The first light of dawn creeps through the thin motel curtains, casting a muted glow across the room. Frank, sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit window. Mary, still wrapped in the motel sheets, watches him with a mix of wariness and curiosity. The events of the night, the clash with the masked assailants, the revelations in the darkened room, hang in the air like an unspoken agreement.

Frank turns to face her, his eyes, pools of intensity, locking onto hers and proceeds to catch her up on the events that unfolded in the previous days.

"Karen got called into Homeland Security," He begins, the weight of the information evident in his voice, "Madani's leading the investigation."

" Madani," Mary repeats, the name sounding ever so familiar on the tip of her tongue," What does she know?"

" That I'm alive," Frank utters," And probably that you exist."

" My secrets aren't exactly hidden anymore," She sighs," You have a lead?"

" Gunner Henderson," He says," Was in my unit in Kandahar. He's the one who made the tape."

" What tape?"

" The tape they killed my family over."

Mary's eyes narrow, the gravity of Frank's words sinking in. The connection between their pasts, intricately woven through Kandahar and the shadows that linger in its aftermath, becomes a tangible thread binding them.

"Your family... they killed them over a tape?" Mary's voice carries a mixture of disbelief and anger.

Frank nods, the memory a specter that haunts the recesses of his mind, "Henderson recorded something he shouldn't have."

The revelation hangs in the air, a sinister tableau of conspiracies and hidden agendas. Mary, still wrapped in the motel sheets, absorbs the weight of Frank's words. The shadows of their shared past, once dormant, rear their heads in the face of a truth that defies the simplicity of their lives.

"What's on the tape?" Mary's inquiry is a quiet plea for a revelation that could unravel the mysteries they find themselves entangled in.

Frank's gaze, a reflection of the complexities within, meets hers with a hesitance that borders on vulnerability, " The life I'm never going back to."

The room, bathed in the soft light of dawn, becomes a makeshift sanctuary for shared confessions. Mary, grappling with the weight of revelations, shifts on the bed, her gaze locked onto Frank's.

" You think you can handle Henderson?" She asks, to which Frank nods," I've got something I want to pursue. Call it a hunch."

" You sure that's a good idea? To split up?" Frank questions.

" You'll be fine, you've got Lieberman to watch over you," Mary utters.

Frank's eyes narrow, for he's never mentioned Lieberman. Up until this point, he had no idea Mary knew he even existed.

" Lieberman, huh?" He asks," You always snooping around like that?"

" Call it a habit," She shrugs," Give me a meetup point and I'll catch up to you."

Frank takes a moment, the weight of trust a palpable force in the room. After a contemplative pause, he relents, giving her the address of Lieberman's garage where they can rendezvous. Mary, seemingly satisfied, starts to dress, the motel sheets falling away like the vestiges of a momentary respite.

As the first rays of dawn paint the city beyond the window, Mary emerges from the motel room, the door clicking shut behind her. The cool morning air greets her, carrying with it the promise of a new day fraught with uncertainties.

Mary navigates the labyrinthine streets, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and calculations. The hunch she wants to pursue feels like a faint beacon in the darkness, a thread that, if pulled, might unravel the mysteries surrounding Operation Cerberus. The city, waking up to the dawn of another day, provides a backdrop to her determined stride.

She reaches a discreet location, hidden from casual onlookers, and pulls out her phone. The screen illuminates her face, casting a glow in the dim morning light. Scrolling through her contacts, she finds the name she's looking for.

The call connects, and after a few rings, Rhodey's voice crackles through the line, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Rhodey," She greets, her tone businesslike, "I need information. Classified information."

He chuckles on the other end, his voice laced with a humor that has become synonymous with the man, "Classified, huh? You know I can't just hand out state secrets, right?"

"I need info on Operation Cerberus. You have access to classified documents. Dig into the archives for me," Mary retorts, her patience thinning,

There's a pause on the line, and then Rhodey's voice, tinged with sarcasm, comes back, "Operation Cerberus? Sounds like something out of a bad spy movie. What's your angle?"

Mary hesitates for a moment, choosing her words carefully, "Let's just say it's a personal matter."

"Personal, huh?" Rhodey's skepticism is evident, but there's a hint of curiosity in his voice, "You sure you're not getting yourself into trouble again?"

