throat dry, but she forced strength into the words.

The woman’s smile widened, though it was more a baring of teeth than an expression of amusement. She clasped her hands in front of her, a gesture that seemed almost too composed, too deliberate.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of menace. She stepped closer, the shadows retreating as she moved fully into the light. “Evanora Harkness.”

The name hit Rio like a blow to the chest, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her eyes widened slightly as the realization crashed over her. The resemblance was unmistakable now—the sharp cheekbones, the penetrating gaze, the air of authority that felt almost suffocating.

Agatha’s mother.

Rio’s mind raced, her pulse pounding in her ears as she stared at the woman who had orchestrated her abduction. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to act, to fight, to survive, but the chains held her fast, and Evanora’s presence seemed to fill the room like a predator stalking its prey.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rio muttered, her voice hoarse but defiant.

Evanora’s eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. Her smile remained fixed, but the edges of her composure seemed to fray for a moment. “Oh, I assure you,” she said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “this is no joke, Agent.”

She leaned in, her face mere inches from Rio’s, and her voice turned soft, almost gentle. “You’ve been a problem for far too long. And problems… need to be fixed.”

Rio’s stomach twisted as the words sank in, their sinister implication sending a chill down her spine. Evanora straightened, stepping back into the shadows, her gaze never leaving Rio’s face.

Evanora paced slowly in front of Rio, her heels clicking against the concrete floor in a rhythm that felt almost deliberate, like a countdown to something inevitable. Her cold gaze never wavered, each step designed to unsettle, to remind Rio of her helplessness.

Rio’s eyes tracked her movements, sharp and calculating despite the throbbing in her skull and the weakness in her limbs. She forced her voice to remain steady, masking the knot tightening in her chest. “So, I’m a problem, huh?” she said, her tone biting. “Care to share how you plan on ‘fixing’ me?”

Evanora paused mid-step, her head tilting slightly as if considering the question. A slow smile crept across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, Rio,” she said softly, almost mockingly. “I admire your bravery—or is it arrogance? Asking questions when you’re not in a position to demand answers.”

She moved closer, her figure looming as the dim light caught the sharp angles of her face. Her eyes gleamed with something dark and calculating, an unsettling contrast to the calm veneer she wore like armor.

“But since you’re so curious…” Evanora crouched slightly, bringing herself to eye level with Rio. Her voice lowered to a near whisper, dripping with malice. “You see, you’ve disrupted the natural order. You’ve stepped into a world where you don’t belong, entertaining a monster who should be rotting in silence. You’ve given her… life.” She spat the word like it burned her tongue.

Rio’s jaw tightened, her breath steady despite the growing tension. “And that bothers you?” she shot back, her defiance unwavering even as her wrists ached against the chains.

Evanora chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of humor. She straightened, her posture regal and imposing. “Bothers me?” she repeated, the words dripping with disdain. “It enrages me. It disgusts me.” She stepped closer, her voice rising with every word. “You’ve allowed her to thrive, to feel human, when she deserves to be crushed under the weight of her sins.”

Rio’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing even as her body remained still. She needed to keep her talking, to buy time, to find a crack in this woman’s unyielding demeanor. “So, what’s the plan, Evanora?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. “You lock me down here until I see things your way? Or are you planning to just kill me?”

Evanora laughed softly, a chilling sound that echoed in the confined space. “Kill you? Oh, no. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Too quick.” She began circling Rio again, her tone casual but filled with venom. “No, Lady Death. You deserve something more… fitting.”

She stopped abruptly, her face darkening as she leaned in close once more. “You deserve to feel the same helplessness you’ve inflicted on me. Watching from the sidelines while you tear apart justice, giving her hope, giving her connection.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, her composure fraying for a moment before she pulled herself back together.

Rio’s heart pounded, though she kept her expression neutral. “Funny,” she said, her voice steady despite the growing tension. “For someone who hates me so much, you sure seem obsessed.”

Evanora’s hand shot out, gripping Rio’s chin with surprising force. Her nails dug into Rio’s skin as she tilted her head up, forcing their eyes to meet. “You think this is obsession?” she hissed, her face mere inches away. “This is justice. Something you’ve forgotten how to uphold.”

Rio stared back, unflinching despite the sharp pain radiating from her jaw. “You don’t know a damn thing about justice,” she said, her voice low and cutting.

Evanora’s lips twisted into a cruel smile, and she released Rio abruptly, causing her head to drop forward. 

As Evanora stepped back and started to pace, her voice teetered between controlled disdain and unbridled loathing. “Do you even realize what she is?” Evanora asked, her tone laced with disgust. “What she’s done? Agatha isn’t some misunderstood soul, Rio. She’s a manipulator, a monster. She takes and takes until there’s nothing left of you. Just like she did with her victims, just like she’ll do with you.” 

Evanora’s voice carried an unshakable venom whenever she spoke about Agatha, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Rio. Every word, every pause, dripped with an almost palpable hatred that cut through the tension in the room.

Rio’s sharp gaze tracked her movements, her mind cataloging every word. There was something almost theatrical about Evanora’s hatred—it wasn’t just anger; it was personal, intimate. A mother’s scorn twisted into something far darker.

“She’s my daughter,” Evanora spat the word like a curse. “But even that is an insult to the bond between parent and child. She betrayed everything, everyone, for power. And you…” She turned abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at Rio. “You’re feeding her. You’re giving her the attention, the connection she doesn’t deserve.”

Rio leaned her head back against the wall, the chains clinking softly as she adjusted her posture. Her wrists ached, her body felt weak, but her mind was sharp. “Sounds like you’ve got some unresolved family issues,” Rio said, her tone sharp despite her exhaustion.

Evanora’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sneer. “Family issues?” she echoed mockingly. “Do you think this is some petty domestic dispute? She’s a cancer, Rio. A blight on everything she touches.”

Rio couldn’t hide the faint arch of her brow, her expression a mix of skepticism and calculation. “Funny. You talk about her like she’s not your own flesh and blood.”

Evanora’s face darkened, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “Flesh and blood,” she muttered, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. “She stopped being my daughter the day she drained life from those who trusted her.” She took a step closer, her eyes blazing with anger. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your child become a monster, to know you created that?”

Rio held her gaze, her expression unreadable. “No,” she said simply, her voice steady. “But it sounds like you’ve spent more time blaming her than asking yourself why she ended up that way.”

Evanora froze, the words hitting like a slap. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold fury.

“You don’t know anything,” Evanora hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know the sacrifices, the betrayals. Agatha is no victim, Rio. She is the architect of her own damnation.”

Rio didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing as she pieced together the puzzle before her. Evanora’s hatred wasn’t just born from what Agatha had done; it was steeped in something deeper—shame, perhaps, or fear. “You hate her,” Rio said finally, her voice quieter now, more pointed. “But not because she took lives. You hate her because she’s your failure.”

The room fell into an oppressive silence. Evanora’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into thin slits. Her hand trembled briefly before she clenched it into a fist. “You think you’re so clever,” she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. “But you don’t understand anything.”

She turned sharply, her back to Rio, her shoulders stiff. “Agatha doesn’t deserve redemption,” she said, her tone colder than ever. “And you certainly won’t find it by aligning yourself with her.”

Rio watched her carefully, her own expression unreadable. “I’m not looking for redemption,” she said after a moment. “I’m just doing my job.”

Evanora spun around, her eyes blazing. “Your job,” she said mockingly. “Your job is what brought you here, chained and bleeding. Your job is what’s going to destroy you.”

Rio didn’t flinch, her gaze steady. “We’ll see about that.”

Evanora stepped closer, leaning down until her face was mere inches from Rio’s. “Yes,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “We will.”

Rio didn’t respond immediately, her mind working furiously to map out her surroundings, her options. But the chains rattled slightly as she shifted her weight, a reminder of her vulnerability.

Evanora continued, taking slow, deliberate steps around the room, her voice dripping with menace. “You’ve been so sure of yourself, haven’t you? Walking into that facility day after day, playing the part of the brave, unshakable investigator.” She stopped, turning to face Rio directly. “But courage is just a mask, Rio. And I’ve always been good at tearing masks off.”

Rio’s jaw clenched, but she kept her expression neutral. “And what do you think you’ll find underneath?” she asked, her voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into her bones.

Evanora tilted her head, her smile growing wider. “Oh, I already know,” she said, her voice a soft purr. “You’re so predictable. You think you’re righteous, driven by justice. But I see it, Rio—the cracks. The doubt. The fear. You’ve tied yourself to Agatha, and now you’re sinking with her.”

Rio’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better than a monologue,” she said, her tone cutting.

Evanora chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, moving closer. “This is just the prelude. The fun hasn’t even started.”

Her fingers brushed lightly over a table near the wall, her nails clicking against its surface. The faint clink of metal echoed in the room as she lifted an object into the light—a scalpel, its edge glinting ominously.

Rio simply blinked, her eyes flicking to the instrument before meeting Evanora’s gaze again. “So this is your plan?” she asked, her voice unwavering. “Torture me until I... what? Break? Confess?”

Evanora smirked, holding the scalpel delicately between her fingers as she approached. “Break? No,” she said. “Not yet. But fear is a slow burn, my dear. It starts small—a flicker of discomfort, a whisper of dread. And then it grows, spreading through you like wildfire.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “And by the time you realize you’re afraid, it’s already too late.”

Evanora studied Rio with an intensity that could peel away steel, her cold gaze tracing every line of Rio’s face, searching for the inevitable cracks. The scalpel still glinted in her hand, a tool of menace, but her confidence wavered as the seconds ticked by.

Rio didn’t flinch. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Evanora’s with a resolve so deep it bordered on haunting. The flickering light from the bulb above barely illuminated the room, but it seemed to sharpen the edges of Rio’s face, casting her features in an almost ethereal glow.

“You’re quiet,” Evanora said, tilting her head slightly, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and irritation. “Most people, at this point, would be begging, screaming, bargaining. But you...” She stepped closer, her polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor. “You just sit there, like none of this matters. Like you’ve already accepted it.”

Rio’s gaze didn’t waver, her voice calm and even. “Because it doesn’t,” she said simply.

The response hit Evanora like a slap, though she quickly masked her reaction. Her brows furrowed, and she forced a thin, humorless smile. “You’re lying,” she said. “Everyone fears death, even the brave ones. It’s human nature.”

“Maybe,” Rio said, her tone still steady, her voice almost casual. “But I don’t fear it. Death isn’t new to me. I've met it more times than I can count and every single time it seems like I'm sent back.” She tilted her head with a weak smirk. "Guess its not my time, or maybe it is. I'm sure we'll find out soon."

Evanora’s smile faltered, and for the first time, something shifted in her expression—confusion, perhaps even unease. She took another step closer, peering into Rio’s eyes as though searching for something deeper. “You really don’t care, do you?” she murmured, almost to herself.

