3/5

Mark Thompson, or Mark the Snake as he was known, was a lanky man with a mischievous twinkle in his dark brown eyes. His curly brown hair was in disarray, and he wore a ratty bathrobe over a pair of faded pajamas. Before Mark could react, Dom grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back into the apartment.

"Whoa, whoa!" Mark yelped, stumbling over his own feet. "What the hell, man?"

Dom kicked the door shut behind them, his grip on Mark tightening. "Shut up and sit down," he growled, pushing Mark into a chair.

[Y/N] closed the curtains, ensuring no one outside could see what was about to happen. The place was a mess, stacks of papers and empty takeout containers scattered everywhere. A faint smell of burnt toast lingered in the air.

"Alright, Snake," Dom said, looming over him. "Let's get to the point. Russo knows you've been skimming funds. Care to explain?"

Mark's eyes darted between the two people in front of him, fear evident in his gaze. "I-I can explain," he stammered. "I needed the money. My mom, she's sick. I needed to pay for her treatment."

The black haired man's eyes narrowed, his hand still gripping Mark's collar. "Do you think we care about your sob story? You know what happens to rats in this business." The hostage raised his hands defensively, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "Come on, I'm no rat. I just needed a little extra cash, that's all."

The quiet woman finally spoke and stepped forward, her [E/C] colored eyes locked on dark brown ones. "You think Vince will buy that? You should've come to us if you needed help. Instead, you decided to steal. That's a big mistake."

Mark's face paled, and he started to tremble. "Please, don't do this. I'll pay it back. Every cent. Just give me a chance."

Dom's jaw clenched, his patience running thin. "Enough talk, Snake." He raised his fist, aiming to land a punch to emphasize the gravity of Mark's situation. But the man, with surprising agility, ducked under Dom's swing. "Whoa, whoa!" he yelped, stumbling back. "Hold on a second, muscles!"

'Muscles' growled, frustration evident in his eyes. He lunged again, but Mark sidestepped, causing him to crash into a table, sending papers and empty takeout containers flying.

"Hey, careful with the decor!" Thompson quipped, a nervous laugh escaping him. "It took me ages to get it just right!" [Y/N] couldn't help but crack a smile at Mark's antics, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Dom, wait," she said, stepping between the two men. "Let's hear him out."

Dom straightened, glaring at Mark. "He had his chance."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, his dark brown eyes wide with a mix of fear and mischief. "Alright, alright. Look, I get it. You guys are mad. But if you kill me, who's gonna tell you where the money is, huh?"

Martinez paused, his anger simmering just below the surface. "You think you're clever, Snake?"

"Not clever," Mark replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Just practical. And I know you guys are practical too. So how about we make a deal?"

Dom exchanged a look with his ex girlfriend, his eyes narrowing. "What kind of deal?"

Mark took a deep breath, his mind racing. "I can get your money back, doubled. And I can give you something even better – information. Russo likes information, right?"

[Y/N] tilted her head, curiosity piqued. "What kind of information?"

"Big stuff," Mark said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Stuff that could give you an edge. I hear things, you know? People talk around me because they think I'm just some harmless goof. But I've got ears everywhere."

Dom crossed his arms, clearly skeptical. "And why should we trust you?"

"Because," the curly haired man replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "if I screw you over, you'll find me and kill me. Simple as that. I'm not that stupid."

The hacker nodded slowly. "Alright. We'll give you a chance. But if you so much as breathe wrong, Dom here will make sure you regret it."

Mark nodded vigorously, relief washing over his features. "Deal. Now, how about we get out of this dump and talk somewhere a bit more... neutral?" Dom grabbed his collar again, but this time, there was less force behind it. "You're not out of the woods yet, Snake. Lead the way."

As they left the apartment, the tension eased slightly. Mark's humor and quick reflexes had bought him a reprieve, but the danger was far from over. [Y/N] and Dom kept a close watch on him, ready for any sign of betrayal. Mark led them through the labyrinthine streets, his movements quick and stealthy despite his lanky frame. Along the way, he kept up a steady stream of chatter, cracking jokes and making light of the situation. "You know, I never thought I'd get a personal escort from you two. Feels like I'm moving up in the world."

