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Her hands still have blood on them.

The house is in one piece, the bomb in the Jeep was dismantled in time, and she has blood on her hands from Sarkissian's body and his henchman. She had been waiting for them. She had known they would be there and instead of letting them chain her up and beat John, she'd been waiting for them with a weapon and all the rage of a mother protecting her child.

And now, she has blood on her hands and she stares down at the stain, unable to process anything around her. Not John, not Derek, not even the men from the island who are impossibly there. She just can't...

She can't process this. Not yet. She's done a lot of things, but this is the first time she has blood on her hands from a direct kill. It's her first.

And it hadn't even been the machines.

She has human blood on her hands and she's not sure if she's done the right thing.

Out of all the things she's ever expected of her life, being torn away from a surgical table and brought to an Island isn't one of them. Another thing she doesn't expect is to close her eyes in sleep one day and wake up in a familiar alleyway with a gun in her hands and John being held hostage.

It all goes the same, it all progresses exactly the same. Derek is there and the child is whimpering and then the man pretending to be Sarkissian is shot and John is in her arms. It's different, though, it's different because she hasn't seen John in too long and she remembers the last time they were separated this long.

She won't let go, she refuses, even when out of the corner of her eye she sees faces that, by all rights, shouldn't be there. "John," she says, holding him closer than before. "John, I love you," she says like it's a command, like he needs to respond. "Are you okay?"