Rio leaned her head back against the wall, her body screaming in protest from the chains that pulled at her wrists. She shifted slightly, just enough to take the edge off the discomfort. “If you’re expecting me to beg, you’re wasting your time,” she said. “If you’re waiting for fear, you’ll be here a long time. And if you’re planning to kill me...” She met Evanora’s gaze with unwavering clarity. “You’d better hope you’re ready for whatever comes after.”

Evanora froze, her fingers tightening around the scalpel. The room felt smaller now, as though Rio’s presence alone was pressing in on her, suffocating her with its weight.

“You sound like her,” Evanora muttered, her voice low, almost venomous.

Rio raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

Evanora’s lips thinned, her jaw tightening. “Agatha,” she spat, the name laced with bitterness. “That same arrogance, that same defiance. It’s disgusting.”

“And yet,” Rio said softly, her voice carrying an edge that cut through the air like a blade, “here you are, so obsessed with her that you’ve built your entire life around hating her. You can’t even see how much she’s still controlling you.”

Evanora’s face darkened, her grip on the scalpel so tight her knuckles turned white. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed, though her voice wavered ever so slightly.

“Don’t I?” Rio asked, tilting her head. “You’re not here for justice, Evanora. You’re here because you can’t let go. Because hating Agatha is all you have left. And now, you think taking me out will fix... whatever this is.” She gestured subtly toward the room, her eyes sharp with meaning.

The words cut deep, and Evanora’s composure cracked just enough for Rio to notice. But instead of recoiling, Evanora took a step back, as though trying to regain her balance.

“You’re wrong,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the balance. About fixing what’s broken.”

“Funny,” Rio said, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. “That’s exactly what Agatha said about the Darkhold. Guess you two have more in common than you thought.”

Evanora’s eyes flared with rage, and for a moment, it seemed as though she might lash out. But instead, she stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Then Evanora chuckled, a low and chilling sound. “Brave words for someone in chains. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re nothing like my daughter’s other victims.”

At that, Rio’s brow furrowed slightly. “Victims? Agatha didn’t break me. I’m not her victim.”

Evanora’s face darkened at the mention of Agatha. Her lips thinned, and for a fleeting moment, something almost feral flickered in her expression. “She should have been my greatest triumph,” she hissed, venom dripping from each word. “Instead, she turned herself into this… abomination. A daughter who defied everything I stood for.”

Rio narrowed her eyes, scanning Evanora’s body language, the tightly clenched fists, the way her voice wavered ever so slightly. There was more here—something deeply personal, something raw.

“You hate her,” Rio said, her tone probing. "Why?"

Evanora’s smile returned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Agatha betrayed me. She took something that wasn’t hers to take and dared to think she could wield it. But she never understood… Darkhold chooses."

Rio’s breath hitched, her mind racing. The Darkhold? The name hung in the air, heavy and foreboding.

"Darkhold? You know Darkhold?" Rio asked.

The woman gave her a wicked smirk. "He saved me from death itself." Evanora continued, her voice now reverent, almost haunting. “When the pyres burned and they tried to snuff out my light, he whispered to me. Showed me truths that others couldn’t comprehend. Darkhold is everywhere and nowhere all at once. It doesn’t die, it doesn’t disappear. It transforms.”

Rio’s sharp mind latched onto the words. She studied Evanora’s face, the fervent gleam in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. This wasn’t just hatred or revenge—it was fanaticism.

“You think Darkhold saved you?” Rio asked, her voice carefully measured.

Evanora’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “I don't think, child. I know. He saved me from death, kept me undetected for years. From the person who would have been my murderer.”

“And who would that be?” Rio pressed, still calm, though her muscles ached from the strain of her position.

Evanora leaned closer, her face inches from Rio’s. “My very own daughter." 

Rio flinched back, her head hitting the wall behind her making her wince. 

Evanora smirked at the reaction. "What? Don't tell me the FBI truly believed it was a house fire that killed me. No, it was Agatha herself and now she will pay."

Rio clenched her jaw. "And how will you do that when you're wasting your time with me?" 

"Oh, Rio. Don't you understand? You are the problem and the salvation. You have given my daughter something she doesn’t deserve—hope. With you gone, broken, forgotten, all that hope will be snuffed out of her. And she will truly suffer."

Despite the looming threat, Rio’s gaze remained unwavering. “Why not just kill me and get it over with?”

For a moment, Evanora was silent, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled again, slow and menacing. “Oh, but death would be too simple. Too kind. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Rio didn’t flinch, even as Evanora turned and began to pace, her figure a silhouette against the dim, rune-etched walls. The atmosphere thickened with unspoken malice, and the faint hum of unseen energy seemed to pulse with the Darkhold’s lingering presence.

Evanora stopped, her back to Rio. “You should pray for mercy,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unsettling weight. “Because where you’re going, there won’t be any.”

Rio clenched her fists, her wrists chafing against the chains. “I don’t pray,” she muttered under her breath, her resolve unshaken.

And that only made Evanora’s smile widen. "You will." Evanora’s sharp heels clicked against the cold, unforgiving floor as she circled Rio like a predator. “You know,” Evanora began, her voice smooth and casual, “with Agatha, my methods were more focused on the mentality sometimes even physical...” She paused, leaning in close enough that Rio could feel the chill of her breath. “She was strong, resilient, but she always screamed in the end.”

Rio forced her head to lift, her eyes narrowing at Evanora. Her glare intensified at the weight of the words. 

Agatha. Methods. Physical. 

It gave Rio a clear picture of what Agatha's childhood must have been like. And that itself made her blood boil.

Evanora smiled, a thin, cruel line that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, but you’re different, aren’t you?” she mused, taking a small device from her coat pocket. The metal glinted under the dim light, and Rio’s stomach sank as she recognized the taser.

Evanora held it up, her eyes glinting with a sinister light. “I think this will do just fine.”

Before Rio could respond, a sharp crack filled the air, and her body jerked violently as electricity coursed through her. Pain, white-hot and all-consuming, seared through her nerves. Her muscles seized, locking her body into a rigid arch before she collapsed back into the chains.

The taste of copper filled her mouth as she bit down on her tongue to stifle a scream. She wouldn’t give Evanora the satisfaction.

“Ah, there it is,” Evanora said, her tone almost conversational. “That fire in your eyes. I wonder how long it will last.” and she continued.

Rio’s body sagged against the chains as the pain momentarily subsided. Her breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts. She clenched her jaw, refusing to give Evanora the satisfaction of a scream.

The next wave hit harder, radiating from her core and spreading outward like molten lava. Her vision blurred, and the edges of the room seemed to darken. It wasn’t just physical—it was as though something was digging into her very essence, clawing at her mind.

“Do you feel it?” Evanora asked, her voice unnervingly close to Rio’s ear now. “The truth unraveling you from the inside out? The realization that your strength means nothing here?”

Rio swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her mind raced, searching for any distraction, any way to regain control. But the pain was relentless, leaving her thoughts fragmented and scattered.

She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself to focus on the faint metallic tang. It grounded her, just enough to keep her from slipping entirely.

Evanora chuckled softly. “Still holding on, I see. Admirable. Foolish, but admirable.”

Another surge of agony struck, this time deeper, more insidious. It was as though her very veins were being scorched, her nerves lit aflame. Rio let out a strangled cry before clamping her mouth shut again, her entire body trembling.

Evanora circled her slowly, her movements methodical. “Do you know what I’m doing, Agent Vidal?” she asked, her tone almost conversational. “I’m not just hurting you. I’m… unraveling you. Bit by bit, layer by layer. Until there’s nothing left but the truth.”

Rio’s head lolled forward, her sweat-drenched hair clinging to her face. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her body screaming in protest with every movement. But her eyes—sharp, defiant—remained fixed on the ground.

The next wave of pain was unlike anything Rio had ever felt. It wasn’t just physical—it felt as though it reached into her very soul, pulling at threads she didn’t know existed. Her vision dimmed, and the faint glow of the runes carved into the walls seemed to pulse in time with her agony.

And still, Rio held on.

Another jolt. This one was longer, sharper, and more unrelenting. Rio’s vision blurred at the edges as the pain spread, a suffocating weight that consumed her entirely. She couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or hours. Time had lost all meaning.

Her mind, desperate for an escape, latched onto fleeting memories. Alice’s laughter echoed in her ears, the warmth of their shared moments cutting through the cold reality of her current state. She saw Lilia’s hands, always careful and steady as they worked with her deck of cards that she always had on her desk. Jen’s voice rang in her mind, teasing and light, always knowing how to bring her back from the brink.

And then there was Agatha.

The memory of Agatha’s smirk, her sharp wit, and the way her eyes softened when she thought no one was watching, pulled Rio back to herself. She clung to the image like a lifeline, her anchor in the storm of agony.

Another jolt, and this time a scream tore free from her lips before she could stop it. It echoed off the walls, a raw, guttural sound that seemed to please Evanora.

“Good,” Evanora murmured, stepping closer. “You’re starting to understand.”

Rio’s body sagged, her muscles trembling uncontrollably as the pain subsided for a brief moment. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her chest heaving as she fought to keep herself conscious.

“You won’t break me,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

Evanora tilted her head, her expression one of mild curiosity. “You’re resilient, I’ll give you that,” she said, her tone almost admiring. “But everyone breaks, Lady Death. It’s only a matter of time.”

The taser sparked again, and Rio braced herself, her mind retreating into itself as another wave of pain washed over her. Minutes, hours—it was impossible to tell. She existed only in the moments between shocks, her body a vessel of torment.

But even as her strength waned, her resolve remained. She refused to give Evanora the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

“You won’t win,” she forced out between shallow breaths.

Evanora’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or frustration. “We’ll see,” she said, raising the taser once more.

And so it continued, a dance of pain and resistance, a battle of wills in the cold, unyielding basement. But no matter how much Evanora pushed, Rio held on, her mind a fortress built on memories and determination.

Chapter Text

The sterile walls of her cell, once suffocating but manageable, now seemed to close in tighter each day. It had been three days since Rio vanished. Three days since Evanora—her mother, of all people—had revealed herself alive and taken Rio. Agatha hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. It felt impossible. Evanora had been dead for years, a ghost in the ashes of their family home. But Wanda’s rattled confessions and the clarity in Jen and Lilia’s desperate questions confirmed what her instincts already knew.

Evanora was alive. And she had Rio.

Agatha sat on her cot, her back straight, hands loosely clasped in her lap, the perfect image of composure. But her fingers tightened imperceptibly every time her thoughts circled back to Rio. Why did she care? She’d asked herself that a dozen times in the past 72 hours.

It wasn’t guilt—Agatha didn’t do guilt. At least, that’s what she told herself. Rio was a distraction, a wild card in an otherwise predictable routine. Agatha had grown used to the way Rio approached her with questions, probing for answers while pretending she wasn’t getting too close. It was a game Agatha knew how to play expertly. And yet, somewhere along the way, the game had shifted.