Dom's eyes narrowed, but [Y/N] couldn't help but smile at Mark's irreverence. "Just keep moving, Snake," the muscular man muttered.

Mark complied, his steps never faltering. As they approached their destination, he turned to them with a grin. "Here we are. Now, let's talk business."

The hacker of the Survey Corps mafia sat at her desk, the glow of multiple monitors casting a pale light across her focused face. Her fingers danced over the keyboard with practiced ease, as usual, eyes scanning lines of code and encrypted data. Operation Black Cargo was only two days away, and she was deep into the task of infiltrating the government's secure networks to post the evidence in their database, so the Corps could finally unmask the truth, after retrieving the kidnapped women, before they were sent to Marley.

The door creaked open, and Marco walked in, his usual warm smile lighting up the room. His presence was a comforting contrast to the cold, technical world she was navigating. "Hey, [Y/N]. Jean and Oluo need help with loading the guns. Thought I'd let you know in case you wanted to give them a hand. Everyone else is already busy."

[Y/N] nodded, her [E/C] eyes still glued to the screen. "Thanks, Marco. I'll finish up here and head over." She typed a few more commands, setting up an automated sequence to continue the data extraction in her absence.

The freckled man leaned against the doorway, watching her work in awe and confusion. "You know, I have no idea how you do all this. Computers and I... we're not exactly friends. I barely know how to play games on them."

[Y/N] chuckled, finally tearing her gaze away from the monitors. "It's not that hard once you get the hang of it. Come here, I'll show you something."

Marco hesitated, then walked over to stand beside her. She pulled up a simple game on one of the screens, something she often used to decompress during long hacking sessions. "This is a basic game. You just use these keys to move and this one to shoot." He took the seat beside her, a look of concentration on his face as he tried to navigate the game. His fingers were clumsy on the keyboard, and he kept glancing at her for guidance. "Like this?"

"Yeah, just like that," [Y/N] said, smiling. "You've got it. Now try to avoid those obstacles."

They spent the next few minutes in a light-hearted exchange, Marco's laughter mingling with the occasional sound effects from the game. Despite his initial struggle, he began to get the hang of it, and the young woman felt a sense of warmth watching him succeed. It was a small, sweet moment in the midst of their larger, dangerous mission.

The taller man glanced at her, his brown eyes earnest. "Thanks for this. It's a nice distraction from... well, everything else."

She nodded, understanding the unspoken weight they all carried. "Anytime, Marco. We all need a break now and then."

A comfortable silence settled between them as Marco continued to play, and [Y/N] felt a rare moment of peace. She was surrounded by danger and uncertainty, but moments like this reminded her of why they fought. For the connections they forged, for the laughter and the light amidst the darkness.

Finally, she stood, stretching her arms. "I should probably go help with the guns. Can't let Jean and Oluo have all the fun."

Marco laughed, shutting down the game. "Right behind you."

In a dimly lit room, a figure hunched over a cluttered workbench, the soft glow of a single bulb casting deep penumbras across the worn wooden surface. Jean Kirstein's calloused hands deftly disassembled a handgun, his light brown eyes focused and intense. Each metallic piece was placed with precision onto a neatly organized tray, a silent rhythm to his actions that spoke of countless hours of practice. The air had the scent of gun oil and a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat. The only sound was the methodical ticking of a clock on the wall, a stark contrast to the chaos that lay outside the reinforced door.

Oluo Bozado leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his broad chest, watching the man with a mix of admiration and amusement. "You've got a knack for this, Kirstein," he said, his voice a rumble in the quiet. "Almost like you were born to do it."

Kirstein glanced up, a smirk playing on his lips. "It's all in the wrists, Bozado," he replied, his eyes never leaving the task at hand. The black, tight-fitted blouse he wore stretched over his muscular frame, hinting at the power beneath the fabric. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle, a testament to his physical prowess. The blouse clung to his body, emphasizing the leanness of his torso and the way his shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. It was clear that Jean was a man who knew how to handle himself, both in and out of combat.

