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Chapter Text

Somewhere over the Bering Sea

Sevastopol . Sous-marine . 

Those were the two pivotal words that escaped Paris’ quivering lips before she blacked out from a stab wound inches away from her heart. Fortunately, the assassin’s heart was still beating persistently, and 48 hours later she was flying from Italy to the Bering Sea through thick grey clouds on a chartered plane, thanks to none other than The White Widow. Thanks to Paris, they now knew what the mysterious key unlocked, and where it was located. 

“This doesn’t feel right,” Ilsa mumbled, writhing in her spacious brown leather seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs every now and then. 

To Ilsa Faust, comfort was discomfort. She was never the type to sit still. Her wary gaze was fixated on her adversary’s former henchman, who was in charge of commanding the pilot in plotting the path to the submarine. In her palms, there was a small electronic device that resembled a map of sorts. 

Paris then moved next to Grace, and seemed engrossed in conversation despite the slight language barrier. Something had shattered inside her when Gabriel betrayed her, and it was not just her broken ribs. It should have made her more distrustful of others, but she seemed to warm up to Grace rather quickly. Perhaps it was in a devotee’s habit to find a new source of hope and purpose. 

One minute, Grace was on a plane, hired to steal a key, and now she was on a different plane trying to save the world. Although she had some hefty crimes on her ledger, she never considered herself more than a humble pickpocket. The rest of the IMF were on a separate flight, as The White Widow’s bargaining chip for investors. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Plus, if their suspicions were correct, Gabriel would be heading there too. It was an arms race for control of the Entity’s source code, for better or for worse. 

“What doesn’t feel right, is the fact that you haven’t touched your champagne,” Alanna Mitsopolis chided. 

She took a sip from her own champagne flute, sitting next to Ilsa in her custom snow-white parka. The bubbly beverage splashed violently across the neatly folded white napkin as the plane jerked suddenly. Ilsa groaned at the mini charcuterie board in front of her; frankly, she lacked the appetite. 

“You can’t be too careful. After all, she was Gabriel’s second-in-command, and he nearly fucking killed me,” Ilsa muttered in a low voice. 

She shivered at the thought of his contemptuous grin inches away from her face as his knife came dangerously close to her. 

“You must be forgetting that he almost killed her too,” she protested, sneaking a glance at Paris’ thick bandages peeking out from beneath her shirt as she moved. It was Alanna’s medical team that helped her recover in such a short timeframe. “Besides, you of all people should know that being affiliated with nefarious men does not a villain make,” she said pointedly. 

Ilsa looked away, knowing that Alanna was right, and opted to stare at the storm clouds forming outside the window. She had spent years undercover with Solomon Lane, who was practically a terrorist. Hell, if she was keeping score, The White Widow had her fair share of connections with bad men. Nonetheless, Ilsa had few reasons to trust anybody on this plane. 

All of a sudden, the plane shook side to side forcefully, akin to a rollercoaster ride. She clutched the sides of the leather seat, her face turning as pale as her whitening knuckles. Ilsa never quite understood Ethan’s affinity for berserk airplane tricks.

“What’s the matter? Is super spy Ilsa Faust afraid of a little turbulence?” Alanna teased. Ilsa glared in response; something had been bothering her since she boarded the plane, but she could not quite put her finger on it. Then, Alanna unfastened her 24K gold heart-shaped necklace, and chained it around Ilsa’s neck. It felt cool against her warm skin, and Ilsa thought it must have cost more than the goddamn plane. “Here, for good luck. Now nothing can touch you,” Alanna said with a wrinkle of her nose. Then, she slipped a Valium into her palm for good measure.

“Thanks,” Ilsa mumbled, her fingers immediately fidgeting with the necklace. 

As she drifted off to a light sleep, Ilsa took a groggy look at the clouds, expecting a raging tempest, yet it was too wispy to even be considered a storm cloud. She was no meteorologist, but these appeared to be Cumulus clouds rather than the towering, storm-inducing Cumulonimbus type. Ilsa frowned at her now-empty glass of champagne, its contents splattered across the velvet carpet. If there was no storm, then what the hell was causing the plane to…

“What the fuck?” Grace shouted. 

Ilsa woke from her slumber to the sound of screaming, as the plane shook violently with clattering noises sounding from the sputtering engine. Someone had placed an oxygen mask over her face – was it Alanna? Was this all a nightmare? Her vision was an utter blur, her ears ringing in her head. Baggage and equipment tumbled onto the ground, as did the shiny beverage carts and glassware, shattering into a million pieces. As the aircraft jolted repeatedly, the lights flickered off, and they were immersed in complete darkness until flames engulfed the back of the plane. 

The last thing she saw before the plane plummeted to the ground was the pilot’s body being flung out through the air, with a piece of scrap metal impaled through his torso. 

Chapter Text

There was the calm before the storm, and then came the calm after the storm. The world spun, until it didn’t, and everything became eerily frozen like a photograph in a history book. The jet had collided into the ice, maintaining only a third of its outer shell like a ghostly cave, while the remnants were obliterated into monstrous scraps of charred metal with sharp, exposed edges jutting out at all angles. Any remaining gear and supplies that were not destroyed in the subsequent explosions were strewn across the snow. The white snow, which was once pristine and untouched, was now stained with the maroon blood of the pilot and crew members who died on impact, and the grey ashes from the fire. 

Shadowy images of Ilsa and Alanna clinging onto one another as they limped out of the wreckage came to view. 

“Is everyone okay?” Alanna asked. Immediately, she reached for the cruciform key that was securely tucked in her pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Paris? Where’s Paris?” Grace cried out, coughing and stumbling in the ankle-high snow. 

Once Ilsa determined that the fires had been fully extinguished, the three climbed through the rubble, calling out for the former henchman. Suddenly, they heard a series of weak, muffled gasps from the back of the plane. 

“It’s Paris, she’s stuck!” Grace called, rushing over to her aid. “Ne bouge pas, chérie, on va venir t'aider.” 

Paris was still lodged in her seat with a tilted slab of metal on top of her, whilst the plane was flipped to the side. Her face was alarmingly red as a result from a prolonged period of time upside down. The three women made their best attempt to push the metal away, though it was much heavier than they anticipated. Even with their combined strength, the piece of the emergency exit door remained still. 

“It’s… not… budging,” Grace huffed and grunted, frustrated. 