“Agatha.”

The sharp voice of Jen pulled her from her thoughts. Jen and Lilia stood outside her cell, their faces pale and tense, their eyes red-rimmed.

“She’s been gone for three days,” Jen said, her tone clipped, frustration barely masking the worry underneath. “We know your mother has her. Wanda’s confession made that clear. What we need is information. Where would she take her?”

Agatha tilted her head, her expression calm. “And what makes you think I’d know?”

“Don’t play coy,” Lilia snapped, stepping closer. “This is your mother we’re talking about. You can’t seriously expect us to believe you have no idea.”

“She’s not my mother anymore,” Agatha said evenly, though there was an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. Her fingers twitched once before she tucked them under her thighs. “She ceased to be my mother the day I burned her house down.”

The air seemed to shift with the weight of her words.

Jen froze. “What did you say?”

Agatha’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest shadow crossed her eyes. “You heard me. I thought she died in that fire. Evidently, I was mistaken.”

Lilia leaned closer, her face pale. “Where was the house, Agatha?”

For the first time, Agatha hesitated. Her gaze flicked down to her lap, where her fingers fidgeted almost imperceptibly. Finally, she looked up, her voice carefully controlled. “Westview.”

“Westview?" Jen repeated, incredulous. "That’s hours from here."

Agatha’s gaze snapped up, and for a brief moment, something sharp and dangerous glinted in her eyes. "Then you’d better get moving, hadn’t you?"

Lilia frowned, searching Agatha’s face for any sign of deception. "And if she’s not there?"

Agatha leaned forward slightly, her expression hardening into something unyielding. "Then she’s as good as dead."

Lilia exhaled sharply, glancing at Jen. “We’ll need to head there. If there’s any chance Rio’s there—”

"Don't waste time debating," Agatha's expression was unreadable, her eyes cold but glinting with something deeper. "But if you want Rio back, you’ll need more than hope. You’ll need to be ready for whatever you find. If you want to save her, you’ll need every second.”

As Lilia and Jen left to prepare, Agatha sank back onto her cot. Her hands trembled as she opened the book, its pages blurring as her mind wandered to Rio. She couldn’t explain it, but the thought of never seeing her again felt like losing something vital.

Agatha’s composure cracked just slightly. Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her fingers absently traced the spine of the book Rio had given her—the reward for cooperating, Rio had said with her usual mixture of sarcasm and earnestness.

Agatha didn’t know why she kept it. She told herself it was because she appreciated the irony. But as her thumb brushed over the worn leather, she couldn’t ignore the nagging concern clawing at the edges of her mind.

Rio wasn’t supposed to matter. And yet, she did.

Agatha sighed, leaning back against the cold wall of her cell. For the first time in years, she felt helpless. And she hated it.

As the seconds stretched into minutes and the minutes blurred into hours, Agatha sat alone in the silence of her cell. The sterile walls, once so familiar, felt like they were closing in on her. It wasn’t just the four corners of the room that were suffocating; it was something deeper, something that twisted in her chest, gnawing at her insides.

She hated this feeling. She hated the vulnerability of it, how it made her question everything. Every step she had taken, every decision she had made that had led her here—was this what it had all been for?

A dull ache throbbed in her chest, not from any physical wound, but from the growing realization she couldn’t deny. She had felt this gnawing discomfort ever since Rio had gone missing, but she had pushed it down, buried it beneath the hard shell she had perfected over the years.

Now, with nothing to distract her, she couldn't ignore it any longer.

Why did Rio matter?

Agatha had told herself it was nothing—just a fleeting connection, something she had allowed herself to indulge in because it amused her. The way Rio had tried to pull information out of her, all the while pretending she didn’t care. It had been a game.

But now… Agatha's grip on that excuse was slipping.

Her thoughts drifted back to the moments when Rio had come to visit, the unexpected warmth in her voice, the way she had dared to get close, even when Agatha had pushed her away. Rio wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a tool, an interruption, a challenge to her control. She wasn’t supposed to be someone Agatha worried about. She wasn’t supposed to matter.

And yet, here Agatha was, alone in her cell, clutching the book Rio had left her like it was a lifeline.

The irony was suffocating.

Rio was gone.

The weight of that word pressed down on her like a stone, and Agatha closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe through the sting of something she couldn’t name. Her fingers tightened on the spine of the book.

Why am I like this? she thought bitterly, her thoughts tangled in a mess of confusion. What is it about her? Why does it feel like my chest is cracking open?

There was no answer. Only a gnawing emptiness that grew with each passing moment of silence.

Had it always been there? Had Rio always meant more than Agatha had allowed herself to admit? Maybe. Maybe it had started the first time they spoke, when Agatha saw the determination in her eyes—the defiance. She wasn’t a fool; Agatha knew Rio’s type. She had seen it before, a fire in someone’s gaze that both intrigued and infuriated her.

But then there had been other moments. The way Rio had listened to her, truly listened, even when Agatha didn’t say anything of real importance. The quiet determination in her voice when she challenged Agatha, not out of arrogance, but out of something more—something Agatha couldn’t quite place. The way Rio had pressed her, trying to make Agatha see something different, something human.

Human.

Agatha let out a sharp, bitter laugh. The very thing she had worked so hard to bury.

She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes shut tightly as if she could block out the sensation clawing at her chest.

“I don’t need this,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice shaky despite the force with which she tried to sound composed. “I don’t need her.”

But the words felt hollow, even to her.

Something was changing. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

A soft breath left her lips as she fought the familiar urge to shut it all down, to lock away whatever it was that was beginning to surface. But Rio’s absence… it was unraveling her. The pain in her chest was a constant reminder that no matter how much Agatha tried to control it, tried to shut it out, she cared. She cared.

And she hated it.

The familiar mask of indifference she had always worn seemed to slip, ever so slightly, the more she thought about Rio. The memory of Rio’s voice, the way she had looked at Agatha—no fear, no hesitation—kept replaying in her mind.

She had trusted Agatha, even when Agatha had done nothing to earn that trust. And now, Rio was gone.

The thought made Agatha feel sick to her stomach, like she was falling into an abyss with no way out. There was no room for this. No room for this kind of weakness, this kind of concern.

But it was there, and it wouldn’t go away.

The door to her cell creaked open suddenly, and Agatha snapped out of her spiraling thoughts, quickly composing herself. But even as the guard entered, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had irrevocably shifted inside her.

Rio was missing, and Agatha was more affected than she was willing to admit. She couldn’t control it. She couldn’t bury it.

And it terrified her.

Another 24 hours had passed, the silence in the facility growing more oppressive with each passing hour. Agatha had spent most of it locked within her own thoughts, trying to piece together what little information she had. Rio had been gone for days now, and no matter how much Agatha tried to ignore it, the gnawing fear kept creeping in. The dread that had once been a soft whisper now echoed louder in her chest, impossible to ignore.

The room was too quiet, too still. Agatha sat there, hands clasped tightly, her mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. The feeling of helplessness settled deeper with each passing minute. Lilia and Jen had been spiraling for days, unable to find any answers, unable to locate Rio. They had tried to hold on to hope, but the longer it took, the more the shadows of doubt crept in.

A knock at the door broke her from her thoughts. William, a guard who often ran errands for her, stepped inside, his face grim. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Agatha could tell immediately something had happened.

"I heard something, Agatha," William said quietly, closing the door behind him and lowering his voice. "About Westview."

Westview. The name sent a chill through Agatha’s body. She had heard it before—the place had always haunted her memories, a ghost of the past that refused to stay buried. But now, hearing it again, her heart skipped a beat. There was something wrong, something far worse than what she had anticipated.

"Go on," Agatha urged, her voice tight, knowing instinctively that whatever news was coming would change everything.

"They found a body."

Her heart skipped a beat. She straightened her back. "Is it Rio?" Her voice barely sounded like her own.

William shook his head. "No. They haven't found her yet. But what they found... it's a mess. A real mess." He took a deep breath, as though collecting his thoughts before continuing. "The body... it was in the old house. It’s beaten beyond recognition. Blood all over the stairs, near the basement. There are chains. It’s... it’s bad, Agatha.

Agatha’s heart skipped a beat. The chains. The same ones that had been used to keep Agatha herself bound for so long. She knew them too well. The mention of them made her stomach turn.

Her stomach churned. "Where was the body found?"

"Near the stairs," William replied. "Not in the basement, but close. The blood trail leads to it. I don’t think it’s Rio’s... But something’s off about it. The amount of blood, the condition of the body... It might be hers. It was a woman, but we can't be sure yet."

Agatha could feel her chest tighten, her breath shallow as the weight of the revelation sank in. "And my mother?" she asked quietly, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to.

William's gaze softened, his discomfort obvious. "The body wasn’t identified yet. They couldn’t even tell if it was her, but... with everything going on, it’s possible. Too much blood, too many injuries to be just an accident."

Agatha tried to process what she had just heard. "You think it was murder?"

He looked at her with pity, his voice quieter. "Could’ve been, Agatha. But the scene was bad. Real bad. It’s going to take some time to figure out what happened... but Rio, she’s still gone. We don’t have her."

“I need to know more. Where’s Rio?” she murmured more to herself than to William, her frustration growing. But William was already turning to leave.

“I’ll let you know what I hear. Just... hang in there, Agatha, and get ready... Calderu is going to visit you in a few minutes.” he said, the door closing with a heavy thud. And as the sound of his footsteps faded, Agatha was left alone again—alone with her thoughts, her fears, and her longing to know the truth.

Lilia’s arrival broke the stillness, and Agatha’s gaze flickered up, her eyes sharp. Lilia’s face was drawn, exhausted. Her lips pressed together in a tight line as she stood before Agatha, avoiding her gaze at first. There was something else in her expression, though—a heaviness, a weight that Agatha couldn’t quite place.

Lilia took a deep breath before speaking, her voice tight. "Agatha... we went to Westview."

Agatha’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her gaze never leaving Lilia. Her fingers flexed involuntarily as she shifted.

Lilia continued, her voice cracking slightly. "We found a body... It was bad, Agatha. We couldn’t even recognize it at first. But the blood—everywhere. And the chains."

The tension in the room was palpable as Lilia's voice filled the air, steady but heavy with the weight of the news. She was trying to mask her own unease, but the cracks in her composure were evident. Agatha stood silent, eyes fixed on Lilia as she spoke.

Lilia's face was pale, her eyes tired but sharp with intensity. She stepped closer, her steps hesitant at first. The weight of the information she carried seemed to hang in the air, thick and heavy. She didn’t immediately speak, as if gathering her thoughts before letting them spill out.

Lilia swallowed hard, her eyes flicking away. "We found the house. The one from the fire. The one you—" She stopped herself, glancing at Agatha, unsure how to proceed.

Agatha narrowed her eyes, her voice a razor-sharp whisper. "The one I burned down," she finished for her. There was no trace of remorse in her tone, just a cold indifference, as though she were talking about a task completed long ago.