"I can handle trouble," She asserts, a steely determination cutting through her words.

Rhodey sighs on the other end, the sound crackling through the phone, "Alright, alright. Give me a sec."

Mary hears the faint tapping of keys, the distant hum of electronic devices. The seconds stretch into minutes, and just when impatience begins to creep in, Rhodey's voice returns, "I got nothing. Operation Cerberus doesn't ring a bell. You sure you got the right name?"

Mary's frustration simmers beneath the surface. She had hoped for a breakthrough, a lead that would guide her through the tangled web of secrets.

"I'm sure," She mutters, her mind racing for alternative routes.

"Listen," Rhodey's tone shifts to a more serious note, "If this is some off-the-books operation, it's not something I'm aware of. And I've been around long enough to have seen my fair share of classified missions."

Mary clenches her jaw, absorbing the setback, "Fine. Thanks, Rhodey."

"Just be careful, alright?" He advises, a genuine concern cutting through the layers of banter, "You're not invincible."

With the call coming to a close, Mary lets out a huff. She thought for sure that Rhodey would at least be able to steer her in the right direction, but Operation Cerberus isn't on the books.

Meaning the entire thing was dirty.

A surge of determination propels her forward. If classified documents and official channels won't yield answers, she'll have to dive into the murkier waters of the underworld. Operation Cerberus might not be in the official records, but the criminal underbelly has a way of retaining secrets that the government might want buried.

As the day progresses, Mary delves into the city's underworld, seeking out contacts and informants who might have heard whispers about Operation Cerberus. Darkened alleys and clandestine meetings become her new terrain, a stark contrast to the ballet studios and polished halls of power she once inhabited.

One name surfaces in the labyrinth of the criminal network – Armand 'The Snake' Vanko, a notorious information broker with a penchant for dealing in classified intel. Vanko's reputation precedes him, a slippery figure who has managed to elude both law enforcement and rival criminals.

Mary maneuvers through the city's gritty underbelly, her senses on high alert. The air is thick with the scent of desperation and deceit, a landscape where trust is a rare commodity. She reaches Vanko's known haunt, a dimly lit establishment with a flickering neon sign that reads 'The Serpent's Den.'

Entering the establishment, Mary's eyes scan the room. The air is heavy with the murmur of clandestine conversations, and the low hum of distant music adds to the ambiance of secrecy. She spots Vanko, a wiry figure with calculating eyes, seated at a corner table.

Approaching with caution, Mary takes a seat opposite him. Vanko regards her with a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with a predatory intelligence.

"Red Widow," He purrs, the moniker rolling off his tongue like a dark incantation, "What brings you to my den?"

"I need information," Mary replies, her voice a measured blend of assertiveness and caution, "Operation Cerberus. Heard of it?"

Vanko leans back, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table. A calculated pause stretches between them, and then he smirks, "Cerberus, huh? That's some deep-state shit. What's your interest, darling?"

Mary leans in, her gaze unwavering, "Personal."

Vanko chuckles, the sound grating on Mary's nerves, " These kinds of secrets usually come with a price, sweetheart."

Mary's jaw tightens, and she slides a small stack of bills across the table. Vanko eyes the money with a glint of greed before pocketing it.

"Good start," He says, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction, "Cerberus is a ghost operation, off the records. Even I had trouble digging into it. But there's a rumor, a whisper in the shadows."

Mary leans in further, her focus sharpening, "Tell me."

"The Red Room," Vanko murmurs, the words laden with intrigue, "Word is, they were involved. But you didn't hear it from me."

Mary's eyes narrow at Vanko's revelation. The Red Room, a specter she thought had been laid to rest, now emerges from the shadows to haunt her once again. The disbelief is etched on her face, a mixture of frustration and incredulity.

"The Red Room is gone," Mary asserts, her voice cutting through the din of the Serpent's Den. "It's been dead for years. It's impossible."

Vanko leans back, his smirk widening, "Impossible is just a word. The world is full of things you wouldn't believe. The Red Room might be dead to the public eye, but the whispers say otherwise."

Mary's mind races, grappling with the implications of Vanko's words. If the Red Room was involved in Operation Cerberus, it means the tendrils of her past are intertwined with a covert operation that goes beyond the boundaries of legality.