She hoped that it would be like the news articles she read about the great rushes of adrenaline that gave ordinary civilians superhero-like strength, during mighty moments of love. Maybe it only happened in stories. Nevertheless, there was no way she would give up on Paris like this. They may have just met, but Paris saved her life, and Grace was determined to return the favour. 

Suddenly, her eyes landed on a long plank of metal nearby. “Do you think we can push that over to make a lever?” 

“Good idea,” Ilsa said. She began to gather smaller, yet substantially weighted debris. “On the count of three, we can drop it on the opposite end to tilt it. Okay, Paris? Ne bouge pas ”, she repeated. 

“ D’accord ,” she panted weakly. 

One…two… three…  

There was a cacophonous screeching noise, but Paris was set free. She writhed from underneath the narrow space that was created, and Grace pulled her out promptly. 

“ Merci ,” Paris wheezed as she stumbled into Grace’s arms. There was a fresh scarlet scar on the side of her cheek. 

“ Tu vas bien . It’s okay, you’re okay now,” she assured her. 

Ever the seasoned spy, Ilsa’s survival instincts kicked in instantly. “Everybody grab what you can salvage. We need supplies, food, weapons and ammo. We don’t know how long we’ll be out here.” 

They circled around the plane, scavenging for supplies. Fortunately, there was some food left from the plane, including a few cans, dried goods, and bottled water. They had a couple of knives, pistols and rifles with a decent round of bullets, rope and a pickaxe, small emergency kits, and flashlights, matches, and all the clothes they had packed in their duffle bags. Among the salvaged items were various trinkets that Grace had pickpocketed and could potentially become handy – a lighter, sunglasses, a deck of cards, carabiners, and an old compass.  

Alanna wandered towards the tail section, as though something, or someone was calling to her. All of a sudden, she heard a series of beeps, which then distorted into a familiar voice – no, it was her own voice. It echoed words that slipped out of her own mouth before: The world is changing, truth is vanishing, war is coming . The White Widow crouched before a small, rectangular yellow box. She knew what this was, Zola had taught her about planes from his time in the Special Air Service; the Emergency Locator Transmitter. However, this was not a typical ELT. It seemed to be transmitting signals on a frequency that only Alanna could hear, and it whispered her deepest secrets back to her as a threatening reminder of what would happen if she did not obey. She heard her mother’s voice, some from her childhood and some from the later years before Max had passed. It knows your every secret, Alanna , Gabriel had said. She sucked in her breath as she froze in her spot, eyes gradually turning red. Though the signal was jumbled, the message was quite clear — hand the key, and her fate over to Gabriel and his infernal machine, or else . Squeezing her eyes shut, she picked up a nearby piece of scrap metal and began smashing it violently against the yellow box, until sparks flew, obliterating into pieces. At last, the voices stopped… for the moment. 

The plane had crashed in a vast area of pure snow for miles on end with low ice-capped hills in the near distance. The only vegetation to be seen were moss, lichen, and dwarf shrubs, but certainly no dry firewood to make warmth. Even their matches, lighters, and flint strikers would render useless, it would be impossible to survive in the -40°C climate without shelter. The plane’s wreckage was too exposed, with chilling Arctic winds penetrating through. 

“We need to find shelter before the sun goes down. If we walk South-” Ilsa began. 

“But what if rescue comes? Surely someone is coming to rescue us, right, Alanna?” Grace asked shakily, her brown eyes wide with worry. 

Surely the great White Widow, who had spies in every level of the government and friends in high and low places, could have someone find her in the wilderness. However, Alanna grew suspiciously quiet. 

“ Faut-il partir? Ou faut-il rester?” Paris mumbled. 

“Alanna? You alright?” Ilsa asked softly. 

“Ilsa’s right,” Alanna declared, averting Grace’s gaze. “We’ll freeze to death out here. We need to move quickly.” 

“Paris?” Grace turned to her for reassurance. 

“ Désolée, ” she shrugged sheepishly. She locked eyes with Ilsa for a brief moment, and suddenly Ilsa felt remorseful that she ever doubted Paris. 

3 to 1. “Alright. Searching for shelter it is, then,” Grace huffed, defeated. 

With her crimson lipstick, Alanna scrawled SOS - GONE SOUTH onto the body of the plane and picked up her bags.

Chapter Text

“So… Do we actually have any idea where we’re going?” Grace asked. 

The snow crunched audibly beneath their heavy boots, as they trudged on South, as the compass indicated. They had lost track of how many hours had passed since the hands on her watch were already frozen the minute she stepped out of the plane. The sun was beginning to dip under the horizon, and night was threatening to fall soon. 

“Not exactly, but generally there is a much higher chance of finding any trace of civilization in the South,” Ilsa replied. 

She was beginning to sound like Ethan Hunt, she thought, relying on sheer hope and making plans up as they went along. She wondered if he and the others were looking for them yet; after all, he seemed to always know how to find her.

“Terrific,” Grace mumbled, disguising the fear and worry with sarcasm. 

Ilsa and Paris walked ahead of the group, while Grace and Alanna dragged behind. Alanna was peculiarly silent for the duration of the walk, due to a throbbing migraine that she credited to the chilling weather instead of the Entity. Though, deep down she knew that the jolt of electricity from the plane’s transmitter gave her something more than electric shock. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” Ilsa said to Paris in a low voice. 

Truthfully, Ilsa had doubts of her own that she was making the wrong choice to search for shelter. She, like Grace and Paris, usually preferred being rogue like a lone wolf, and had only recently grown accustomed to working in a team. She never asked to be a leader like Ethan, but it seemed that the role was thrust upon her the moment the plane crashed simply because she had the most survival knowledge among the group. 

“ Ce n’est rien. Je fais juste ce qu’il faut ,” she replied. 

Perhaps she misjudged her too quickly when she questioned Paris’ loyalty earlier. Her mind flashed back to how Gabriel’s knife pierced into her skin, missing her vital organs by mere millimetres. The gash below her chest was not unlike Paris’ – matching scars marked by the same hand – that practically made them soulmates. 

Paris tended to be quiet, but was incredibly sharp and observant. All of a sudden, she stopped in her tracks, and held up a hand. She narrowed her eyes at a fluffy white Arctic hare perched ahead of their path, its blindingly white fur nearly camouflaging with the snow. Gingerly, she raised the rifle in her hand and aimed at the hare. With just a silent head tilt, she signalled Ilsa to guard the other side in case the hare attempted to dash. Behind them, Grace and Alanna held their breath as Paris’ finger pulled the trigger, the bullet piercing through the small animal before it could react. 