Lilia nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, but... it wasn’t just the house that was destroyed. The body we found—" She paused again, the weight of the words catching in her throat. "The body was... beaten. Brutally. The chains, Agatha—they were all over the place. Blood was everywhere. It wasn’t... it wasn’t a clean kill. It wasn’t even close."

Agatha’s fists clenched involuntarily, 

She leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze never leaving Lilia. "Beaten?" she repeated, her mind racing, trying to put the pieces together. Who was it? Who’s body?

Lilia nodded, her expression grim. "It was... it was bad. The body was so... damaged, it was almost unrecognizable. Jen and I—we couldn’t even tell if it was her for sure. The face was unrecognizable. The body was covered in bruises and lacerations. The blood was... I’ve never seen anything like it." She took a deep breath, her voice trembling with the intensity of the memory. "There was blood everywhere. Staining the stairs. The basement—" Lilia choked on her words, her hands shaking as she continued, "The blood wasn’t just in the house. It was around the house. On the steps. And there were signs of struggle. Struggle, Agatha. It wasn’t just a... a death. Someone fought. Someone fought hard."

Agatha’s breath hitched, but she kept her composure. Struggle? Rio? Was it Rio who had fought?

Lilia’s eyes locked onto Agatha’s as if she already knew what she was thinking. "There was no sign of Rio, Agatha. No trace. Nothing. It’s like she... disappeared. There was just the blood and chains..." Her voice wavered at the last word, a glimmer of doubt flashing in her eyes. "But the body. The body’s all we found. We haven’t identified it yet. The way the body was... it wasn’t just a fight. It was personal."

Agatha’s mind spun. The words blood and struggle resonated through her head like a constant echo. She knew Rio was tough. Strong. But this... this didn’t make sense.

"So the body it's..." Agatha trailed off. How was she supposed the ask the question? 

My not so dead mother is dead now? 

She didn't need to ask as Lilia understood. "It could be. We still haven't identified the body. We think it's Evanora. But the body was so beaten and mutilated. There were signs that Rio was resisting--scratches, bruises on the stairs where she must have been trying to fight back, and marks up the stairs as if someone was dragged up there." 

Agatha swallowed thickly as it took every ounce of composure to keep the mask on. "So all you have is a new corpse, a crime scene, and currently missing agent out there..."

Lilia closed her eyes at a thought she didn't want true. "There saying that she couldn't have gone far but... She probably didn't make it." 

Agatha clenched her jaw. "Find. Her."

Lilia opened her eyes staring at Agatha with a look of hopelessness. "I'll try... To find what's left." Her voice croaked. She turned around leaving Agatha alone not allowing her to speak as the words soaked in. 

To find what's left. 

The dim light in Agatha’s cell flickered, casting strange, erratic shadows on the walls as the eerie silence of the facility pressed in on her. It was well into the night, and the usual sounds of guards passing by or distant murmurs were absent, leaving the atmosphere thick with an unsettling stillness. Agatha sat on the cold stone floor, her back pressed against the wall, her mind still swirling with the grim news Lilia had shared with her.

Her thoughts were a tangled mess of questions, doubts, and fears—mostly centered on Rio. But suddenly, something broke through the suffocating quiet. A faint noise—a soft, irregular breath. It was so quiet at first that Agatha thought she might be imagining it. But no. There it was again, the sharp sound of shallow breathing, coming from somewhere near the door. Her instincts kicked in, every muscle tensing as her senses sharpened.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate, as if someone were moving carefully—painfully. Whoever it was was trying to be quiet, but their movements betrayed them. Agatha’s eyes narrowed in the dim light, scanning the shadows. She could see nothing clearly, but the feeling of unease crawled up her spine.

As the footsteps grew louder, closer, Agatha’s body instinctively coiled like a spring, ready to pounce. Her breath was steady, controlled, as her eyes flickered toward the bars of her cell. The sound of keys rattling broke through the silence, followed by the faint squeak of the cell door being unlocked. Agatha’s heart raced. Someone was coming in.

She wasn’t sure who, but she wasn’t about to wait to find out.

Agatha's hand shot out toward the edge of her cot, where a sharp object was hidden in the folds of her blanket. She was ready to strike, ready to defend herself—whatever it was, whoever it was, she wasn’t going down without a fight. But as the door creaked open, the familiar sound of shuffling steps reached her ears, too faint to make out anything, but enough to freeze her where she stood.

Suddenly, a figure stumbled through the door and collapsed, their body crumpling weakly into Agatha’s arms. The weight of the body was too much for her to avoid—she caught them without thinking, steadying them, pulling them upright to prevent them from crashing to the floor.

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, her mind reeling. It didn’t make sense. Who would dare...

Then the unmistakable weight of blood soaked into her clothes—the warmth of it, the heavy, sickening feeling that spread across her chest. The back of her mind screamed at her to push the body away, to protect herself—but she couldn’t. Her hands were already instinctively steadying the limp form in her arms, no longer thinking, just reacting.

She felt the blood—the clinging warmth of it against her skin—and the faint tremor in the body she held. Weak. So weak. The blood dried on her fingers, the cold stickiness of it enough to make her stomach turn. The body was so light, so fragile, like nothing Agatha had ever held before.

And then, through the haze of confusion, a broken, strained voice whispered from the body in her arms.

"Agatha..." The voice was hoarse, vulnerable.

Agatha’s heart slammed against her ribcage, her mind racing to make sense of what was happening. The voice was too familiar. 

Rio.

No. It couldn’t be. She had been so sure Rio was missing, gone, lost to whatever terrible fate her mother had planned. But here Rio was, in her arms, her body battered, broken. She couldn’t understand it. How? How could this happen?

Agatha leaned closer, taking in the damage. Her gaze flickered down to Rio’s wrist first—there were deep, raw wounds where the chains had been. The skin was torn, raw from the chafing, the blood caked and dried around the wounds. Agatha felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest, her hands automatically tightening around Rio as if trying to prevent her from slipping away.

Rio’s head lolled against Agatha’s shoulder, the matted blood in her hair sticking to Agatha’s skin. The blood from the back of Rio’s head had dried, staining the ragged clothes she wore. Her clothes were torn, singed with small patches of burned fabric from the taser—ripped at the edges and ragged where the electric current had seared through the material, leaving charred black holes.

But it wasn’t just the physical injuries that made Agatha’s stomach turn. It was the way Rio’s body felt—frail, like a puppet with its strings cut, limp and barely clinging to life. Agatha’s pulse raced as she supported Rio, holding her up in her arms, but the strain of her injuries and the blood loss were enough to make the weight of Rio’s form seem impossibly heavy.

The faint, shaky breath coming from Rio made Agatha’s heart thud painfully against her ribs. Her hands trembled as she continued to hold Rio, the blood still soaking into her clothes, the frail body barely clinging to consciousness. The faint sound of Rio’s voice barely reached Agatha's ears, but it was enough to make her freeze, her mind swirling with confusion.

"I'm sorry," Rio whispered, her voice thick with the weight of exhaustion and pain. "I'm so sorry, Agatha. For everything... that this must've been for you... as a child." Her words trailed off, each one as labored as her breathing.

Agatha's breath hitched at the unexpected apology. It wasn’t what she had been prepared for.

Rio was apologizing, not for herself—but for what Agatha had endured.

A cold shiver ran down Agatha’s spine as she stared down at Rio, her grip tightening instinctively around the woman in her arms. She could feel the weight of Rio's gaze on her, though the blood loss and exhaustion made her eyes flutter weakly. Agatha had never once considered that someone like Rio could understand the depths of her pain—could ever feel that sympathy for her after all she had done. But Rio did. She felt it in every ragged breath the other woman took.

"Don't—" Agatha started, her voice shaking for reasons she didn’t want to admit. She tried to pull Rio closer, her fingers digging into the bloodied fabric of Rio's clothes, as if to hold on to some last bit of control. "Don't apologize. You don’t need to—"

But Rio, with the last of her strength, tightened her grip on Agatha’s arm. Her movements were weak, but the desperation in her touch was unmistakable. Rio’s voice broke through the dim light of the cell, her words filled with something raw.

"You don't understand. The things... The things she—" Rio gasped, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. "It must’ve been... worse for you. So much worse. I can’t— I hate her so much."

Agatha's head spun. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to pull away, to push Rio off and keep a cold distance between them, as she always did. But this... this was different. The pain Rio had experienced, the struggle to survive, and the understanding she seemed to have now—it was breaking through Agatha's walls, piece by piece.

Before she could stop herself, Agatha found herself leaning in, whispering the only thing she could. "You don’t have to carry this alone."

But Rio's next move caught her completely off guard.

With a sudden, surprising urgency, Rio used what little strength she had left to pull herself closer to Agatha. In a moment of unexpected desperation, Rio's arms snaked around Agatha, pulling her in as tightly as she could despite her weak, trembling form. It was as if, in that moment, she wasn’t afraid anymore. As if the world outside the cell, the prison they were both trapped in, didn’t matter.

For a fleeting second, Agatha forgot everything. She forgot her murderous past, the walls she had built around herself, the chains that had bound her to her own dark secrets. She forgot all of it, because Rio—despite everything—held her as if she wasn’t a monster. As if she wasn’t a killer.

It was so sudden, so unexpected that it took Agatha a moment to register it. Rio—who had been through hell, who had suffered at the hands of Agatha's mother, who had fought tooth and nail to survive—was holding her as if she mattered. As if she was worth something. It was disorienting, confusing, and in that split second, Agatha felt an unfamiliar emotion stir in her chest. She didn’t know if it was relief or fear, but it hit her harder than she wanted to admit.

Agatha gently adjusted her hold on Rio, feeling her weak body trembling against hers. She had to keep her awake, keep her focused. The urgency clawed at her chest as she tried to get Rio to answer her questions, hoping it would distract her from the overwhelming pain and exhaustion.

"Rio," Agatha said softly, her voice hoarse but firm. She wasn’t going to let her slip away. "How did you get here? What happened? Tell me."

Rio’s breath hitched, her grip tightening briefly on Agatha’s shoulders as she tried to push herself up. Her head lulled forward for a moment, and Agatha could feel her body going limp, too exhausted to stay upright.

"Rio," Agatha repeated, more urgently this time. She shook her gently, her hands pressing against Rio’s shoulders. "Stay with me. You have to stay awake."

Rio’s eyes flickered open, her pupils dilated from exhaustion and pain. Her voice came out as a raspy whisper. "I—" She winced, the pain obvious in her face. "I had to see you."

Agatha’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t have time to process the emotion. She needed to understand what had happened, why Rio was in this condition.

"Why did you break into the facility, Rio?" Agatha pressed, her eyes searching Rio’s face for any sign of clarity. "You know the risk. What happened that made you—"

Rio’s eyes fluttered again, but she fought to stay awake. She let out a strained sigh, her voice faint but defiant. "I don't care... I- I don't care, I just had to see you."

