Chapter Text
Alanna Mitsopolis moved through the labyrinthine corridors of the Doge Palace with the poise of someone accustomed to danger and to winning. Her heels struck the marble with a sharp confidence, her midnight-blue dress trailing behind her like a shadow. She had an appointment with Gabriel, the kind of man whose promises came sharpened like knives, and tonight’s trade was set to tilt the balance of power. Half of the Cruciform Key for whatever it was Gabriel had offered in return.
The air inside the palace was thick with centuries of secrets. High above, chandeliers flickered against fading frescoes, casting fractured halos on the ancient stone. Tourists and dignitaries drifted through the masked gala outside, oblivious to the true game playing out just beneath their feet.
But as Alanna glided down the corridor toward her rendezvous, she had no idea she was walking straight into a silent catastrophe. For nearly twenty minutes, she had strode purposefully, a cool hand never far from the pocket of her coat. But her pockets, unbeknownst to her, were empty. The Cruciform Key was gone, stolen so deftly that she hadn’t felt the absence. Her insurance policy, her leverage, her only guarantee, lifted by invisible hands.
The plan had always been simple. Gabriel could not be allowed to get his hands on the Key, not when his ambitions for the Entity bordered on apocalyptic. Ethan Hunt, for all his skill and stubborn morality, was little better, a true believer, a man who would burn the world down to save it. No, the Key needed to be out of play… Out of reach and hidden in plain sight, far from the grasping hands of anyone who thought they could control fate.
Somewhere in the twisting shadows of Venice, another player had stepped onto the board, a ghost Alanna hadn’t seen coming, a thief who left no trace but absence. And as she neared the meeting point, Alanna remained confident, perfectly composed, unaware that her part in the evening’s grand bargain had already ended, and that someone else was now holding all the cards.
Of course, the other player hadn’t been among the guests where Ethan, Ilsa, and Grace had gathered to parley with Gabriel and Alanna, not yet, at least. She preferred to watch from the edges, where shadows blurred into candlelight and intentions were easier to read.
Inside the Doge Palace, electronic music pulsed through gilded halls, masking the tension simmering beneath the glamorous surface. The beat provided perfect cover as a storm erupted between Gabriel and the others, a whirlwind of threats and violence drowned by the throb of bass and the swirl of masks.
It was only then, in the chaos, that Alanna Mitsopolis realized her pocket was empty. Her hand darted to her coat, eyes flashing with anger and confusion. The missing half of the Cruciform Key. She wheeled on Grace, hissing accusations, convinced the nimble-fingered thief had struck again. But Grace only stared back, bewildered and wounded by the charge.
Paris stood nearby, shadowed and silent, the only one in the room whose mask wasn’t just for the gala. Gabriel, calculating as ever, caught every tremor and shift, but the key was already gone.
Far from the heart of the commotion, but close enough to see it all unfold, a woman with shoulder-length dark hair lingered near an open archway. She watched as Ethan, Ilsa, and Grace slipped free, ducking past guards and vanishing into the Venetian night, running for their lives through labyrinthine alleys and moonlit courtyards.
She waited, silent and composed, while the party dissolved into panic behind her. She knew Gabriel wouldn’t stop. Not until he reclaimed the Cruciform Key, the one Alanna had flaunted so carelessly only hours before.
With a last glance at the unraveling masquerade, Spencer slipped into the darkness, her mind already three steps ahead. Gabriel had just become her problem. And tonight, she had no intention of letting him win.
While Ethan was locked in brutal combat in a narrow Venetian alley, trading blows with Paris and a hulking enforcer loyal to Gabriel, chaos spilled across the city’s bridges and shadowed waterways. Each footstep rang out like a shot, echoing between damp brick walls as adrenaline fueled desperation.
Elsewhere, Grace had already crossed paths with Gabriel. Their confrontation erupted on a slender, rain-slicked bridge above the black water. Gabriel moved with chilling precision, his strength overwhelming. Grace fought hard, nimble as ever, but it was clear, he was too powerful. Inch by inch, he drove her back, the edge of the bridge pressing cold against her spine. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if Gabriel might win, until a familiar voice cut through the tension.
Ilsa appeared at the far end of the bridge, sword gleaming in the pale Venetian moonlight. Without hesitation, she threw herself between Gabriel and Grace, meeting him blade for blade in a duel that sparked with old grudges and fresh rage.