"What's their connection to Cerberus?" Mary demands, her tone cutting through the smoky air of the dimly lit establishment.

Vanko's grin widens, reveling in the unfolding drama, "Now, that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? The Red Room, they deal in secrets, in shadows. Maybe they were pulling the strings, or maybe they were just a piece of the puzzle. All I know is, Cerberus has some dark secrets, and the Red Room is right in the middle of it."

Mary clenches her fists beneath the table, the frustration building like a storm within her. The Red Room, an entity she thought she had escaped, now emerges as a player in a game with stakes higher than she could have imagined.

Without waiting for another word, Mary rises from the table, leaving a disgruntled Vanko in her wake. She exits the Serpent's Den, the gritty sounds of the city returning as she moves with purpose.

The designated meetup point Frank provided looms ahead, a garage on the outskirts of the city. The shadows cast by the dimming daylight play tricks on Mary's senses, each step echoing with the weight of impending revelations.

As she approaches the garage, a gnawing sense of dread creeps over her. The heavy metal door stands ajar, revealing a dimly lit interior. The scent of oil and metal hangs in the air, a familiar perfume that evokes memories of countless nights spent in similar spaces.

Mary steps inside cautiously, her senses on high alert. The echo of footsteps reverberates, and her eyes scan the surroundings. The garage, once a sanctuary for clandestine meetings, now takes on an ominous tone.

Then she sees him.

Frank lies on a cot, his body battered and bloodied. The harsh reality of his injuries sends a shock through Mary's system. She rushes to his side, her eyes widening at the sight of the blood seeping through his bandages.

" Goddamnit, Castle," She mutters to herself as she eyes his wounds.

He doesn't seem responsive. He's sweating, burning to the touch. His eyes are closed and brows are narrowed, as if he's stuck in a really bad dream.

The sound of a car approaching makes Mary spring into action. She pulls out her gun and points it at the car as two men step out.

" Who the hell are you?" She utters.

" Mary!" The man with curly hair exclaims," Holy shit, um... I-I'm Lieberman. David... Micro," then points to the man next to him," This is Curtis. He's here for Frank."

Mary very hesitantly puts her gun down and tucks in into her belt, allowing the men to lift Frank out of the cot and onto the cool steel table. She watches the man with an obvious military background dawn a pair of blue gloves and examine Frank as Liberman's eyes flicker back and forth between Frank and Mary. She listens to the man explain what's wrong with Frank, but more importantly, how to fix him.

The antibiotics won't work so long as the arrow is still embedded in his chest.

Lieberman looks as though he's about to faint, especially when he's told he'll have to keep Frank still.

" I'll do it," Mary sighs as she steps forward and removes her jacket," Just don't throw up."

" Yeah, I can't promise that," Lieberman says, wincing as he sees more blood spill out of Frank.

Mary's calloused hands grab onto Frank, her feet firmly planted on the ground as Lewis gets into position. She holds him on his side as Curtis works on Frank's back. The only way for the arrow to get out is for the arrow to get through, an unfortunate reality for Lieberman, who grasps onto the table as to not fall over.

" Lieberman..." Mary warns as she carefully eyes the man's face.

" Do not lose your shit," Curtis utters," Say it, say you will not lose your shit."

" I will not lose my shit," Lieberman repeats as the blade pierces Frank's skin.

Curtis begins digging for the arrow, the sound, smell and blood all making it very hard for Lieberman not to lose his shit. Mary's grip remains strong around Frank's body, her concern more so for Frank's wellbeing rather than the information she has learned.

With a pair of clamps, Curtis is able to pull out the arrow, his gloved hands now covered in blood. He gives Mary more gaze to keep the pressure on the wound before pouring some alcohol on Frank's back. Upon hearing the sounds of the stapler piercing through skin to close the wound, Lieberman becomes very lightheaded, the blood draining from his face as he stumbles backward.

Once the wound is cauterized, Curtis hands over the bottle of booze to Lieberman, who's more than happy to take a swig.

" You military?" Curtis asks as he turns to Mary.

" Something like that," She shrugs, before taking the bottle from Lieberman and forcing the liquid down her throat.

After some very awkward silence, the time for Curtis to leave comes. He leaves the garage to head back to his normal life.

" So, uh..." Lieberman trails as Frank now lays back in the cot," We haven't officially met yet."