Agatha’s heart raced, her fingers trembling slightly as she touched Rio’s cheek, desperate to keep her conscious. "But the house, Rio," she pressed. "What happened there?"

At the mention of the house, Rio's face contorted with pain. Her head lolled to one side, and Agatha caught a glimpse of the blood drying on the back of her head, the deep bruises around her wrists from the chains, and the faint burn marks on her clothes. It was all too much—too much to process.

"Enough happened." The way Rio said it, the dark tone lingering at the end of the word sent a shiver down Agatha's spine. Then she winced, Rio opened her mouth to speak but struggled, her voice barely audible. "Did they find the body?" She finally asked.

Agatha paused. "Yes."

Rio squeezed her eyes shut resting her forehead on Agatha's shoulder. "I don't remember much but... All I know is that half the blood on here isn't mine. I- I did that, I killed your mother." 

And everything froze.

Chapter Text

The first thing Rio noticed as she stirred was the blinding white light overhead. Her head throbbed, a deep, relentless ache, and her body felt unnervingly heavy. The sterile smell of disinfectant filled her nose as she tried to shift, only to find her right wrist restrained. The cold bite of metal against the badges on her skin snapped her fully awake.

Handcuffs.

Her pulse quickened as she glanced to the side, seeing the thin, metallic chain locking her to the hospital bed. Panic flickered in her chest, but she forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath, her FBI training kicking in through the haze of confusion.

What happened?

Rio’s eyes stayed locked on the handcuffs, her breathing uneven as she tried to make sense of the scene around her. Her wrist ached from the restraint, a cruel reminder that she wasn’t out of danger yet. She clenched her free hand against the thin blanket, frustration bubbling under her skin. The sterile smell of the hospital room mixed with the memory of blood, sweat, and burnt fabric, making her stomach churn.

She tried to piece the memories together, but they were scattered—flashes of dim light, chains digging into her wrists, and Evanora’s mocking voice ringing in her ears. Her stomach twisted, but before she could spiral, the door creaked open, and Lilia stepped inside.

"Lilia," Rio croaked, her voice hoarse and dry. She swallowed hard, wincing at the soreness in her throat. "What’s going on? Why—why am I handcuffed?"

Lilia’s expression was unreadable, but there was a sharpness in her eyes Rio hadn’t seen before. She closed the door behind her, stepping closer to the bed. "You tell me," she said, her tone clipped. "The higher-ups are losing their minds, Rio. News of the murder has spread, and they’re labeling you as dangerous."

Rio’s brow furrowed, a deep scowl setting on her face. "Dangerous?" she snapped, trying to sit up but wincing at the pull in her muscles. "It was self-defense, Lilia! She—" Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, her free hand curling into a fist. "She was going to kill me."

"I understand that," Lilia said, her voice softer now, though her expression remained firm. "But the body, Rio..." She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor before meeting Rio’s again. "It was overkill."

Rio clenched her jaw, her mind racing back to the basement. The chains, the taser, Evanora’s cold, calculated cruelty. She had fought for her life, had been pushed to the brink and beyond. Her hand trembled as she clenched it into a fist, her nails biting into her palm.

Lilia watched her closely, the tension in the room palpable. "You have to understand how this looks," she said carefully. "They don’t know the full story. All they see is a brutal murder and no context. And I..." She hesitated, her voice dropping. "I can’t help but notice there’s something... different about you."

Rio’s eyes snapped to Lilia, sharp and unyielding. "Different?" she bit out.

Lilia nodded slowly, her gaze searching. "Your eyes. The way you’re holding yourself. It’s like..." She trailed off, unsure of how to put it into words.

Rio’s frustration boiled over. "You want to know what happened?" she spat, her voice rising. "I was tortured, Lilia. Tortured. For hours, maybe days or weeks. I lost time there. She kept pushing and pushing until I—" Her voice cracked, and she looked away, her breathing uneven.

Lilia’s expression softened, guilt flickering in her eyes. "Rio..."

"No," Rio snapped, her voice cold and sharp. "You don’t get to look at me like that. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what she did to me. You didn’t—" She stopped herself, shaking her head as tears pricked at her eyes. "I did what I had to do to survive."

The room fell silent, the weight of Rio’s words settling heavily between them.

Lilia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I believe you, Rio," she said quietly. "I just... I need to know everything. What happened after the fight? How did you get out?"

Rio closed her eyes, the images flashing behind her eyelids like a cruel slideshow. "I don’t know," she admitted. "It's all a blur."

Lilia nodded, though concern lingered in her eyes. "Okay," she said softly. "We’ll figure this out. Just... try to rest, alright?"

Rio didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as her mind raced. The memories were fractured, but the pain was vivid, lingering in her body like a cruel reminder. She had survived, but at what cost?

Lilia stepped closer, placing a hand on the edge of the bed. "We’ll figure it out," she promised. "But you have to trust me, okay?"

Rio nodded reluctantly, her gaze dropping to her lap. The memories of the fight, of Evanora’s cold, calculating voice, lingered like a ghost in the room. She had survived, but the cost felt immeasurable.

As Lilia turned to leave, Rio spoke one last time, her voice barely audible. "She didn’t just push me to my limits, Lilia," she said. "She broke me."

Lilia paused, her hand on the doorframe. She didn’t look back, but her voice carried a quiet determination. "Then we’ll put you back together," she said softly. Right when she was going to leave, five words stopped her in her tracks.

"I need to see Agatha." 

Lilia froze, she let out a sigh glancing over her shoulder. "That's the other thing Rio, you went to a serial killer instead of a hospital. Everyone thinks Agatha turned you into a murderer and that you're doing her bidding."

Rio's eyes narrowed. "I was half dead. Starved, beaten, tortured, over and over again. The facility was close compared to the hospital."

"How'd you get in? And the keys?" 

Rio clenched her jaw. "Evanora had them the entire time. I'll tell you everything but Lilia you have to tell them what happened..."

"I will." Though her gaze was hesitant.

Rio gave her a pleading look. "Lilia- i- I'm still the same, Agatha didn't-"

"I know. I know she didn't." She spoke softly with something hidden in her tone. Regret? Guilt? Both? Rio couldn't tell. "I'm sorry for everything, Rio." She muttered.

And with that, she was gone, leaving Rio alone with her thoughts and the weight of what she had endured.

Rio’s pulse hammered in her temples as she lay in the sterile hospital room, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows on the walls. The handcuffs around her wrist felt heavier than ever, a reminder that her freedom had been stripped away long before the chains had bound her. The memory of the torture, the overwhelming agony, and the fury that had boiled over inside her... it was all a blur. But there was one thing that remained sharp in her mind: the moment she killed Evanora.

The body had been found, beaten beyond recognition, and that fact alone was enough to condemn her. Lilia had warned her about the overkill, how it would look to the public, how it would be spun as something darker than self-defense. But Rio had never considered what the world would think, never anticipated the wave of judgment that would crash over her, drowning her in a sea of uncertainty and guilt.

She could hear the whispers outside her door, the rumors spreading like wildfire. She had heard them herself when she was still able to move, before the pain and exhaustion had taken hold: "She's a monster." "She lost control." "She’s unstable."

But none of those whispers ever captured the truth. She hadn’t been some cold-blooded killer. No, Rio had been pushed past her limits, fighting for her life. But no one would hear that, not the way the media had already twisted it.

The door to her room creaked open, and Rio glanced up, expecting to see Lilia or maybe Jen. Instead, a figure stepped inside: a lawyer, one of many sent by the state. Tall, dark hair, wearing sunglasses, an using a red cane.

Rio tensed, her chest tightening as she realized that the battle for her freedom was just beginning.

The lawyer’s face was unreadable, and he crossed the room to sit at the foot of her bed. Rio’s mind was still foggy, but she could feel the weight of the impending trial closing in on her.

“Im Matt Murdock, I’ve been assigned to represent you, Rio,” the lawyer said, his voice flat but professional. “We need to talk about your defense strategy.”

Rio swallowed hard, her gaze flickering to her handcuffed wrist. She didn’t need a reminder that this was all real now. It wasn’t just the blood on her hands anymore—it was the world’s gaze upon her. “There’s nothing to defend,” she muttered bitterly. “I did what I had to do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not going to be enough. The way this woman was found, the overkill—it paints a very different picture. We need to show that you were in imminent danger, that your actions were a direct result of the torture you endured.”

Rio's chest tightened as her memories flickered, fragments of Evanora’s torturous methods flashing in her mind. The taser, the chains, the suffocating pain... She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to break down right there.

“You can’t just focus on the physical violence,” He continued, “We’ll need witnesses—Lilia, Jen, maybe others from the facility who can speak to your condition before and after the incident. The prosecution will try to paint you as unstable.”

Rio laughed bitterly, a hollow sound that rang in her ears. “Unstable?” she echoed.

The lawyer let the silence linger, clearly unsure how to proceed. Rio closed her eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I didn’t mean to go that far,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. She clenched her jaw as her gaze went to Lilia and Jen. "Could you leave Mr. Murdock and I to speak alone?" 

Jen opened her mouth like she was about to protest but Lilia spoke first. "Of course, we'll be outside." She grabbed Jen's arm guiding her out the room to the hall. Once the door closed Rio's slumped.

The lawyers expression was calm but unreadable, his sightless eyes aimed just slightly off-center of her face.

“You’re in deep, Rio,” Matt said, breaking the silence with a soft, measured voice. “This isn’t just a fight for your career or reputation. If we lose this case, they’ll be throwing around terms like ‘murder in the first degree.’”

Rio leaned back, exhaustion seeping into her bones. The fluorescent light reflected off the mirrored wall behind Matt, making her squint. “First-degree murder,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “You’re kidding me. Evanora was torturing me. I didn’t even—” She paused, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, his tone calm but pointed. “But it did happen that way, didn’t it? And unless we get ahead of this, they’ll paint you as a violent vigilante who snapped.” He tapped his fingers lightly on the table. “The prosecution’s building their narrative: you were an FBI agent who crossed every line, a loose cannon with a dangerous track record. And here’s the kicker—they’re claiming Evanora was an innocent woman. No ties to crime, no evidence of who she really was.”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “Of course, they don’t have evidence. Evanora’s entire life was a facade. She manipulated, she tortured, she killed—”

“None of which the jury knows,” Matt interrupted. “The world believes Evanora Harkness has been dead for decades. Her name didn’t exist in any records, Rio. To the public, you killed a defenseless old woman in a derelict house.”

Rio slammed her hand against the table, her voice rising. “I didn’t have a choice, Matt! She would’ve killed me!”

Matt didn’t flinch at her outburst. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I believe you, Rio. But believing you and proving it to a jury are two different things.”

She stared at him, her breathing heavy. “So, what do we do?”

