Page 37 of Forbidden

Morgan rose, feeling Derik's presence beside her, a silent bulwark against the tide of bureaucracy and unspoken reproach. They exited the office, the door closing behind them with a soft click that felt like closure and condemnation all at once.

Morgan stepped out of Mueller's office, the weight of his words tethering her to a reality she wished she could escape. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, a dull metronome to the cacophony of activity around her. She could feel the eyes of other agents on her—some with respect, others with the morbid curiosity that tragedy always seemed to breed. But Morgan felt none of the victory they ascribed to her; inside, there was only a hollow space where relief should have been.

She made her way to her office, passing the everyday bustle of the FBI headquarters, the urgency and purpose of it all feeling alien. The clatter of keyboards, the shuffle of papers, the fragments of overheard conversations—it was all just noise against the backdrop of Elliott Crane's final, fatal decision.

Reaching her sanctuary, Morgan shut the door with a soft click that reverberated louder in her ears than the closing had any right to. She leaned back against the solid wood, letting the coolness seep through her blazer. Here, in this small room lined with case files and commendations, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability.

Elliott's face haunted her—the moment his eyes had met hers across the void, the abyss not just of space but of unbridgeable understanding. She replayed the scene: his figure outlined against the stark night sky, the wind pulling at his clothes like a harbinger of the fall to come. His fractured psyche, laid bare in those last seconds, was the deepest wound—his belief that he could reverse time and reunite with his brother so palpable it nearly convinced her too.

Morgan's hands clenched into fists at her sides. It wasn't supposed to end this way. In her mind, justice was absolute, clean, uncompromising. It did not factor in the tortuous paths of human sorrow or the demons that drove men like Elliott to the edge of sanity. She had wanted to save him from himself as much as she wanted to stop him, maybe more. But the world didn't bend for wants or maybes.

The silence of her office pressed in on her, an oppressive force that sought to squeeze the air from her lungs. She pushed away from the door and moved to sit behind her desk, but the chair offered no comfort. The leather was cold and unyielding—a reflection of the seat of judgment she felt trapped in.

The case was closed, the file would be stamped and stored away, but the ghosts would linger. They always did. Every time she thought she could move past one, another would rise, a specter of doubt and regret. Morgan Cross knew the cost of her job, measured not in accolades or successful prosecutions, but in these silent moments when the soul reckoned with itself.

Alone in her office, surrounded by the trophies of a career built on unmasking monsters, Morgan confronted the one adversary she had no protocol for—her own conscience. The fight was far from over, but today, the battlefield was internal, the enemy, invisible. And in the quiet aftermath of an ended pursuit, the emotional toll etched itself deeper into her being, a scar upon a scarred heart.

Morgan's door creaked open, a sliver of the bustling office noise seeping into her quiet refuge. Derik stepped through, his silhouette momentarily framed by the fluorescent lights of the corridor before he closed the door behind him. He moved with a deliberate calmness that always seemed to counterbalance the chaos of their profession. His eyes found hers, green and steady, offering silent solace.

He crossed the room, every footstep a measured beat in the stillness, and claimed the chair beside her desk. It scraped lightly against the floor, the sound a tangible reminder that he was there, in this space that felt too small for the weight of everything they carried. He sat down, allowing the silence to stretch between them, a shared moment of respite from the demands waiting outside.

When at last they turned towards each other, words began to flow, heavy with the burden of what had transpired. They spoke of Elliott, the case that had unraveled so quickly and ended so tragically. Derik's voice was gentle, but it carried the weight of undeniable truth.

"Elliott lost himself to grief," Morgan said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "It twisted him until he couldn't see past his own pain."

"His mind was a maze with no way out," Derik agreed. "All roads led back to his brother. You could see it in his eyes—there was nothing left but that one desperate hope."

She nodded, feeling the truth of it settle in her chest like a stone. The world could be relentlessly cruel, snatching away the light and leaving only darkness in its wake. Elliott Crane had been devoured by that darkness, his actions monstrous yet rooted in an all-too-human agony. Death had driven him to the edge, and beyond it, in search of a miracle that would never come.

Morgan leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking under the shift of her weight. Her gaze lingered on Derik, finding a quiet comfort in his presence. They were both too familiar with the shadowy corners of the human soul—the places where loss and despair festered, turning grief into something unrecognizable.

"It's hard, knowing he saw no other way." Her voice was a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. "Elliott's pain was real, even if his solution wasn't."

"Real and dangerous," Derik added softly, acknowledging the tightrope they walked between empathy and duty. "We stopped him, Morgan. That's what matters."

"Stopped him from hurting others," she conceded, her thoughts trailing off. Her heart ached for Elliott Crane, the man who had fallen so far in his quest to undo the irreversible. She couldn't condone his actions, but she could mourn the broken soul behind them.

Morgan felt Derik's hand on her shoulder, a silent permission to unravel just a bit within the sanctuary of his understanding. With a heavy sigh, she leaned into his embrace, her arms wrapping around him in a mutual need for solace. His chest was a steady wall against the tumult of emotions churning inside her.

"Thank you," she murmured, allowing herself this moment of vulnerability. Derik's hold tightened, a wordless vow that he was there, as he had always been, even when shadows threatened to swallow them whole.

"Always, Morgan," he replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. She could feel the echo of his own heartache in the grip of his arms—a silent acknowledgment of the shared burden they carried. They were two agents who had seen too much, yet still clung to the fragments of humanity within each other.

Derik's presence was a lifeline, a warm contrast to the cold demands of their profession. In the brief refuge of their hug, the blurred lines between right and wrong, the relentless pursuit of justice, all faded into the background. It was just Morgan and Derik against the world.

As if summoned by some cruel twist of fate, the shrill ring of Morgan's phone sliced through the quiet, pulling them back into reality. Reluctance etched across her face as she unwound from Derik's arms to answer the call that would inevitably yank them from the small comfort they had found.

"Thomas," she mouthed with a frown, her gut twisting at the sight of the name flashing on the screen. Derik's eyes narrowed, a spark of protectiveness flaring up as he recognized the source of Morgan's apprehension.

"Be careful," he cautioned, his words barely audible but laden with concern.

With a deep breath, bracing herself against the flood of unease, Morgan tapped the answer button. "Grady," she greeted curtly, her tone guarded, ready to parry whatever verbal sparring Thomas might throw her way. Her fingers gripped the phone, betraying the tension that Thomas's name alone brought surging to the surface.

“Hello, Morgan,” Thomas said. “Always good to talk to you.”

“What do you want?”

“I have some information on Cordell you might want to hear. We should meet—our usual spot.”

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