Not far from the clash, Spencer kept to the shadows, her breathing slow and measured as she watched the fight unfold. She hadn’t planned for this moment, not precisely, Venice was a city of shifting allegiances and broken promises, but one thing was perfectly clear: Gabriel could not be allowed to walk away tonight. She slipped a silenced pistol from her coat, eyes cold with intent. Whatever it took, she was ready to end this.
Gabriel needed to be removed from the equation, permanently.
Gabriel moved with the lethal grace of a predator, his blade glinting in the uncertain glow of the streetlamps as he stalked Ilsa across the slick stones of the bridge. Each feint, each measured step, was calculated to drive her backward, closer and closer to the edge. Rain pattered softly against the ancient stone, masking the rapid, desperate breaths of two professionals locked in a deadly ballet.
With a savage twist, Gabriel slashed at Ilsa, forcing her to parry hard. Her boot slipped on the rain-slicked surface, and she went down, hard, her back hitting the cold ground, sword clattering from her grip. She struggled to recover, but Gabriel was already looming over her, his brown eyes cold and merciless, his blade poised above her chest.
The Entity, for all its digital omniscience, had overlooked one variable; a woman barely five-foot-four, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the chaos. Spencer had watched the fight with the predatory patience her mentor had taught her: don’t move until your moment matters. She had no love for heroics; her reasons for being here had nothing to do with sentiment. Yet as she watched Gabriel raise his blade to finish Ilsa, something fierce sparked in her chest; respect, perhaps, or the simple refusal to let Gabriel have his way.
It was now or never.
Spencer stepped from the darkness onto the bridge, drawing her pistol in a single fluid motion. Her eyes never left Gabriel, calculating the risk, measuring the shot. She wasn’t aiming to save a life, only to change the outcome.
“Gabriel!” she called, her voice steady, slicing through the night like a warning shot.
He turned, annoyance flashing across his face, just as Spencer squeezed the trigger.
The bullet found his right shoulder, spinning him back with a grunt of pain. Not a kill shot, but it was enough. His blade slipped from his hand, clattering beside Ilsa’s outstretched arm. Gabriel staggered, blood already soaking through his white jacket, and fixed Spencer with a look that promised vengeance.
Ilsa, wide-eyed but alive, scrambled for her weapon. For a heartbeat, the three of them stood suspended in the Venetian mist; one bleeding, one breathless, and one watching with icy intent.
Spencer lowered her pistol, gaze locked with Gabriel’s, and said nothing more. She’d made her move. She would not let Gabriel win, at least not tonight.
And with that, she disappeared into the darkness as swiftly as she’d appeared, leaving behind only the echo of gunfire and the certainty that the balance of power in Venice had just shifted for good.
Ilsa had recognized Spencer at once. Eight years might have passed since their paths last crossed, but Spencer was almost unchanged; a shadow from the Syndicate days, materialized from memory. Her brown hair was still shaved on the right, but now fell longer over the left side, brushing her jawline. The same piercing blue eyes locked with Ilsa’s for a heartbeat, cool and unreadable, and those freckles, childish, innocent, still scattered across her cheeks, the gentlest kind of camouflage. But Ilsa knew better. Spencer had never been anyone innocent, nor a victim. She had been forged in hardship, trained to fight, and taught never to yield, no matter the odds.
By the time Ilsa scrambled to her feet and darted into the Venetian alleys, Spencer was gone. Her footsteps were swallowed by the labyrinth of narrow streets and bridges, the echo of gunfire fading into the night. No matter how fast Ilsa moved, the other woman was always a step ahead, a ghost among the stones and shadows.
Ilsa finally slowed, her breath visible in the damp air, and stopped beneath a broken streetlamp. A moment later, Grace appeared from the darkness, breathless and shaken. She had been running since Ilsa pulled her from the jaws of death on that bridge nearly half an hour ago.
“We have to find Ethan,” Ilsa said, her voice taut with urgency, not wasting time on explanations. “We have another problem.”
She didn’t bother to spell it out. Spencer was back and that meant the game in Venice had just changed, for everyone.
While Ethan was still recovering from the bruising fight with Paris; Gabriel’s relentless protégé, chaos rippled through Venice like aftershocks. Elsewhere in the city, Alanna Mitsopolis unleashed her fury on her brother Zola, the marble floors echoing with her rage as she realized what had slipped through her grasp: half of the Cruciform Key, gone from her pocket, vanished as if stolen by the night itself, making a fool of herself in front of Ethan and Gabriel at the Doge Palace.