" I know who you are, David," Mary assures," And I'm pretty sure you know who I am."

" I know about you," He corrects," But I don't know who you are."

" What do you want to know?" She asks.

" Uh..." Lieberman ponders," What's your... favorite color?"

" My favorite color? Really? What are we, five?" Mary scoffs.

Lieberman chuckles nervously, the tension in the room momentarily lightened by the awkward exchange. Mary rolls her eyes but can't help a small, almost imperceptible smile. The familiarity of banter, even in the midst of chaos, feels strangely comforting.

" Look," She sighs," I'm just here for Frank."

" Got it," He nods," So, uh... you wanna take turns--"

" How about you just get some sleep so I can have a moment of silence, yeah?" Mary offers.

Lieberman, taking the very obvious hint, puts his hands up and makes his way over to his makeshift bed, giving Mary the silence she needs as her attention turns back to Frank.

Throughout his time spent unconscious and recovering, Mary and Lieberman do in fact take turns. One of them changes Frank's bandages, and then the next one does. One of them changes the IV, and then the next one does.

It isn't until Mary goes out for a grocery run when Frank finally wakes up, panicking and asking about Gunner, only for his heart to sink once Lieberman says that he's already been burried.

He knocks out once more, just in time for Mary to return with the food. Lieberman excitedly digs through the bags, ready to make another sandwich as Mary sticks with a granola bar, before heading over to Frank and taking a seat next to him as he sleeps.

As the night wears on, Mary continues her silent watch over Frank. The soft glow of the garage lights casts shadows on his face, a canvas that holds the traces of a tumultuous journey. In the quiet interlude between chaos and the unknown, Mary finds herself grappling with the nuances of her own vulnerabilities.

When Frank finally stirs awake, the hushed ambiance of the garage gives way to the weight of untold stories. His eyes, a mirror to a tumultuous past, meet Mary's in a moment of quiet recognition. The air, charged with the unspoken, becomes a conduit for the uncharted territory they find themselves navigating.

"Mary," Frank's voice is a raspy whisper, a timbre that cuts through the silence.

"I'm here," Mary replies, her tone a blend of reassurance and caution.

Frank's gaze lingers on her, a silent acknowledgment of the shared history that binds them. In the quiet exchange, the complexities of their connection become a palpable force, an undercurrent that defies the confines of words.

"How long?" Frank's question hangs in the air, a request for clarity in the face of the blurred timeline between consciousness and unconsciousness.

"Few days," Mary answers, her eyes holding a mixture of concern and relief, "You took a hit. Arrow in the chest."

Frank winces at the mental image, the fragments of memory slotting into place. The garage, the makeshift operation, the pain – it all comes rushing back.

"Arrow..." He mutters, more to himself than to Mary, the gravity of the situation settles into the lines of his furrowed brow.

"Yeah, a close call," Mary admits, her voice a soft reassurance, "But you're here, you're awake."

Frank's gaze intensifies as he studies Mary, as if searching for something beneath the surface. The silence between them, pregnant with unspoken truths, becomes a bridge between the fractured pieces of their shared past.

" You want some dinner?" She asks, to which Frank nods.

She helps him sit up, then grabs a simple back button-up that she helps him put on. He musters up the strength to button up his shirt, before he grabs onto Mary's hands and rises up from the bed. The two join Lieberman in the poor excuse of a kitchen, where they're given a choice of a frozen dinner.

And Frank picks the turkey.

" At Thanksgiving, your house..." Frank trails as he picks at his food," do you cook or is that your wife?"

" No, we go half and half," Lieberman responds," I'm on the turkey. Sarah does all the sides. Stuffing, twice-baked potato. Amazing. I mean, we always have a lot of people... extended family, you know, friends, and we were just, like, 50-50. We make... We made a good team."

" Maria always cooked," Frank utters," Yeah, it was... it was old-school. Turkey, all that, but... There was always ziti. Meatballs, sauce. Her, uh... her grandma came over from Sicily, so she...she knew what she was doing. You know something... if I close my eyes right now, I could... I could see her. I mean... like, I see her. It's always something simple, you know. Like...like, standing in the kitchen, talking on the phone and... and, uh... if there was ever any music, like, it could be coming from anywhere, she'd...she'd just start moving to it, you know. Boy, she could dance. Sometimes she would, uh... She'd catch me looking at her. Yeah. I don't know, we were, uh... we were far from perfect, but... when I remember her, it's like all the shitty stuff, it fades away, you know, it just... When I think about her, she's always got that smile, you know?"