“Well, there’s our dinner for tonight. Nice job, Paris,” Ilsa said approvingly. 

“ Je crois qu'on forme une bonne équipe ,” the assassin grinned back. 

It was decided then, that the two sharpest shooters on the team would be the hunters as their food supply grew scarce. 

“Paris, will you do the honours?” Ilsa offered the knife to Paris. 

“Le boucher ,” she murmured as she accepted. She would take on the role of both the hunter and the butcher. Paris had killed more people in her lifetime than she could ever count, but she still winced as she carved the knife into the hare’s corpse, whispering, “ Désolée .” 

Ilsa was unsure how long they would be stuck there, but nightfall was approaching sooner than she expected, and it seemed that they needed to move to Plan B — build an igloo. While Paris began to prepare the hare for cooking over Grace’s stolen portable gas stove, the others gathered sturdy blocks of snow until it somewhat resembled a habitable shelter. 

“I think I’m frostbitten,” Alanna griped, as the iciness in her hand seeped through her leather gloves. 

“Of course, the White Widow isn’t used to doing manual labour,” Ilsa teased. Then, catching Alanna’s glare, her expression softened and offered her a heat pack. 

Once Paris was finished “cooking”, they sat around the measly fire on makeshift stools, devouring the juicy hare meat in seconds. It was hardly enough to fill each of their stomachs, but at the very least they did not need to rely on their remaining rations. Grace nearly scooped a handful of snow into her mouth to wash it down before Ilsa stopped her, warning her of hypothermia if she did not melt the snow into water before consuming. Meanwhile, Alanna closed her eyes and imagined that she was eating Lapin à la moutarde in France, creamy butter melting on her tongue as the herbs danced on her taste buds. Next to her, Paris pulled out a small silver flask from her pocket and took a sip, before offering it to Alanna. Preferably, this would be paired with a glass of White Burgundy, but whiskey would have to do for now. The White Widow threw her head back and let the liquor burn her throat, hoping it would flush away the thoughts that The Entity had planted in her head. 

If it weren’t for the dire situation, it was almost romantic to gaze up at the night sky to see the blanket of twinkling stars shining brighter than they had ever seen before. It was surprisingly calm and peaceful, despite the below zero temperatures. 

“ L'étoile du nord ,” Paris pointed out, her finger reaching for the North Star. She reached for Grace’s binoculars and began calculating the distance in her head, recalling the map before the GPS exploded along with the plane. 

Finally, it came in handy to pickpocket various items and to lug them around in her ginormous bag. Grace smiled, “ Oui . We’ll find our way.” She reached for Paris’ other gloved hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

As night fell, the four women crawled into their sleeping bags, packed together tightly as closely as they could like sardines in the tiny igloo. They clung onto one another with entangled limbs, not just to share warmth, but because out there, all they had was each other.

Chapter Text

Alanna Mitsopolis found herself stuck in a dark, claustrophobic void-like space, with a heavy weight suffocating her despite being alone. She was unable to move her limbs, as though her neck, arms, and legs were cuffed, and only silence came out of her mouth no matter how hard she cried out. Her first thought was sleep paralysis, or some sort of lucid nightmare, but there was a touch of something eerily familiar. Alanna had encountered this feeling before mere months ago, when it circled her at her party at the Ducale. It was the same chilling Entity that slithered in and out of her head like a viper, whispering to her in both unfamiliar and familiar voices, sometimes her mother’s, sometimes Ilsa’s. 

It replayed echoes of Ilsa’s words from the past, as if to remind her of what was truly at stake, “ Whoever you give the key to will be forever in your debt. But to the rest of the world, you’ll be an enemy .” 

There was a ringing in her ear again, echoing continuously as blurry images flashed before her eyes rapidly like a film reel. Alanna could only make sense of a few of the split-second visions: a polar bear, more snow, Grace falling through the ice, a log cabin, a knife dripping in blood, the Queen of Hearts card, a husky attacking Paris, three chairs around a wooden table, Ilsa frozen in ice, something engulfed in flames, the Sevastopol submarine underwater, Gabriel’s malevolent grin, a shadowy figure with an ornate headpiece that resembled a deer’s antlers, the cruciform key… 

Stop it , she tried to shout, but her lips could not move an inch. STOP! Alanna squirmed and writhed with every muscle in her body, beneath the invisible cuffs and tried to open her eyes, but even her eyelids bore the weight of a thousand pounds. Suddenly, she was 7 years old again, nearly drowning in Bali, water filling up her lungs and entangled in kelp no matter how hard she flailed. 

STOP IT! It didn’t sound like her voice. “ ARRÊTEZ!”  

At last, The White Widow gasped for air and jolted free from the Entity’s grip. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, snowflakes clinging to her lengthy eyelashes like dust. She blinked, and Paris came into her field of vision like an angel descended from Heaven. 

“ Vous allez bien ?” Paris asked, her voice slightly quivering. 

They appeared to be a short distance outside the igloo, sitting in the freezing cold snow. She helped her sit up, and Alanna jumped upon seeing spots of vermillion blood on the front of her jacket. The blood was dripping from her frigid nose, and in her hand was a large scoop of fresh snow, the iciness still hanging on her tongue and dribbling down her chin. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

“ Vous étiez somnambule ,” Paris answered. 

Sleepwalking? Alanna hadn’t sleptwalked since she was 16; at one point, her mother had decided to chain her to the bedpost in case she had access to various weapons in the house during her episodes. Still, she thought she had left those days behind her, after all the medication and therapy. 

“ Vous mangiez de la neige, donc j’avais peur que vous soyez en hypothermie ,” she continued, offering her a heat pack.

Alanna could not fathom why she had been outside sleepwalking and eating snow, but these events could only point to the Entity’s doing. “ Merci ,” she said. 

Paris stared at her quietly with widened eyes and a spooked expression on her face, like she had seen a ghost take The White Widow’s place. “ Vous lui parliez, n’est-ce pas?” she asked carefully. 

The arms dealer was hesitant for a moment, even debated whether to lie to Paris and pretend that she had no idea what she meant. Nonetheless, there was a wave of understanding on Gabriel’s former lackey’s face. If anyone here would understand even a fraction of what she was experiencing, it would be her. Alanna nodded slowly, though she wouldn’t classify it as “talking to It”; she could hardly breathe, much less get a single word out. 

“Je l’ai déjà vu avec Gabriel, mais il avait une…” she paused, scrambling for the right words to describe it. “... une sorte de cercueil. ”

“A coffin?” Alanna repeated, unclear if she heard correctly. Although, it did feel like she was inside one. 