At the safehouse on the city’s edge, Benji and Luther waited, tense and silent, their eyes flickering toward the doorway with every passing sound. The rain pattered softly on the windows, a quiet counterpoint to the anxiety gathering in the room.
Miles away, Spencer slipped through the shadows of the Marco Polo Airport, her dark coat drawn tight against the early morning chill. She kept her head low, one hand in her pocket, fingertips brushing the cool metal of the Cruciform Key. She was already planning her escape, every step measured, every glance calculated. Tonight’s chaos was only the beginning.
Two hours later, Ilsa stood in the center of the safehouse, her presence commanding even in exhaustion. Grace, Benji, Luther, and Ethan gathered around, the tension palpable as Ilsa relayed what had happened on the bridge.
“Gabriel isn’t our only problem now,” Ilsa declared, her voice cutting through the thick silence. She didn’t waste time with preambles, the team needed the truth, and they needed it fast.
“Spencer, she has just entered the game…”
Ethan frowned, still catching his breath, a note of confusion in his voice. “Easy to see why Alanna didn’t have the Key... But… the question is, who’s Spencer?”
Benji leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. Even Luther, arms crossed over his broad chest, seemed unsettled by the name.
“Is she another one of Gabriel’s allies?” Ethan pressed, suspicion sharpening his tone. He had seen too many betrayals to take chances now.
Ilsa paused, searching for the right words. “No. If it wasn’t for her tonight, Gabriel would have killed me.” Her gaze found Grace, then Ethan, steady and unwavering. “She’s not working for Gabriel. At least, not as far as I know. If she were, she wouldn’t have put a bullet in his shoulder. It’s obvious, she wants him out of the equation, just as much as we do.”
Benji exchanged a look with Luther, both unsettled by the idea of another player entering the field. Ethan glanced out the rain-streaked window, the city’s secrets pressing in from every side.
“I know who she is, and I know why she stole Alanna’s half of the Cruciform Key.”
Ilsa’s words hung in the safehouse, cold and heavy, as though the ancient Venetian walls themselves were holding their breath. Benji stared at her, hands planted on his hips, his expression a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion. Another complication, just what they needed.
“She’s part of the Syndicate,” Ilsa continued quietly, the words carrying a weight that made Grace glance anxiously at Ethan. “Or at least… what’s left of it.”
Benji scoffed, pacing in frustration. “So, you’re telling us she’s with Lane? But Lane’s been locked up since 2018!” His voice was sharp, as if saying it out loud might make the situation less real.
Ilsa nodded, her jaw tight with old memories. “Yes, she’s with Lane. And she didn’t steal Alanna’s half of the Key on a whim.”
For a long moment, the team was silent, processing the new reality. Then Ethan spoke, his voice low and certain, connecting the threads that had haunted him since Venice erupted into chaos.
“She’s not just a thief,” Ethan said, meeting each of their eyes. “She took the Key because she wants the whole thing; to bargain for Lane’s freedom… That’s her price.”
The weight of that realization seemed to settle on all of them. Luther’s shoulders dropped, resignation etched in every line of his face. Benji just shook his head, his hope for an easy solution slipping away. Grace, standing a little apart, looked at Ethan with quiet determination.
“If you’ll have me, I want to help,” she said, her voice clear. “We’re going to need all the help we can get if we’re going to find Spencer before she makes her move.”
The safehouse was silent again, but it was a different kind of silence, one bracing for the storm Spencer had brought into their lives.
“At least we know Gabriel’s off the board, she shot him in the right shoulder,” Ilsa reported, fixing Ethan with a serious look.
Ethan, lips twitching into a sly grin, slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out the other half of the Cruciform Key. It gleamed in the safehouse’s low light. “One thing’s certain,” he said, “Spencer doesn’t have the piece she wants most.”
Benji’s head whipped around, eyebrows raised in pure hope. “So, what, we just hold on to it and wait for her to show up? Hide it in a cake? I’ve got experience with that, you know. I could—”
“Just like we did with Lane, we’ll trap her and take the Key away,” Ethan announced, sounding a little too confident for Ilsa’s liking.
Ilsa snorted, the tiniest of laughs escaping her. “That’s where you’re wrong, Ethan. You’re not chasing some naive schoolgirl. Spencer won’t fall for it. She’ll find a way to get your half, and you’ll never see it coming.” She glanced at Grace with a soft, apologetic smile. “No offense, Grace. You might be good, but Spencer’s… different. Lane didn’t pick fools.”
Grace blinked, hands raised in a quick surrender, a crooked grin on her lips. “None taken. If you say she’s hard to beat, I believe you.”