As he worked, Jean's biceps flexed with each movement, the soft fabric of his shirt straining against the firm muscle. The way his shoulders rolled with the rhythm of his task was mesmerizing, a dance of precision and strength that seemed almost sensual in the quiet of the room. His eyes, light brown, reflected the light of the bulb above, adding a predatory gleam to his features. His hair, a wild mess of light ash-brown waves, fell into his eyes, only to be pushed back with a swift and deliberate movement of his hand.

Oluo nodded, his gaze lingering on Jean for a moment longer before he turned to the other side of the bench, where a variety of weapons were laid out. He picked up a rifle, the metal cold and heavy in his hands. "You should help," Jean said without looking up from his work. "We've got a big job ahead of us." The older man shrugged, his leather jacket creaking as he moved. "I'm not much for the delicate stuff," he replied, his eyes scanning the weapons.

The door to the room swung open, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway. Jean's hand paused mid-motion as he heard the soft footsteps approaching. In walked Marco Bodt, with a small smile on his face, and behind him, the person he had least expected to see in this place of preparation and potential danger: [Y/N]. Her eyes widened at the sight of the arsenal before her, and she looked at Jean with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Jean's voice was sharp, the smirk from moments ago replaced with a furrowed brow. Marco stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the guns in Jean's hands. "I asked for her help," he said simply. "We need all hands on deck for this mission, and everyone else is already occupied with something else."

Oluo let out a gruff sigh, his annoyance palpable in the sudden stillness of the room. He looked at the only woman in the room, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Alright, if you're going to be a part of this circus, you better learn the tricks," he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. He picked up a pistol, the metal glinting in the dim light. "First things first, you need to understand the anatomy of a gun. It's not just a tool; it's a part of you. You need to know it inside and out." He began to explain, his words punctuated by the metallic clicks and clacks as he demonstrated the process. "You've got the magazine here," he said, pointing to the bottom of the gun. "You fill it with bullets, like so." His thick fingers deftly slid the rounds into place, the sound echoing in the small room. "Then you lock it in." The final click was satisfying.

The soldier's gaze remained on his work, his jaw tight as he listened to Oluo's instructions. He didn't look thrilled about the situation, but he knew they needed help loading all these guns. The girl, [Y/N], watched with rapt attention, her eyes flitting between the gun and Oluo's face as she took in every word.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Jean said finally, his voice low. "You're not trained for this kind of work."

[Y/N] straightened her posture, her [E/C] eyes flashing with determination. "I know I'm not a fighter, but I want to help," she insisted. "I can handle it."

Jean sighed, his expression a mix of concern and resignation. He knew that look all too well; it was the same one he'd had before he'd been thrown into the fray. He didn't want the same for her, but if she was willing to take the risk, he wouldn't stand in her way. "Alright," he said, his voice softening slightly. "But you need to be careful. One wrong move, and we're all dead." Oluo handed the pistol to the woman next to him, his gaze assessing as he watched her take the weapon. Her hands trembled slightly, but she gripped it firmly, her eyes never leaving his. "You've got to be confident," he said. "If you're not, the gun will know. And it won't be your friend."

[Y/N] nodded, her eyes focused on the task at hand. She tried to mimic his movements, her small, delicate fingers fumbling with the magazine. The first few times she attempted to load the gun, she fumbled, the bullets slipping from her grasp and rolling away across the floor. Jean's eyes followed her every move, his own work momentarily forgotten. Each time she failed, he felt his anxiety rise, but he bit his tongue, giving her space to learn.

After several frustrating minutes, she managed to load the magazine correctly. The click as it snapped into place was music to her ears. Oluo offered a rare smile of approval, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest. "See?" he said, his voice gentle. "You've got it."