Paris nodded, and whispered ominously, “ Ça te changera .” 

Admittedly, Alanna felt that something within her had changed, especially after she made contact with the Entity on the plane. Everything that was buried deep in her psyche was beginning to bubble at the surface. 

“Il a choisi …” Paris gasped. 

If Gabriel was the Dark Messiah, then The White Widow was a Prophet in her own right. The Entity was able to reach her mind directly, without the need for a vessel, like Gabriel’s coffin-like chamber that he succumbed into. Evidently, It had chosen a new master in The White Widow. Perhaps It already had Its “eye” set on her in Venice, only striking now after Gabriel had failed to deliver. 

“What do I do now?” she asked. Her steely-blue eyes were petrified.

Paris grabbed her hand firmly, as a sign of trust. “ Dis-moi. Qu’as-tu vu ?”

She closed her eyes and tried to remember all the visions that It showed her, like trying to scribble down all the contents of a dream before they quickly faded away from memory like breath on a mirror. Alanna noticed that at some point, Paris had switched to informal speech with her, as if she suddenly felt closer to her now that she was acquainted with the Entity. Then, glancing at the small gash on Paris’ cheek and her desperate look for guidance, Alanna could not stomach telling her everything she saw, which included Paris’ face being torn apart to bloody shreds by a pack of wolves, or huskies. 

“Um, I can’t quite remember everything. There was a cabin, though,” she said. At the very least, this seemed to be the most useful thing that the Entity had shown her. 

“ Tu peux nous y emmener?” 

Though she hadn’t the faintest clue where the cabin was located, she had a strange, vague feeling that she would know exactly how to lead them there. 

“Yes, I believe so.”

Chapter Text

Ilsa took her time surveying the premises of the cabin, toting a rifle and taking each step on the creaky floorboards carefully. She could hardly believe that the Entity had somehow planted this location in Alanna’s mind, allowing her to guide the group to shelter. The wooden cabin was ridden with cobwebs and thick layers of dust, and reeked of mildew and rot, its furniture left untouched for decades. Upstairs, she found what appeared to be broken radio wave transmitting equipment, and destroyed discs. 

“I think this is an abandoned SOSUS listening station,” Ilsa said slowly. She recalled the map that Ethan had shown her before, indicating where the SOSUS stations around the world were located.

“What’s that?” Grace asked. 

“Sound Surveillance System. It’s a submarine detection system for tracking Soviet submarines,” she explained. 

“Can we send transmissions to Ethan and the others, then?” Grace replied.

Ilsa shook her head, “They would need to be listening at very specific intervals on a submarine, but even so, everything here has been destroyed long ago.” 

“I don’t understand. Why would the Entity lead us here?” 

“I suppose It can’t have us all freeze to death before getting to the Sevastopol,” Alanna piped up. 

Grace frowned, “So it’s helping us get to the source code… to destroy it?” 

Ilsa caught a glimpse of Alanna and Paris sitting on the torn-up couch from her periphery. “It’s counting on Alanna to bring the key to its source code not so she can destroy it, but so she can control it,” she said coldly, in a low voice.

“Well, she’s not going to do that… right?” Grace commented hesitantly. 

The group fell silent for a moment, until Paris broke the tension by muttering “ Tick tock tick tock .” 

Although the cabin provided better shelter than the igloo that they built, there was still hardly any heat inside. The women opted to share sleeping bags – Ilsa and Alanna in one, and Grace and Paris in another. 

“Do you remember what you said that night, at the Ducale? Whoever I give the key to will be forever in my debt, and to the rest of the world, I’ll be their enemy?” Alanna growled softly in her ears, with her arms wrapped firmly around Ilsa’s waist. “What if that’s not the only option? What if everything is under my control, on my terms?” 

Alanna felt Ilsa’s body stiffen against her, as if she refused to turn around to face The White Widow. “Don’t do it,” Ilsa warned pointedly, but she knew that it was nearly impossible to change The White Widow’s mind once she had decided on something. Although, if anyone could convince her, it would be Ilsa Faust.

Across the room, Grace and Paris were lying tête-à-tête , quite literally so, their foreheads pressed together. 

“ Tu me fais confiance ?” Paris asked in a hushed voice.

“ Oui, je te fais confiance, mais …” Grace said. The truth was, Grace did not know who she would entrust with a key of that importance. Ethan Hunt came to mind, after all he was somebody who valued the lives of those he held close as much as the billions of lives out there, if not more. If anybody were to control the Entity, it was crucial for that person to hold the interests of the greater good in mind, not for personal power. Grace had strong suspicions that The White Widow fell into the latter category.

“ Mais, il n'y a pas de mais ,” Paris said, her eyes flashing with hope for the first time since Gabriel betrayed her. “ Elle est l'Elue, tu verras. ” She pressed a firm kiss on lips with Grace’s, as a seal of trust. The thief was uncertain what Paris’ ominous message about Alanna being the Chosen one, but in that moment, all she could focus on was the warmth of Paris’ lips.

At daybreak, the team was awoken by loud growling and chuffing noises outside the cabin, as if someone, or some thing was stomping about in the freshly powdered snow. 

“Does anyone else hear that?” Grace asked. She was unsure how long they had been stranded out there, and began to think that she was experiencing hallucinations. At first, she thought rescue had finally come, but it was merely wishful thinking. 

Instinctively, Ilsa grabbed a shotgun and hurried down the stairs, with Paris following behind with a small knife. She held her breath and opened the door slightly ajar, and came face to face with a large polar bear trudging towards them slowly. 

“Oh bloody hell,” Grace gasped, doing her best to remain calm despite her quivering limbs. 

The White Widow stepped out, her eyes wide with awe. It was just as she envisioned whilst sleepwalking – a polar bear with a creamy coat of fur, snarling and baring its teeth at them. First the cabin, and now this , she thought. Any doubts that she previously had about the Entity vanished. As Ilsa raised the gun in her hand and aimed it at the bear, The White Widow motioned for her to put it down. Instead, she walked towards it calmly as if she was drawn to it in a trance. For a moment, the world was still and only she and the polar bear remained; she could hear its heart beat thumping in unison with her rhythm. She met its dark windows to its soul; it seemed to be beckoning her, a willing sacrifice. 

“Alanna, stop.” Ilsa hissed behind her.

“Paris, give me the knife,” The White Widow ordered, ignoring her. 