Ethan’s mind was already racing ahead, turning possibilities over. He couldn’t let Spencer unite the Key, there was no telling who she’d trade it to, or what she’d demand in return for Lane’s freedom.
“She wants Lane,” Ethan said finally, eyes narrowing as the plan formed, “then we’ll give her Lane.”
Benji made a choking sound, as if his mind had short-circuited. “I’m sorry, what? Ethan, are you actually suggesting we just… hand Lane over to her? Am I the only one who remembers the last time we played ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ with a global terrorist?!”
Ilsa couldn’t help it, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as Benji’s voice rose an octave. Luther just grunted, crossing his arms tighter, but his eyes twinkled with a kind of reluctant amusement.
Ethan stayed calm, unwavering as ever. “We control the meeting. We set the terms. If she wants Lane, she comes to us.”
Benji groaned, rubbing his temples. “Oh, fantastic. This is fine. Nothing ever goes wrong with one of your plans, Ethan. Not ever.”
Ilsa let the banter roll, but beneath the surface, tension thrummed. They all knew, Spencer was no ordinary adversary. The real game had just begun.
Even as Ethan mulled over the plan forming at the back of his mind, one crucial detail gnawed at him: who was Spencer, really? He’d never laid eyes on her. For all he knew, she could walk past him in the street and he wouldn’t so much as flinch. Only Ilsa seemed to have any sense of the woman’s shadow.
He called in Luther, his most trusted digital bloodhound.
“Find everything you can about this ‘Spencer,’” Ethan said.
Ilsa hovered at Luther’s elbow, her arms folded, eyes steely and focused. “She’s a disavowed MI6 agent, if it helps. Full name: Spencer Harris.”
She passed over the name, as if dropping a live grenade into Luther’s lap. He caught it with a single nod and started tapping at his laptop, the blue glow illuminating his determined face. Ilsa stayed close, her presence a silent promise that she’d verify anything they dug up.
Meanwhile, back in the safehouse kitchen, Ethan sat across from Benji. They picked at leftovers; cold noodles, unidentifiable protein, something Benji claimed was once a salad, while Grace napped on the battered sofa, one arm draped over her eyes.
“For real, Ethan, you can’t actually be thinking about freeing Lane,” Benji protested, lowering his fork with a clatter. “Did you consider, oh, I don’t know, every possible consequence?”
Ethan pushed a noodle around his plate, exasperated. “You got a better idea, Benji? We can’t let Spencer get both halves of the Key. Her whole angle is to trade it for Lane’s freedom, so we’ll do it first... But it’s a trap. She comes for Lane, we take her down… Simple as this!”
Benji made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “And what if she doesn’t fall for it? Ilsa said it herself, this woman is no amateur.”
Ethan glanced up, unruffled. “When she sees Lane in person, she won’t care about the Key anymore, trust me!”
Back in the glow of laptop screens and old desk lamps, Luther finally struck gold, a digital MI6 file, stark and official, blinking on his monitor.
He squinted at the name, then at the attached photograph. “Is this her?” he asked, unsure if reality could live up to Spencer’s reputation.
Ilsa leaned in, her lips quirking in a tiny, almost wistful smile. “It’s her,” she confirmed softly, something flickering in her eyes, a mix of respect and warning.
Luther hit print, tearing the sheet free a moment later, and carried it through to the kitchen, where the air was thick with tension and the smell of reheated leftovers.
He slid the file in front of Ethan and Benji with a low whistle. “It’s her.”
Benji blinked at the photo, then at Ilsa. “She looks… fierce. But why would she go to all this trouble for Lane? What’s the real story here? Is he her lover or something? Family?”
He couldn’t help himself; curiosity always got the better of him.
Ilsa rested her hand on the back of a chair, her gaze steady, her voice lowering just a fraction.
“Back in 2012, Spencer suffered a serious injury during a mission. MI6 wrote her off, said she’d never be fit for field work again. Her parents were already gone and she was on her own, nowhere to turn. Lane found her and took her in. Helped her recover and gave her a purpose. Two years later, she was stronger than ever. Lane became… something like a father to her. Atlee and the others had abandoned her, but Solomon never did. That’s why she’s loyal. She owes him everything. There’s a deep affection there, but it isn’t romantic, it’s survival. It’s gratitude and respect!”
The group fell silent for a moment, the implications settling in.
For the first time, Ethan understood: he wasn’t chasing just another Syndicate agent. He was hunting someone with nothing left to lose, and everything to protect.