The four of them worked in a tense harmony, the sound of metal on metal filling the room as they prepared for the dangerous mission ahead. Kirstein's eyes remained on [Y/N], his protective instincts on high alert. He couldn't help but admire her tenacity, her refusal to back down from the challenge. Despite his reservations, he knew that she had a fiery spirit that could not be easily doused. And deep down, he cared about her.

On her third attempt, [Y/N] managed to load the gun without a hitch. She turned to Jean with a proud smile, the weapon held out in front of her, the barrel pointing safely down. "See?" she said, her voice shaking with excitement. "I'm getting the hang of it."

Light brown eyes flickered to the gun, the man's heart skipping a beat as he realized she'd made a critical mistake. The safety was off, and her grip was loose. He saw the potential for disaster a split second before it happened. Without thinking, he launched himself across the room, his body a blur of motion as he tackled the [H/C] haired woman to the ground. The impact was jarring, knocking the wind out of her as the gun went off with a deafening crack.

The room erupted into chaos. Bullets whizzed past, ricocheting off the walls and embedding themselves in the thick wooden beams above. The smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air, the acrid scent burning their nostrils. Oluo and Marco dove for cover, their eyes wide with shock. For a moment, the only sound was the ringing in their ears.

[Y/N] lay on the ground, panting heavily, her eyes wide with fear. The soldier's body was a solid weight on top of her, his arms wrapped around her, shielding her from the hailstorm of bullets. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her chest, the heat of his breath on her neck. His eyes searched hers, the anger and fear melding into something softer, something that made her heart race even more. In the sudden stillness that followed the gunshots, Jean's gaze lingered on her for a moment too long. The room around them faded away, and all that existed was the warmth of his body pressing her into the cold, hard floor. His hand hovered over her cheek, as if he wanted to brush away the strands of hair that had fallen into her face but was afraid to move.

His eyes searched hers, the usual playfulness replaced with something much deeper. The sharpness of his gaze had softened, the teasing glint gone, leaving behind a vulnerability that made her stomach flip. She could feel the tension in his muscles as he held himself above her, his body poised to react at the slightest sound. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down her spine, and she realized that she was clutching the fabric of his shirt, her fingers curling into the material.

The moment stretched on, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant echo of the gunshot. [Y/N]'s heart hammered in her chest, and she could feel the pulse of Jean's own heart beating against her. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the sudden realization that the lines between comrades and something more had been blurred. The way he looked at her now was different, as if he saw her not just as a girl who had stumbled into his world, but as someone who could potentially share it with him.

Suddenly, Oluo and Marco emerged from their hiding spots, their faces a mix of relief and irritation. "What the hell was that?" Oluo yelled, his hand over his heart. "You almost gave us a heart attack!" Marco's eyes darted around the room, checking for any signs of damage. "Thank the walls that was a stray shot," he murmured, his own heart still racing.

Jean took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving [Y/N]'s. "It's okay," he said, his voice soothing. "It's okay." His hand finally made contact with her cheek, his thumb brushing away a strand of hair that had stuck to the sheen of sweat on her forehead. His touch was gentle, almost tender, and it sent a shiver through her.

But the moment was shattered by the sound of her choking sob. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to apologize, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm so, so sorry." She trembled beneath him, the weight of his body suddenly feeling suffocating. The man on top of her's eyes widened with surprise and concern. He quickly rolled off her, sitting up and pulling her into a firm embrace. "Hey, hey," he whispered, his voice gentle. "It's okay, it's not your fault." His arms encircled her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back as she buried her face in his chest. The fabric of his blouse was warm and slightly damp from their shared exertion. Oluo and Marco shared a look, the tension in the room palpable. They knew the gravity of the situation, but Jean's sudden tenderness was something they weren't quite prepared for. They exchanged a silent agreement to give the two some space, quickly finishing up the gun loading before exiting the room, leaving them alone.

The soldier's embrace grew stronger as he felt the tremors of her sobs against his chest. "Shh," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble. "It's okay, [Y/N]. It was an accident." His hand moved from her back to gently cradle the back of her head, his thumb