As though she was falling into old habits, the former henchman handed over the knife obediently. Paris widened her eyes and watched the polar bear kneel before The White Widow, and suddenly she saw her in a shining new light as if she was facing God herself. The polar bear halted its growls and began to whimper instead. A small grin formed on her face, even Gabriel could not tame a bear like it was a domesticated puppy. 

In one swift motion, The White Widow plunged the small knife into the polar bear, blood splattering across her face as it collapsed flatly into the snow with a thud. She turned around slowly to face them, licking the traces of blood from her lips. 

“Incroyable,” Paris breathed. 

Beside her, Grace’s wide brown eyes were somewhere between astonished and horrified.

Finally, Ilsa Faust had a look of despair on her face – it was the face of someone who no longer recognized the person in front of her, and the gutting realization that she was already too far gone.

Chapter Text

“Join hands. For this gift from the Entity, we give our thanks. To the spirit of the bear, who sacrificed so that we could survive, we give our thanks. And to the ancient gods of the sky and the dirt, we give our thanks,” The White Widow chanted with her eyes closed. 

The four women clutched onto one another’s hands in the near-darkness, save for the flickering candles placed neatly along the wooden floor. Alanna has fucking lost it , Ilsa thought to herself. She peeked at the others, hoping to find a shred of sanity among them, though Paris’ was mumbling along, and Grace’s lips seemed to be moving too. Of course, she had heard the news reports about the Entity garnering a cult following, leading to mayhem around the world. She just never imagined that it would touch her so closely. 

“Eat,” The White Widow commanded with a hypnotic smile, shoving a plate of roasted bear meat that Paris had prepared. 

Grace grimaced as she caught a whiff of the rancid smell coming from the dense slab of red, fatty, meat. “Are you sure we won’t get trichinosis from this?” she asked, poking it with her fork.

Finally someone with some sense , Ilsa thought. “Whatever you do, do not eat the liver. It contains Vitamin A, which can be lethal,” she warned. 

“ Ne t’inquiète pas . C’est bien cuit ,” Paris smiled, placing a gentle, well-meaning hand atop Grace’s wrist. 

Ilsa’s stomach rumbled, much to her annoyance. As much as she wanted to refuse out of defiance of the Entity and starve herself instead, she knew they were out of rations and she could hardly remember the last time she had a proper meal. With shaky hands, she shoveled a bite into her mouth, under the White Widow/the Entity’s watchful eyes.

The cabin was silent that night, the blizzard outside had finally died down after what felt like weeks, though they were beginning to lose track of time. Some nights, Ilsa thought there were glimpses of her Alanna sleeping next to her again. The blonde jolted awake from nightmares, beaded in sweat and fear. Each time Alanna closed her eyes, the Entity flooded her mind with visions of every possible outcome, until she was drowning in it. She panted heavily and clutched the cruciform key around her neck like it was a sacred cross of Christ 

“ We hear the Entity and the Entity hears us – we hear the Entity and the Entity hears us,” she whispered, rocking back and forth on her sleeping bag. Her eyes were bloodshot, as they were that night at the party. It was a rare sight to see the usually coy and collected arms dealer in such a state of distress.

“Shh.. you’re okay, it’s okay,” Ilsa assured her, cupping her cheek, though deep down Ilsa didn’t know if Alanna Mitsopolis would be “okay” again. She pressed a light kiss to her forehead, which was sticky with sweat. Ilsa slipped her hand around the back of Alanna’s neck, fingers lightly tracing around the clasp of her necklace. “I love you,” Ilsa whispered as she looked the Entity straight in the eye. 

All of a sudden, it was as though a switch flickered in her, and The White Widow grabbed Ilsa’s hand with an iron grip before she could reach the key. Hearing the ruckus, Paris and Grace woke from their slumber next to them.

“Versez le sang, mes beaux amis,”  The White Widow chanted in fluent French, her voice suddenly sickenly sweet like a Siren’s. “ Il veut toujours du sang. Il veut plus de sang. Le sang coule ici.” Her eyes were hollow and dazed, as if she was possessed.

“What’s she saying?” Grace turned to Paris frantically. Alanna could converse in French with her clients, but she had never spoken so fluently like this before. 

“Spill the blood, my beautiful friends. He… no, It always wants blood. It wants more blood. The blood is flowing here,” Paris repeated in English. 

“Who’s It? The Entity?” Grace asked. 

Ilsa shivered, chills climbing up her body upon Paris’ translation. She wriggled her wrist free, but could not shake the feeling of unease from her mind. There had to be a way to take the key away from her.

“Ici, ici, il faut… ” The White Widow slurred, before passing out in Ilsa’s lap. 

The days went on after The White Widow's "possession", the incident went unspoken about like a fever dream that they collectively agreed not to talk about. More importantly, Alanna did not seem to recall any part of that night. The weather was slightly warmer, so Paris took the chance to help Alanna with target practice, shooting tin cans with rubber bullets outdoors. Growing up, Alanna was taught more about dealing weapons rather than using them. 

“Grace, could you come help me take a look at the transmitter?” Ilsa called. 

“Um, sure,” Grace, who had been watching Paris with enamoured eyes, said. The assassin was delightfully charming when she was focused with the rifle. 

The equipment from the SOSUS listening station appeared to be deliberately destroyed, perhaps in a raid that happened quite some decades ago. There were frayed, torn-out wires, discs snapped in half, and several missing parts. 

“Do you think we can fix this somehow?” she commented, examining the equipment. 

Grace studied Ilsa’s expression – she was serious about finding rescue, without the Entity’s help. “I- I dunno. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I suppose we could try.”

“The plane transponder. You took it with you, didn’t you?” Ilsa nodded towards Grace’s large duffle bag, which was full of thrifted goods.

The thief flushed and nodded. For once, her kleptomania had come in handy. Ilsa’s chest filled with hope for the first time since the plane crashed, and Grace could see it too. She had learned enough from watching Luther and Benji, perhaps Ilsa could fix the radio transmitter with the plane’s transponder antenna. Her eyes glanced outside to Paris and Alanna whooping and cheering, as she knocked down the tower of cans. The key dangling around The White Widow’s neck glistened under the glaring sunlight.

Then, Ilsa pulled Grace closer until her lips brushed against her ear, and whispered in a low voice, “Grace, you’re the only person I can trust right now. I need you to pickpocket someone for me.” 

Grace grinned eagerly, “Well, you’ve certainly found the right girl for the job.”