Matt exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. “We need to prove Evanora’s existence—not just that she was alive, but who she truly was. And that’s where things get tricky.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Do you have any proof? Anything that connects her to her crimes?”

Rio closed her eyes, her mind racing back to the house. The blood-soaked floor, the chains, the runes carved into the walls, Evanora’s mocking voice echoing in her ears. “No physical proof,” she admitted quietly. “But there is Wanda Maximoff who spoke directly to her.”

“Circumstantial,” Matt said bluntly. “Helpful, but not enough. And the prosecution knows that. A schizophrenic woman who has a record for nonsense doesn't help your case.”

The words hit Rio like a slap. She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly. She could still feel the weight of Evanora’s blood on them.

Matt tilted his head, studying her carefully. “Rio, I need to ask you something, and I need the truth. Did you...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Were you in control?”

Rio’s throat tightened, and she shook her head slowly. “I wasn’t in control,” she whispered. “She pushed me too far. I snapped.”

Matt’s expression didn’t change instead he tilted his head as his ear faced her as if he was listening to something. Rio slightly scowled knowing exactly what he was doing. "You know I never cared about your six sense but the fact that you're using it on me insinuates that you don't believe me."

Matt tilted his head back facing her. "Don't take it personally. It's not that I didn't but you know my rule Rio."

She sighed. "Yeah, Justice and all. I got it."

Matt gave a timid smile. “That’s what they’re going to focus on. We’ll need to find a way to explain what happened without making you look like a liability. We need something bigger, something that shifts the focus away from you.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Lilia stepped in, her face drawn and pale. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, glancing between the two. “But the media’s running with this already. And, Rio... it’s bad.”

Matt turned his head toward her. “What are they saying?”

Lilia hesitated, running a hand through her hair. “That you’re dangerous. That the FBI trained a killer and now they can’t control her. They’re calling for an internal investigation into your entire division.” She paused, looking at Rio with a mixture of frustration and pity. “They’re comparing you to Agatha, Rio. Saying you’re just another monster in disguise.”

The words stung more than Rio expected. She clenched her fists, her voice low. “They have no idea what happened in that house.”

“Then tell me,” Lilia pressed. “Tell me what happened, Rio. Because the scene we walked into...” Her voice faltered. “It was bad. If that was Evanora, Rio, she didn’t just die. She was—”

“Stop,” Rio snapped, her voice sharp. Her breathing quickened as the memories flooded back. The taser. The chains. Evanora’s mocking laughter. “You don’t need to describe it. I lived it.”

Lilia nodded, her expression softening. “I’m sorry. I just... I need to understand. I want to support you."

Rio didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The silence was deafening.

Matt broke it with a calm, steady voice. “This isn’t just about you anymore, Rio. The people who care about you? They’re risking everything to help you. Don’t shut them out.”

Rio’s eyes flicked to Matt, then to Lilia, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if we’re going to do this, we do it my way. No sugarcoating, no excuses. If they want the truth, they’re going to get it.”

Matt nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the Rio I remember from school. Stubborn as hell.”

Rio managed a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The weight of what lay ahead pressed down on her like a vise.

As Lilia and Matt exchanged strategies, Rio’s thoughts drifted back to Agatha, to Evanora, to the moment everything had gone dark in that house. She didn’t know who she was anymore—a protector, a survivor, or something far more dangerous.

And as the handcuffs on her wrist clinked softly against the hospital bed, she wondered if the world would ever let her figure it out.

The hospital room felt colder than before, the air heavy with tension. Rio sat in the bed, her back propped against stiff pillows, the handcuff biting into her wrist. She stared at the metal restraint, her thoughts swirling. It was as if the world was punishing her for surviving.

Lilia had stepped out with Matt to make a call, leaving Rio alone for the first time since she’d woken up. The quiet pressed in, and the memories crept closer, unbidden.

She clenched her fists. Evanora’s face flashed in her mind—mocking, calculating, and, in the end, terrified. The look of fear when Rio had finally turned the tables. The sickening sound of bone meeting wood. The blood.

Her stomach churned, and she forced herself to breathe. She deserved it, Rio thought. She deserved everything.

But that didn’t stop the guilt from seeping in.

The door creaked open, and Lilia slipped back in. She shut it behind her quietly, her expression unreadable as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Matt’s making arrangements,” Lilia said, crossing her arms. “But it’s going to take more than a good lawyer to fix this, Rio. The press is ruthless. They’ve already started painting you as some unhinged vigilante. And with the evidence...” She trailed off, hesitating.

Rio’s gaze flicked up. “With the evidence, what?”

Lilia sighed, stepping closer. “They’re saying it was personal. That you didn’t just defend yourself—you made it a point to... make her suffer.”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t have a choice.” She repeated. But she wasn't sure anymore.

“I believe you,” Lilia said softly. She pulled up a chair and sat down, her shoulders slumping as she leaned forward. “But the way she was found, Rio—it’s hard to explain that to anyone who wasn’t there. The mutilation, the broken bones, the...” She exhaled shakily. “It wasn’t just self-defense. It was brutal. And they’re going to ask why.”

Rio looked away, her throat tightening. “Because she pushed me to my limit,” she said, her voice low.

Lilia studied her for a long moment, her gaze softening. “What happened in that house, Rio? The truth. All of it.”

Rio hesitated, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. “She... She was insane, Lilia. She chained me up, tortured me. She wanted to break me. And for a while, I thought she had.” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going. “But then something snapped. I fought back. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.”

Not with what Evanora had said.

Lilia didn’t say anything for a moment, letting the words sink in. Finally, she asked, “How did you get here? To the facility?”

Rio blinked, the question catching her off guard. “I... walked,” she said slowly. “I don’t even remember leaving the house. Just... pain. And the road.”

“You walked all the way from Westview?” Lilia asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

Rio nodded, her gaze distant. “I had to. I didn’t know where else to go.” All she remembered was needing Agatha.

Lilia leaned back, rubbing a hand over her face. “Jesus, Rio. You should’ve been dead from exhaustion.”

Rio let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m harder to kill than most.” As if death didn't want her yet.

The room fell into silence again, the weight of everything hanging between them.

Finally, Lilia spoke. “You should know... they’re sending someone to identify the body. The higher-ups are hoping it’s not Evanora. That way, they can claim you killed some random squatter instead of the infamous Evanora Harkness.”

Rio’s stomach turned. “But it was her.”

“I know,” Lilia said quietly. “But proving that? That’s going to be a battle.”

Rio closed her eyes, leaning back against the pillows. “Of course it is.”

Lilia hesitated, then reached out, placing a hand on Rio’s uninjured arm. “We’ll figure this out, Rio. You’re not alone in this.”

Rio opened her eyes, meeting Lilia’s gaze. For a moment, she felt a flicker of relief. But it was quickly overshadowed by the realization that this was far from over. "What if-" She paused.

Lilia raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" 

Rio's gaze glanced around the hospital room looking everywhere but Lilia's eyes. "How much trouble is Agatha in?" She finally asked.

Lilia pursed her lips. "She's not. Since the security footage saw you breaking in and Agatha didn't injure you or escaped the cell even though her exit was right there. She isn't in any trouble especially when she saved your life."

Rio finally looked at Lilia. "What?" 

"Agatha, she called one of the guards even though the scene would have made her look guilty but still. If she had wasted a moment you would have been dead, it's how you're here right now." 

The weight of her words sent some relief thought Rio and a warm feeling in her chest that she couldn't interpret.

Rio nodded slowly. "What if we use Agatha's dna to prove that it's Evanora?" She finally suggested.

Lilia froze, her eyebrows lifting up as if she hadn't thought of it. "That could work. But it will take time. The hard part is getting Agatha to agree." 

Yeah, Rio is doomed.

The courtroom was a storm waiting to break.

Rio sat at the defense table, her wrists free from the hospital restraints but metaphorically bound by the accusations surrounding her. The suit Jen had forced her into itched against her still-healing burns, a grim reminder of everything that had transpired. She scanned the faces in the room: jurors who looked uneasy, spectators hungry for a scandal, and cameras flashing incessantly from behind the press barricade.

Matt stood beside her, his demeanor calm but unyielding. The whispers about him being the "Daredevil" of his firm had clearly reached the prosecution's table as well. His reputation for dismantling the opposition piece by piece loomed over the room, but this case was different. The public wanted a villain, and Rio was the perfect candidate.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor began, pacing before them. “We are here today because Rio Vidal, an FBI agent sworn to uphold the law, not only crossed the line but obliterated it. This wasn’t self-defense. This was rage. Brutality. Overkill.”

Rio kept her expression neutral, but her hands clenched under the table. She could feel Matt glance at her briefly, a silent reminder to stay composed.

The prosecutor continued, voice rising. “The victim, a woman of advanced age, was found beaten beyond recognition. Blood everywhere. Chains in the basement. And yet, Agent Vidal claims self-defense. The FBI has refused to comment on why she was at that house, and the defendant herself has refused to cooperate. What does that say to you?”

Matt leaned over to Rio and whispered, “Let him dig himself into a hole.”

When the prosecutor finished their opening statement, Matt rose with the kind of quiet authority that turned heads.

“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his voice steady and commanding. “My client, Agent Rio Vidal, has dedicated her life to protecting others. Her record speaks for itself. But none of that matters today because what you see here—” he gestured toward Rio, “isn’t the whole truth. It’s a piece of a much larger puzzle. A puzzle the prosecution has conveniently ignored.”

He turned, addressing the jury directly. “What they won’t tell you is that the so-called ‘victim,’ Evanora Harkness, was presumed dead decades ago. What they won’t explain is why she had an FBI agent chained in her basement. And most importantly, what they refuse to admit is that Agent Vidal did what she had to do to survive.”

Rio watched the jurors’ faces carefully. Some were skeptical, but others looked unsettled. Good.

Matt continued, his tone sharpening. “You’ve seen the photos. You’ve heard about the scene. But has anyone asked why? Why was my client there? Why was she put in a position where her very survival was at stake? The prosecution wants you to believe this was cold-blooded, but let me assure you, the truth is far from it.”

As Matt returned to his seat, Rio exhaled slowly. She could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her, the whispers, the judgment. She hated it.

The trial unfolded like a battlefield. Witnesses were called, evidence presented. Jen and Lilia sat in the gallery, their presence a small comfort in the chaos.

But the prosecution didn’t let up. They hammered home the brutality of Evanora’s death, displaying gruesome photos of the crime scene. The blood. The stairs.

“Agent Vidal,” the prosecutor said during cross-examination, “isn’t it true that you could have subdued Evanora Harkness without killing her?”

Rio’s jaw tightened. “She wasn’t just trying to kill me. She wanted to break me.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the prosecutor shot back. “Answer the question. Could you have subdued her without killing her?”

The room went silent. Rio’s voice was low but firm. “Not if I wanted to survive.”

The prosecution smirked, turning to the jury as if they’d won. But Matt was quick to redirect during his questioning.