The room comes to a silence after Frank's words, the weight of them settling on shoulders. Mary looks down at her frozen dinner, her mind able to imagine what Frank's happy family must have looked like, what his life looked like before everything went to shit. It pulls at her heart strings, for it's a life she's never had, and never will be able to.

" What about you, Mary?" Lieberman asks," What does your Thanksgiving look like?"

Mary lifts her head, eyes blinking before she comes up with a response," I've never had a Thanksgiving before."

Frank's gaze lingers on Mary, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and realization. The revelation, a glimpse into the fragments of Mary's untold story, adds another layer to the complexities that bind them.

"Never?" Frank's voice carries a note of incredulity, as if grappling with the concept of someone never experiencing the traditional Thanksgiving festivities.

Mary shrugs, her nonchalance belying the nuances of her history, "It wasn't exactly a holiday I celebrated growing up. And after... well, life took a different turn."

Frank's brow furrows, a silent acknowledgment of the weight carried by Mary's words. The makeshift kitchen, bathed in the glow of a single overhead light, becomes a backdrop for the unraveling threads of their shared narratives.

" Christmas, then?" Lieberman asks.

" I had a few of those," Mary nods," It's celebrated on the 7th of January, some Eastern Orthodox thing. We'd have 12 dishes during our sviata vecheria. I, uh, would sing songs with the other kids in my school. We'd have these giant parades, all throughout the streets. And everything was just..." she trails, her eyes unblinking as her mind recalls the distant memories," good."

Lieberman listens with a thoughtful expression, absorbing the fragments of Mary's past like pieces of a puzzle. The trio, brought together by circumstances that transcend their control, finds themselves in a moment of shared vulnerability.

The room, touched by the weight of their stories, falls into a contemplative silence. The frozen dinners, a far cry from the festive feasts they reminisce about, become symbols of a reality that contrasts with the warmth of their recollections.

" So, your friend, uh..." Lieberman clears his throat, "He's, uh... he's serious, Frank. He's a... you know, private military contractor now. Connected. Government contracts overseas. This guy is... I got the impression that this is not a man that's gonna reach out to you unless he knows that you're alive."

" No, he doesn't know," Frank shakes his head," He might suspect it, but he doesn't know."

" Maybe somebody else knows that you're..." Lieberman trails," alive, and they're using Billy..."

" Something you need to understand," Frank interjects," I had two families, all right? I had Maria, I had the kids, and I had my unit. I was a father and a husband, but I was also a Marine. And I loved being a Marine. I loved that shit. And look, I... There were times, whether I wanna admit it or not, but I would've rather been neck deep in blood and bullets and shit and be with my unit
than with my kids. That's something I gotta make peace with. That's what that is. But me and Billy Russo, we served together, we did eight years. He got my back, I got his back. Billy Russo is my family."

But it doesn't mean that Billy Russo will stop trying. He keeps sending the signal over the radio, calling for Raven from Blackbird. He goes to the Veteran's meeting to find Curtis, continuing to snoop around in something he shouldn't. Curtis comes back to the garage, saying he lied for Frank, but that the truth won't be able to stay hidden for very long.

Billy's words are that of a plea, saying he can and will help Frank, but it falls upon deaf ears, for Frank isn't willing to drag his best friend into this mess.

Mary becomes the only person saying Billy Russo should be left out of this, for now even Lieberman advises Frank to talk to the man, which, of course, he does.

Alas, Mary never got the name of the man she danced with at the gala, so how could she possibly know that Frank's very best friend just happens to be that man?

To her, Billy Russo and the man at the gala are two separate entities.

Operation Cerberus was a front for drug trafficking, and Gunner Henderson found out, a man who is now six feet under. Frank hopes that by shedding some light onto their past, Billy may help find some answers.

Only as the two men speak to each other, dressed in all black, standing by the river, one has the upper hand. One of them not only knows about the drug trafficking in full... but knows about the human trafficking as well. And one of them was hoping that the other would have stayed dead.

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