Chapter Text

Stealing Alanna’s key from her proved to be a far more difficult task than it seemed, even for a seasoned thief like Grace. Ilsa had pulled out all the stops to take it from Alanna, but she kept the key closely anchored to her chest, even while she ate, slept, and bathed. She gradually grew colder and more distant around Ilsa, rejecting any intimate advances and eventually sleeping in a separate sleeping bag. Thankfully, Grace still had some tricks left up her sleeve, literally . She kept the replica key in her handy bag of stolen goods; all she needed was the perfect opportunity for some sleight of hand switcheroo magic. 

At the crack of dawn, the pickpocket often perched by the frosted window sill shuffling a deck of cards, her dexterous hands making the cards vanish with the flick of her wrist. She had been practicing until her fingers became calloused with rough blisters. It was a conspicuous way for her to practice her key swap trick under Alanna’s nose. The plan came to her after countless sleepless nights of plotting, and she came to the conclusion that she was overthinking it. If The White Widow or the Entity were as clever as everyone feared they were, perhaps all it took was the simplest, oldest trick in the book.

While Ilsa and Paris were out on a hunt, Grace began to set her plan in motion. She was hunched over the rusty metal pot, cooking a leather belt in hot water. She recalled reading somewhere that leather contained nutritional value, though she suspected that the author had never tried it before. Alas, their food supply was scarce again after they devoured the polar bear, and there was no game for Ilsa and Paris to bring back. 

The key was still looped around The White Widow’s neck, resting against the soft curve of her breast atop her wool jumper. It was like an unguarded King on a chess board, and Grace was determined to be the Knight to put it in checkmate.

“Soup’s ready,” Grace called.

She brought the wooden bowl up to Alanna carefully, almost too carefully as though it was carefully rehearsed. All of a sudden, Grace stumbled, her right foot catching the back of a chair leg. As the scalding hot liquid was hurled through the air, Grace began counting on her mental stopwatch. She had exactly two milliseconds to swap the key with her replica. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Let me help you,” she apologized, raising her sugar-coated voice just a pitch. It was the siren voice that she used on all her oblivious victims, paired with a set of concerned, wide brown eyes. 

Grabbing a nearby towel, she dabbed the soaking stain on her chest, slipping two fingers beneath it with precision. She felt the cool metal on her fingertips, and her chest rose with adrenaline, thinking the mission was accomplished… or so she thought. 

Suddenly, the White Widow’s arm shot out and grabbed Grace’s wrist with a tight, icy grip, just as she had done to Ilsa before. The Queen, who had been watching and calculating, swooped in and captured the Knight off guard. It’s only pain , Grace gulped and reassured herself, though she was worried that her wrist would snap into two like a twig. The Widow’s piercing glacial eyes flashed with a glint of something sinister and soulless, like she was staring into the vortex of The Entity itself. If she stared at it for too long, horrid memories of her childhood from the orphanage began to brew in her mind. 

“Don’t you forget, I was the one who hired you to steal the key in the first place, not her ,” The White Widow snarled, her voice deep and husky. She dug into Grace’s palms with her sharp nails, prying it open to reveal both halves of the key. The Widow snatched the legitimate key back, and slipped it beneath her shirt once again.

“I… haven’t the faintest clue what just happened,” Grace lied, shaking her head as though her mind was spinning. It may have worked with the authorities in Rome, but not with the White Widow. 

Just in time, the door swung open upon Ilsa and Paris’ return from yet another futile hunting trip; the Bishop and the Rook were in position, only they were on opposite sides of the board. The White Widow loosened her grip and gave her a threatening smirk. 

“ Qu'est-ce qui se passe ?” Paris frowned. 

Next to her, Ilsa’s stomach sank once she took in the scene of events unravelling her, knowing that meant Grace had failed. “Alanna…”

“Enough,” The White Widow snapped. “ It is hungry, in fact we’re all starving. The Entity needs a sacrifice, so we must have a hunt. It’s what It wants.” 

“What, you mean with one of us as the sacrifice?” Grace said in disbelief. 

Gabriel’s words echoed in her mind; someone will die tonight, and there was a chance that it would be her. Perhaps this fate was written, and the fact that she and Ilsa both evaded the reaper that night in Venice only postponed the inevitable for just a little longer. She glanced around the room; although she had not known any of them for very long, she foolishly thought that their time stranded together had meant something. . Either one of them dying for the sake of a reward that was not even promised felt wrong. Alanna – the Entity’s pawn-turned-Queen – who could not be entirely blamed as she was Its victim too. Then there was Ilsa – she was still somewhat of a mystery to Grace, but she seemed to be the only sane person in the room right now. Finally, there was Paris – her enigmatic assassin and her sweet saviour who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. 

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Ilsa glowered.

“ Qui va vivre, et qui va mourir? ” Paris mumbled.

The White Widow grabbed Grace’s deck of cards from the table, and shoved it into her hands. “Whoever draws the Queen of Hearts will be the prey. Grace can have the honour of being our dealer,” she quipped.

Grace felt as though she had been shot through the stomach. This was her punishment for attempting to betray The White Widow. Whoever she dealt the Queen card to would die, and she would live with the guilt the part she played in it. The blood would be on her hands forever.

Chapter Text

The three women stood before her in a crooked line, awaiting their fate that lay in Grace’s palm. She shuffled the deck swiftly; it was practically muscle memory at this point. Her chest beneath the heavy layers of clothing, as she took deep breaths to steady herself. Alanna - Paris - Ilsa … and herself; her petrified brown eyes shifted between them as she shuffled rhythmically, as if she was counting, calculating. She could feel the Queen of Hearts in the middle of the deck as if it was a tarot card that was radiating a certain kind of energy drawing her to it. 

The White Widow drew first, snatching the top card between her slender fingers, and held it up confidently for everybody to see – the Six of Diamonds. She flashed a pearly white smile at Paris and nudged her, your turn . Next to her, Paris maintained a stoic expression, calmly taking the next card and holding it up to her forehead. Grace felt a sigh of relief escape her upon seeing the Two of Spades; Paris lived to see another day… for now. Ilsa avoided The White Widow’s watchful gaze as she drew the next card, careful not to give her the reaction she wanted. Even the greatest spies were afraid sometimes. She flipped the card over to reveal the Seven of Hearts, and wore a tough expression on her face. Finally, Grace turned over the card with shaky hands, and held her breath, not letting go until The Widow announced that it was the Four of Clubs. 