“Agent Vidal, can you explain the injuries you sustained during your time at the Harkness house?”

Rio hesitated, the memories flooding back. The chains, the taser, the mocking voice.

“I was tortured,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t waver, but it was heavy with emotion. “Tased every few minutes before she took a break so I wouldn't go into cardiac arrest before beginning again. Starved and the chains were cutting into my wrist as they were above my head, she would release me giving my body a break until I started to get my strength again before chaining me up. She slammed the back my head repeatedly against the wall in the same spot where she knocked me out in the beginning, I'm suffering through a concussion at the moment."

Matt nodded. “And when you say you fought back, what were your intentions?”

“To get out alive,” Rio replied.

The jury was hanging on her every word now.

Matt pressed further. “Did you intend to kill her?”

Rio looked down for a moment before meeting his gaze. “No. But when you’re pushed to your breaking point, sometimes... survival doesn’t leave room for intention.”

The courtroom buzzed with whispers, the tension thick.

“How convenient,” the prosecutor sneered, pacing before the jury, “that the defense asks us to believe this woman—someone the world thought long dead—was not only alive but orchestrating a kidnapping and torture plot. Yet, there is no proof, no evidence to corroborate these claims, except for the word of the accused. How can we trust someone who has already demonstrated a willingness to take the law into her own hands?”

Matt rose, the calm strength of his presence cutting through the prosecutor’s theatrics.

“There’s no proof?” he countered. “What about the chains in the basement? The bloodstains, the taser burns on my client’s body? What about the fact that Agent Vidal walked over fifteen miles with open wounds to return to the facility after her escape?”

The prosecutor smirked. “An escape that conveniently left no witnesses, save for the accused herself. And let’s not forget the body—beaten beyond recognition. Is this how we’re meant to believe an FBI agent operates under duress? Or is it something darker?”

At that, the jury shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flickering toward Rio. She sat as still as stone, her cuffed hands resting on her lap, her face unreadable. Matt, however, didn’t waver.

“We’re focusing on the wrong thing,” he said, his voice firm. “My client didn’t ask to be tortured. She didn’t ask to fight for her life. And she certainly didn’t ask to have her survival questioned like this. But here we are.”

The judge rapped her gavel, calling for a short recess. Rio exhaled shakily as Matt leaned closer.

“You’re doing fine,” he said softly. “But we need something to shift the tide.”

Before she could respond, Lilia entered the courtroom with a file clutched tightly in her hands. Her expression was grim as she approached Matt, whispering something too low for Rio to catch. Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded.

Matt motioned for her to approach, and when she did, she handed him the file. The weight of it felt heavy, like it carried more than just paper—like it carried a whole future for Rio.

“Is it?” Matt asked quietly, scanning the contents of the folder.

Lilia nodded. “It’s her. The DNA results came back. The body found in Westview... it was Evanora.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Lilia replied, her voice firm but with an undercurrent of something darker. “The test results matched Agatha’s blood. She’s the one who helped us get that confirmation.”

Matt paused, looking at Lilia. He had expected that Agatha’s involvement would be controversial, but hearing it directly made it more real. He was grateful for the information, but the weight of it gnawed at him. Agatha's blood had been used to confirm the identity of the body, a twist no one had seen coming, especially Rio.

“She agreed to it?” Matt asked, his voice low.

Lilia gave a sharp nod. “She did, even when it made everything more complicated. It wasn’t easy, but she did it. And now we have something the prosecution can’t ignore.”

Matt glanced back at Rio, who had been watching the exchange in silence. He knew she was still processing everything, unsure of what it all meant for her future. But one thing was certain: Agatha had played a dangerous game by helping to confirm the identity of her own mother.

Matt rose from his seat, turning toward the judge. “Your Honor, the DNA results from the body found in Westview confirm that it was indeed Evanora Harkness. And it was through Agatha’s cooperation that we were able to verify this.”

The prosecutor shot a look of disbelief, but Matt wasn’t finished. He held up the folder. “These are the DNA results. You’ll find that they match Agatha Harkness’s blood. There’s no question about it.”

The courtroom buzzed with murmurs at the revelation.

The prosecutor’s mouth opened and closed, clearly struggling for words but before any words could be said Matt addressed the court. “Your Honor, I call Agatha Harkness to the stand.”

The bailiff opened the side door and led in a woman whose very presence drew a collective gasp.

Agatha came walking out. Agatha, who hasn't been seen by anyone outside the facility in over a decade.

The guards surrounding her didn’t need to make much of an effort to emphasize her reputation—her name alone was enough. As she entered, her gray prison jumpsuit contrasted sharply with the crisp suits and gowns of the courtroom. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Rio. A flicker of something crossed her face—concern, perhaps, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

The prosecutor leaped to her feet. “Your Honor, this is absurd! The defense is parading in a convicted serial killer—a murderer who has no business being in this courtroom, much less testifying!”

The judge raised a hand to silence her. “I’ll remind you that a witness is entitled to testify if the evidence they provide is deemed relevant. And unless you’d like to cite specific statutes preventing this testimony, I’ll allow it.”

The prosecutor’s lips thinned, but she sat back down, shooting daggers at Matt.

Matt rose and approached Agatha as she was seated in the witness chair. She was shackled at the wrists and ankles, her every move accompanied by the clinking of metal.

“Miss Harkness,” he began, his tone calm and professional, “thank you for agreeing to testify today.”

She tilted her head slightly, her voice smooth but laced with a sharp edge. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I, Mr. Murdock?”

A murmur rippled through the room. Matt ignored it, stepping closer. “You’ve been made aware of the circumstances surrounding your mother’s death?”

“Yes.” Her voice didn’t waver, though her hands tightened slightly around the edges of the chair. “The body found in Westview has been confirmed as hers. You used my blood to identify her.”

Matt nodded. “And did you know your mother was alive before this?”

Agatha’s lips twitched, a fleeting crack in her composure. “No,” she said quietly. “I believed she died years ago. In fact, I made sure of it.”

That statement sent another wave of shock through the courtroom, the gallery erupting into whispers until the judge banged her gavel for silence.

The prosecutor jumped up again. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant and inflammatory—”

“Sit down,” the judge snapped.

Matt pressed forward. “You thought she was dead. But now we know she wasn’t. Can you tell us, to the best of your knowledge, what your mother was capable of? What might she have done to Agent Vidal?”

Agatha’s expression hardened, and for a moment, it seemed as though she might refuse to answer. But then she spoke, her voice low and deliberate.

“My mother was... creative,” she said. “She liked control. She liked to break people—not just physically, but mentally. If Rio was in her hands, she suffered.”

Rio, seated beside Matt at the defense table, flinched. She felt the eyes of the courtroom on her, their unspoken questions burning into her back.

Matt’s brow furrowed. “Break people how?”

Agatha’s lips curved into a cold, bitter smile. “However she wanted. Chains. Electricity. Isolation. Whips. She didn’t care about the means, only the results.”

“Objection!” the prosecutor snapped, rising again. “This is hearsay—Miss Harkness has no direct knowledge of what happened to Agent Vidal!”

“Sustained,” the judge said, though her tone was begrudging.

Matt adjusted his stance, addressing Agatha once more. “Let’s focus on what we do know. Would you say your mother was capable of orchestrating what Agent Vidal described? The chains, the taser burns, the psychological torment?”

Agatha hesitated, her gaze flicking to Rio. For the briefest of moments, her mask slipped, revealing a flicker of something almost human—guilt, anger, perhaps even regret.

“Yes,” she said finally. “She was more than capable.”

Matt nodded. "That's all your honor."

The prosecutor, still flustered from Matt’s earlier revelation, quickly composed herself and stepped forward. She straightened her tie, cleared her throat, and locked eyes with Agatha. “Miss Harkness, let’s get something straight. You’re a convicted serial killer. A woman with a violent history, who’s now chosen to help a ‘dangerous’ woman, Rio Vidal. A woman who, despite your so-called help, has a body count of her own. Why should the jury trust anything you say?”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, the faintest of smirks crossing her face as she leaned back in the chair. “Well, let’s see. I’ve spent most of my life living a little... outside the law, yes. But I only speak the truth when it matters. The real question is why you’re still trying to paint her as some untrustworthy criminal when the facts are right there in front of you.” She motioned vaguely to the DNA report in Matt’s hands.

The prosecutor’s jaw tightened. “You admit to being a killer, but what about your own mother? Evanora Harkness—she was the one who apperantly abused Rio Vidal. Why help her in any way, when your own mother was a threat to Rio’s life?”

"I'm not helping, Agent Vidal." Agatha's eyes darkened slightly, but her voice remained as icy as ever. “My mother was cruel. When I helped get those DNA results, it wasn’t to cover anything up. It was to make sure the truth came out. I couldn't care less if it drags my mother to hell, it's what she deserves and I'd rather die than have the world believe she was some saint."

She leaned forward, her voice steady, but her words sharp as daggers. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You’re too busy trying to make a villain out of Vidal when you should be focused on what really happened.”

The prosecutor faltered for a moment before regaining composure. “Miss Harkness, you seem to know quite a lot about your mother’s methods. Was she as dangerous as you say she was?”

Agatha’s gaze flickered for just a second, a subtle shift in her usual cold demeanor. “Evanora was a brutal woman. She had her own agenda, her own ways of torturing people. Rio wasn’t the first person to be dragged into that chaos, and she sure as hell wouldn't have been the last. But what you’re not understanding is that this wasn’t some premeditated attack from Rio. It wasn’t a revenge killing. It was survival. You think anyone could’ve walked away from Evanora after what she put Rio through?”

Her voice was quieter now, almost a growl. “You can try to spin it however you want, but I know what it’s like to survive someone like her. And Rio wasn’t a killer. She was just... pushed. Pushed to the edge. And then, as always, Evanora pushed too far.”

There was a tension that filled the air as the prosecutor struggled to find her footing. She stared at Agatha, clearly searching for a crack, something to exploit, but Agatha remained unyielding, her eyes cold and steady.

“Tell us, Miss Harkness,” the prosecutor pressed, her voice almost mocking now. “What exactly do you mean by ‘pushed’? Are you suggesting that Rio had no choice? That this was all justifiable?”

Agatha’s lips curled into a slight smile, but it wasn’t one of humor. “Pushed, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. If you’d been in Rio’s place, dealing with what she went through, you’d understand. You’d know that sometimes... people don’t leave you a choice. And when the bloodshed starts, it doesn’t stop until you make sure it does. You think Rio wanted to kill anyone? She was trying to survive. But Evanora made sure there was no way out.”

The prosecutor clenched her fists, but she knew there was little ground left to stand on. “But the manner in which the body was found—beaten, bloody, and left to rot—doesn’t seem like self-defense. It looks like overkill, Miss Harkness.”

