Russian Nights

Anya's breath caught. The dream she never voiced aloud. The one she'd nearly stamped out a hundred times. "Normal?" The word felt strange on her tongue. Rusty with disuse. Could it even exist for them?

Heather's chuckle was soft, tinged with understanding. "As close as we can manage. Maybe. Quiet mornings. Dinner without coded messages and fake passports. Anna and Hannah..." Her voice hitched. "They deserve real names, a real childhood. Not this..."

Anya's fingers found Heather's, their hands a silent promise in the dark. "Maybe," she whispered, the word catching in her throat, "just maybe...we can do this."

They didn't disappear completely, not into this quiet Scandinavian town. Anya's hands, once trained for killing, now healed. A small clinic, a meager attempt at balance. Heather's camera clicked and whirred, capturing the stark beauty of their new home. But the lens was more than art; it was a watchman, ever searching for ghosts in the gathering dusk. They built a life, brick by careful brick, whispering hope into the spaces between. Because true peace, they knew, was a war they'd fight every single day.

Theirs was a life fought for. Tooth and nail, and now it was theirs to hold. Anya and Heather, not spies anymore. Not targets, just two women with hands clasped so tight their knuckles ached. The scent of coffee brewing. The quiet ticking of a clock -- these were the spoils of their war. The mundane miracles that felt like their greatest victory.