The deck of cards felt like bricks in her hands, as though her burden weighed it down. Perhaps it was the knowledge that only Grace held, the fact that she was hopefully the only one in the room who knew exactly where the Queen card was. More cards flew by as each of them drew again – Eight of Clubs. Nine of Diamonds ("The Curse of Scotland", Ilsa mumbled when Paris drew it). Ace of Spades. Three of Hearts. Grace remembered a time at the orphanage when one of the girls gave tarot readings using playing cards – cartomancy, she’d called it. Though she no longer remembered what each card stood for, shivers ran up her spine as though it sensed its ominous warnings. They were nearing the epicentre of the deck where the Queen of Hearts rested.  One, two, three, four . Alanna, Paris, Ilsa, Grace, Alanna, Paris, Ilsa, Grace, Alanna, Paris… 

Suddenly, The White Widow switched positions with Paris, disrupting the order of the sequence. 

“Why don’t we change things up a little bit? It’s a bit boring standing in the same spot, isn’t it?” she grinned, almost mockingly. “Besides, it shouldn’t change the outcome. It is already written.” 

Grace’s petrified expression on her face must have proven her suspicions correct, or maybe the Entity already showed her this path. It was a mere split-second fallacy, a 0.3 second worried glance in the unsuspecting Paris’ direction, that confirmed the next card was the Queen of Hearts. 

“ No ,” Grace gasped softly, as Paris’ fingers seemed to pluck the card in slow motion. There was a quiver of fear in the assassin’s eyes. Meanwhile, Grace squeezed hers shut out of cowardice. How could she watch the woman she loved handpick death from her palms?

“ Joker. ” 

What? How could it be?

Once she peeled her eyes open, the Widow Widow was eyeing her with an electrifying stare that seemed to say Think you’re the only one with tricks up your sleeve? A tumultuous wave of confusion rose inside her. Grace was unsure at this point whether to be relieved that Paris was safe, or frightened that she had lost control of this game, if she ever had it in the first place. 

Next, Ilsa brought her hand above the deck and let it linger, as if she felt its energy too. Gabriel’s words haunted her mind again; someone will die tonight . Ilsa Faust never thought of herself as the heroic type, she was not someone who sacrificed their life for the greater good of the world… until she met the IMF. What was that phrase she heard Luther and Ethan talk about? “ We live and die in the shadows, for those we hold close, and those we never meet .” 

Finally, Ilsa held the card up against her forehead with utmost composure despite the nauseous wave in her stomach. The White Widow would not get a reaction out of her. The Entity would never get what It wanted. 

“Queen of Hearts. We’ll give you ten seconds to run. Good luck.”

Chapter Text

Ten . 

At the eleventh hour, Ilsa Faust knew better than to waste her time convincing The White Widow to put an end to this madness. She had already accepted her fate long ago and knew that she could not stop what was coming.

Nine . 

She grabbed the first weapon in her field of vision – a kitchen knife from the wooden table – and made a sprint for the door. 

Eight . 

Grace threw the deck down onto the table and stared at her shaking hands, horrified. Out, damned spot.

Sept .

Click . Paris licked her lips and reloaded her rifle. 

Six.

The White Widow claimed the other rifle, although she was still quite the amateur when it came to firing weapons. 

Cinq .

Paris handed Grace a handmade slingshot, though the latter was hesitant to accept it. 

Four .

The White Widow draped the heavy cloak of polar bear pelt over her shoulders. She wore it as a constant reminder for its sacrifice. 

Trois .

Paris zipped up her parka to the very top. She had almost lost her nose during the blizzard and couldn’t let it happen again.

Two.

Grace studied Paris’ unparalleled focus, trying to search for some sense in the pool of her hazel eyes. Paris did not look at her.

One .

The White Widow let out an animalistic roar. Let the hunt begin. 

To nobody's surprise, Paris was the quickest to follow Ilsa’s footprints using her assassin’s prowess. Despite the ten second lead, Paris was hot on Ilsa’s trail, prowling through the heavy snow like a leopard. She squinted at her moving target, a single spot of army green darting left and right amongst the blinding whiteness surrounding them. It was no longer Ilsa Faust to her, the only thought in her mind was capturing the sacrifice for The Entity. It was not so different from hunting hares for supper, as she had done with Ilsa previously, only now her hunting partner had become her prey. 

Deep down, Paris missed this feeling – the rush of adrenaline that came with the chase, her heart thumping harder as she neared her victim. What if Ilsa was right to doubt her from the beginning? Once a killer, always a killer. What if this was who she truly was? All the bottled up fury and anguish was finally set free. If it were not for the limited supply of ammunition, she would have gone on a firing frenzy, sprinkling bullets across the vast wilderness. Paris was a sharpshooter, but Ilsa was just as adept a spy nonetheless, making her a difficult target.  

“Paris, shoot!” The White Widow ordered from a distance, her voice gruff and aggressive in a manner that startled even Paris. 

The sniper did not need to be told twice. She echoed The White Widow’s battle cry and pulled the trigger. It nipped Ilsa’s calf, and she yelped in shock as her run morphed into a limp. Trails of fresh blood dripped behind her, painting the snow ruby red. 

Before Paris could gain on Ilsa, all of a sudden a pack of huskies with sleek grey and white pelts pounced out of seemingly nowhere. The leader of the pack pounced directly onto Paris’ face, clambering her left cheek and baring its sharp teeth at her. The rest of the hounds piled on top of her writhing body, drooling and panting. Paris tightened her jaw and 

attempted to wrestle them with her bare hands, but she was outnumbered. There must have been a dozen hounds clawing gashes through her skin; she howled in pain as one of the huskies sank its teeth into her arm, sharp teeth piercing through layers of thick clothing. With her free arm, she instinctively tried to grab the rifle lying a few feet away, but it was out of reach. 

At the sound of Paris’ bloodcurdling screams, Grace gasped and sprinted towards her. Behind her, the White Widow watched in shock as she witnessed her visions from The Entity play out in real time. Without hesitation, Grace picked up the gun and began to fire rapidly into the near distance, just enough to frighten them away from Paris. With only a split second to think, she figured that shooting at them would have risked hurting Paris, and asserting herself as an aggressor could have sent the huskies after herself. Luckily, her plan worked and the hounds scattered back into the wilderness, although Grace was out of bullets. She hurried next to Paris’ side and dropped to her knees in the blood-soaked snow. 

“ Paris… reste avec moi ,” Grace breathed, wrapping her scarf around Paris’ arm to keep pressure on it.