Agatha’s lips curled into a thin smile, her eyes unblinking as she stared down the prosecutor. "You want to talk about overkill? Sure, it was brutal. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t pretty. But you know what? It was self-defense. And in my experience, when someone is pushed to the edge, you don’t just get a clean, well-measured response. You get a breakdown. You get the kind of violence that comes when someone can’t take it anymore."

The prosecutor stammered slightly, clearly caught off guard by Agatha’s bluntness. "But you’re admitting that what happened was brutal, that Rio’s actions were excessive."

Agatha shrugged, her tone unaffected, as if discussing the weather. "I’m not here to be your moral compass. I’m here to tell you what happened. And what happened was that Rio was tortured—physically, emotionally—by my mother, and when you’re pushed that far, when you’ve been broken and rebuilt into something else, sometimes you lose control. Sometimes you don’t stop until the threat is gone."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze never wavering from the prosecutor. "You think I don’t know what it’s like to kill? I’ve killed. I know what murder is. What Rio did was not cold-blooded murder. She didn’t kill because she wanted to. She killed because she had no other choice. And frankly, if you think you’d do any differently, you’re lying to yourself."

The room fell silent. Even the jury seemed to hold their breath, caught between Agatha’s cold certainty and the prosecutor’s attempts to grasp at the threads of guilt.

"You keep talking about self-defense, but the manner in which the body was left was—" The prosecutor tried again, her voice shaking just slightly.

"Overkill?" Agatha interrupted, her voice low and unwavering. "I don’t care about that. When you’ve been through what Rio went through, when you’ve seen your own humanity stripped away piece by piece, overkill isn’t a concern anymore. It’s survival. It’s making sure you’re not the one left dead on the floor. It’s making sure the person who’s been torturing you doesn’t get to walk away."

Her voice grew colder, harder, as she finished, "What Rio did wasn’t a choice. It was a consequence of everything that happened to her. And if you’re too blinded by your legal bullshit to see that, then you’re no better than the people who put her in that position in the first place."

The prosecutor stood frozen for a moment, staring at Agatha as if she were an alien, her words hanging in the air like a thick fog. Agatha sat back in the chair, the calm in her demeanor never faltering, as if the whole exchange had been little more than a nuisance.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor finally said, her voice clipped, "I have no further questions."

The judge nodded, a sign that the cross-examination had come to an end. But the atmosphere in the room was far from calm. The jury exchanged glances, some looking uneasy, others still processing Agatha’s words. For all her coldness, her bluntness, and her brutal honesty, one thing was clear—Agatha had made her point. And now, the courtroom was left to decide whether or not it mattered.

As Agatha stood to leave the witness stand, her eyes briefly met Rio’s. There was something there—something unspoken—but it was quickly masked by the cold mask Agatha had perfected over the years. She was not here for feelings. She was here for truth.

And as the guards led her away, the trial raged on. But for Agatha, it didn’t matter. She had already said everything she needed to.

The day after Agatha’s testimony, the tension in the courthouse was unbearable. It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, crushing the thin veneer of control everyone had managed to maintain. The case had taken a new turn—Agatha Harkness, serial killer and now an unlikely defender of Vidal, had shaken the foundation of the prosecution’s narrative.

But that was not the end. It was only the beginning.

Rio was back in the hospital for her check up, her mind fractured, struggling to put the pieces together. The handcuffs were back on her wrist as she was labelled as unpredictable but she didn't care nor did she put much of a fight. Her eyes were hollow. She hadn’t spoken much since Agatha’s appearance in court, her emotions still raw from the revelation of Agatha’s involvement and the harsh truths that had come to light. She couldn’t fully comprehend why Agatha had come to her defense, why she had given her blood to prove that Evanora was the one who had died. It was a gamble, a last-ditch effort by Matt Murdock to turn the tide in Rio’s favor. But the results had been shocking.

The DNA test confirmed what everyone had feared. The body found in Westview was, indeed, Evanora Harkness. The same woman who had tortured Rio, who had orchestrated so much of the pain that Rio had endured, was now the one being mourned by a public that knew nothing of the truth.

The press spun the narrative wildly, of course. Some outlets declared that Rio had slain Evanora in cold blood, while others suggested that she was just another victim of her own twisted history. But the most damaging part of the story was the constant reference to Rio’s instability. The media latched onto her past, her unpredictable behavior, and the fact that she had gone rogue in the facility to confront Evanora. There was no nuance in their reporting, no understanding of what she’d been through.

And then there was the trial.

Matt Murdock had tried his best to keep the courtroom on Rio’s side, but the damage had already been done. The prosecutor, using the media’s sensationalized coverage as ammunition, painted Rio as a threat to society, a woman who had snapped after years of torment.

But the jury was conflicted. They had heard Agatha’s blunt defense. They had heard the heart-wrenching accounts of Rio’s torture. But nothing in the world could have prepared them for the revelation that Rio had killed Evanora in self-defense. It was the kind of legal and moral grey area that no one was sure how to navigate. And the jury, no matter how sympathetic to Rio’s plight, was still staring down the cold facts of the case.

It was around this time that something happened in the facility.

The leaks that had been circulating for weeks—the whispers among the guards, the rumors of Rio’s survival and the truth about Evanora’s death—had reached their peak. Someone within the facility had leaked the news about Rio’s escape and her presence in the hospital. And it had caught the attention of the wrong people.

There were meetings behind closed doors. A higher power was deciding whether Rio should be locked away for good or given a chance to walk free. The whispers about her mental state, the overkill of Evanora’s death, and the suspicions surrounding her actions—none of it was good. Not for her. Not for Agatha. Not for anyone who had come to believe in her story.

Lilia, who had been working tirelessly behind the scenes, had no choice but to confront Agatha in the starkest of terms.

"We need to talk," Lilia said, her face shadowed with concern as she stood outside Agatha’s cell. The guards were nowhere near, their usual chatter having ceased with the rising tension. The air in the facility felt thick, like something dangerous was brewing. Lilia leaned in closer, keeping her voice low. "The press isn’t the only thing we have to worry about. The higher-ups are moving fast, Agatha. They’re making decisions based on what happened. And I’m not sure how long we can keep Rio from the worst of it."

Agatha was sitting on the edge of the cot, her fingers tapping idly against the metal frame. She didn’t look at Lilia immediately but when she did, her gaze was sharp, calculating. "And what do you want me to do about it? I’ve already said my piece in court. I’ve given my blood. I’m no longer part of their circus."

Lilia’s eyes flashed with frustration. "That’s not enough, Agatha. The people running the show don’t care about justice. They care about control. And Rio’s presence in the facility, combined with her history, is a problem. You know that better than anyone. They’re already considering keeping her locked up, permanently."

Agatha stood up, the movement quick, but controlled. Her posture was rigid, a mask of indifference slipping slightly to reveal the underlying concern that she had long kept buried. "You think I don’t know that?" she shot back, her voice colder now. "She was tortured—physically, mentally—and all they see is a body left in a pile of blood. They’ll twist the truth however they want."

Lilia nodded slowly, her face softening with understanding. "I know. I know." She hesitated, then continued, her tone even quieter. "There’s something else. We’re running out of time. If Rio doesn’t speak up soon—about Evanora, about what happened in that house, about everything—they’ll decide for her. She's given us the small effective details but we need her to dig deeper, we need her to relive it again. The whole story is what we need."

The words hit Agatha harder than she expected. She clenched her fists, a muscle in her jaw twitching as her thoughts raced. It wasn’t just Rio’s life at stake. It was everything she’d tried to bury—the past, the rage, the memories of a mother who had shaped her in ways that no one could understand. But Rio? She wasn’t the same. She wasn’t her. And Agatha wasn’t about to let anyone take her down for surviving.

"I’ll get her to talk," Agatha said, her voice low but firm. "But it’s up to Rio. She’s the one who has to take control. And if she doesn’t... then we’ll make sure they know exactly who they’re dealing with."

Lilia looked at her, a faint glimmer of hope breaking through the exhaustion in her eyes. "Then do what you need to do, Agatha. We don’t have much time. I'll get everything prepared for you."

As the door closed behind Lilia, Agatha was left alone with her thoughts, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She knew that the story wasn’t over—not by a long shot. And in the end, it wasn’t just Rio’s future that was in question. It was Agatha’s, too.

But this time, she would fight to win.

The battle was just beginning.

Soon the facility was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears and made every creak of the walls seem louder. Agatha sat in the corner of her cell, leaning forward on her knees. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Lilia had made arrangements for this conversation, but the weight of it loomed like a storm. She knew this moment was fleeting, one last attempt before the world swallowed Rio whole.

When the door opened and Rio stepped inside, escorted by two wary guards, Agatha straightened. Her eyes locked on Rio’s frame immediately. Even now, there was a frailty to her—dark circles under her eyes, a stiffness in her walk as if her body still carried the memory of the chains that had bound her. But she also carried a quiet defiance, a refusal to crumble completely under the pressure.

The guards left without a word, the heavy door slamming behind them.

“Lilia worked hard for this, didn’t she?” Agatha started, her tone even but edged with something unreadable. She leaned back, crossing her arms as her sharp eyes scanned Rio, noting the faint bruises still peeking from beneath the collar of her shirt.

Rio exhaled, glancing briefly at the closed door before stepping closer. “She said this was the only way I’d get the chance to talk to you again. Before...” She trailed off, her voice faltering.

“Before they throw you into a cage, you mean,” Agatha finished, her voice blunt. She rose from her spot and approached the dividing line between them, her piercing gaze never leaving Rio’s face. “Sit down. We don’t have time to waste.”

Rio hesitated for a moment, then lowered herself onto the stool set in front of the glass. The closeness between them felt strange now, as if something unspoken lingered in the air, something that hadn’t been there before.

Agatha’s voice softened, though it still carried the weight of authority. “You’ve been dancing around the truth, Rio. That won’t help you now.” She leaned against the bars, her hands curling around the cold metal. “I need you to tell me what happened in that house. All of it. No more avoiding it. This is your last chance.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her shoulders rigid. “I told you—”

“Not enough,” Agatha cut in sharply. “You’re leaving out details. The jury is going to twist everything they don’t hear from you first. If you want any chance of walking out of this, you have to trust someone. And right now, like it or not, I’m your best option.”

Rio’s lips parted, a retort ready to fly, but the look in Agatha’s eyes stopped her.

"Just tell me the truth. I'm in no position to judge you." Agatha's voice softened. 

Rio's gaze stayed locked into those dark blue eyes intensely before sighing. "It's all a jumble I don't remember much of it. Whenever I try I just remember the pain." 

Agatha nodded. "Ok, so start with the first thing you remember being in that basement. You woke up, no doubt my mother made one of her big speeches trying to scare you, when that didn't work she started her methods... What happened after that?" 

Rio closed her eyes as she slowly went back to her memories. As she finally decided to relive it again for the second time. What made it possible for Rio was Agatha's presence. It made the pain more tolerable.

"I remember when she stopped using the taser on me, where she gave me the first break..."