“ Blessure… superficielle… ” 

“Alanna, there’s a first aid kit in the cabin, I need you to go get it!” Grace shouted shakily. 

“ Faut… la… rattraper… Elle… se… tire …” the words slipped out of Paris’ lips weakly. 

The White Widow handed Grace the other rifle. “Here, you’re better with the gun. I’ll tend to Paris. Go .” 

Grace had no chance to argue that she was not much better than The White Widow at handling weapons. Instead, she pressed her lips to Paris’ cheeks, tasting the bitter iron of her blood, and did as she was told. 

She began following the footprints and blood trails in the snow until they disappeared, as if Ilsa Faust had vanished into thin air. What would Ilsa Faust do? Grace thought. A clever spy like her was probably hiding, especially knowing that she could not run far with her injuries. Only… where? There was hardly any vegetation and shrubbery to hide behind, just vast snowy lands for miles to see. Grace squinted at a spot of army green in the distance, which vaguely resembled Ilsa’s jacket. She walked towards it slowly, her eyes too focused on where her gun was aiming to notice that the ice beneath her feet was slowly thinning out. 

By the time she heard the sound, like cracking eggshells, it was too late. She felt an excruciating rush of pain as she plunged into the icy waters. Grace was normally a strong swimmer, but her limbs felt frozen and limp, both from the numbing temperature and utter shock. The weight of her winter attire began to drag her down, as water quickly flooded into her gaping mouth as she gasped for air. “Hel-p,” she tried to shout, but swallowed a mouthful of icy water instead. Stay off the ice, The White Widow had warned her once. She was finally beginning to see why Paris believed Alanna was the Entity’s prophet. The Entity showed her these events, from Paris getting mauled by hounds to her drowning. She had briefly read about hypothermia before, and she guessed there were approximately 15 to 30 minutes before she would lose consciousness. What if this was it? Grace thought. She thought about Paris one more time before her body grew limp in the water.

Across the empty field of snow, Ilsa Faust watched Grace’s head bobbing up and down in the water. For a moment, it seemed as though the devil on her shoulder was holding her back, reminding her that The Entity simply needed a sacrifice, and It did not specify the sacrifice had to be Ilsa. Even Gabriel had mentioned it during the party — Who will it be? Ilsa or Grace? Grace had another 20 minutes, tops, before she would slip under the ice forever. Would The White Widow’s tyranny be over? It was unlikely, but at the very least it would buy Ilsa more time. No, that isn’t right , Ilsa thought. She sprinted towards Grace the same way she had on the bridge in Venice, where she nearly sacrificed her life for Grace – for everybody. 

Ilsa Faust’s hand pulled through the ice like Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam . Grace was convinced that she was reborn again, and Ilsa had given her the gift of life. 

Grace wanted to say Thank you , but she could not bring her frostbitten lips to move. Finally, Grace managed to pant out a single word, “ Run .”

Chapter Text

Ilsa Faust curled up in a fetal position, shivering uncontrollably, stripped down to only Alanna’s silky white nightgown in hopes that she could camouflage amongst the endless snow. The satin cloth clung to her damp skin, offering no protection from the Arctic air.  Although Ilsa had trained in subzero temperatures before, there was little she could do to fight nature now. Her body was in survival mode, rebelling in a tug of war that tried to stop her heartbeat from slowing down. At this point, she would rather die by the hand of the wilderness, and freeze to death, than to The White Widow or The Entity’s avail. Frostbite was beginning to claim bits of her body; the tips of her fingers and toes burned bright red and numb, showing early signs of frostnip. It was only a matter of time before it blistered and darkened into a dark shade of violet and black. 

“I know you’re here, Faust,” The White Widow’s voice echoed across the vast emptiness. “You can’t hide from me.”  

Ilsa felt the footsteps crunching in the snow before she heard her approaching, as though she was sensing a predator. With the last bit of her strength, she whipped her legs around to lock them around The White Widow. Even with a bullet wound in her leg and oncoming frostbite, Ilsa was a stronger fighter than Alanna. She pulled her down to the snow with her, and scrambled to her feet so that she could clamber on top of her. The kitchen knife slipped out of The White Widow’s gloved hand and found its way into Ilsa’s frozen fingers.

With one icy grip, she kept her hand wrapped around The White Widow’s throat, her other hand seizing the knife above her. She trembled as she straddled the woman she once loved, such a familiar action in a wildly different setting. Ilsa Faust had killed more people in this lifetime than she could ever count, she had always been cold and unflinching. It should be no more difficult for her than breathing. 

So why couldn’t she plunge the knife through The White Widow’s heart? 

“Do it,” The White Widow taunted, her breath rasping, choking on each word through Ilsa’s grip. She spread her arms out in the snow as if she were to surrender, making herself the sacrifice instead. “If The Entity wants this… then give It… what It wants. But promise me, take my key… control it…” 

“You’re scared,” Ilsa hissed, her lips trembling from the cold and fury. “It is scared.”

“Maybe… you should be too,” The White Widow growled. “The Rapture… is coming.” 

Her blue eyes were bloodshot once again. Ilsa searched desperately for a flicker of humanity from the woman she remembered behind them. The woman that she always sought comfort from and found her way back to after countless unsettling missions. The soul of Alanna Mistopolis was once trapped behind them, but she feared that soul was already gone. This was no longer the woman she once loved, even if it was only for a brief moment in her life. And yet, she could not bring herself to slit her throat with the knife in her hand. Sentimentality aside, Ilsa also suspected that even if Alanna Mitsopolis was dead, The Entity would merely move onto a new host, like the parasite that it was. The act of killing her went against both her emotional and logical reasoning, and The Entity knew that. In fact, it counted on that. 

“I’m sorry,” Alanna Mitsopolis breathed. 

The White Widow shifted her weight and thrust herself on top of Ilsa’s weakening body like a spider capturing prey in its web. With the knife still in Ilsa’s grip, she placed her gloved hand on top and drove it into Ilsa’s chest together, burying it deep in her heart. She jerked back, eyes widening as she gasped her last breath. It was not a cry but a hollow, final exhale as if she was set free at last. It all happened in a flash; Ilsa was already gone by the time her numb, freezing body could process the agony. Scarlet stains soaked through her white nightgown, spilling across the snow like red paint on a blank canvas.  

The White Widow rose steadily, staring down at the body by her feet. She was so still and silent in her eternal slumber.

“It is done,” The White Widow announced, her words hanging in the air like scripture. 

A chilling gust of wind passed by, as though it was carrying her message.