Chapter Text
Grand Palais
The pulse of the music was like a second heartbeat, louder than the one she was trying to quiet in her chest. The White Widow’s party was a living, breathing thing: decadent, dangerous, and humming with veiled threats. Paris had always dressed its crimes in silk and candlelight.
Ilsa Faust moved like a shadow along the edges of the main hall, her eyes constantly scanning, calculating. There were too many players here, too many layers. Somewhere in this web was John Lark, a ghost, a myth, a trigger for the chaos everyone else wanted to prevent or provoke. Her mission was simple in theory: find him, keep him alive. But nothing about tonight felt simple.
And then she saw him.
It hit her like a tremor beneath her skin. The shape of his shoulders first, then the familiar, steady gait. That couldn’t be—
But it was.
Ethan Hunt.
Her breath caught, and for the briefest moment, time held still. Two years had passed since that cold London garage, since the embrace she hadn’t realized she needed until she felt the warmth of him again. She had walked away to protect them both, or maybe to protect herself, but seeing him now, moving through the party with the same quiet intensity, stirred something she thought she’d buried.
A friend?
Something more?
Something much more complicated.
She drew in a breath and exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. There was comfort in knowing he was here. If Ethan was chasing Lark, then the world was tipping on the edge again, and somehow, that made everything feel clearer.
But he wasn’t alone.
Trailing just behind him was a man she didn’t recognize: tall, precise, with the coiled posture of someone trained to follow and strike. An American, maybe military or CIA. Intelligence, definitely. Ilsa clocked the way his eyes moved, always scanning, always on edge. A watchdog. She didn’t like him.
Ilsa allowed herself to drift closer, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. The music swelled and the lights shifted, but her focus stayed locked. Ethan and the unknown man cut through the throng, then disappeared through the doorway marked Homme.
She hesitated.
If Ethan was walking into that bathroom, he wasn’t just looking for Lark, he was about to find him. And if that was true, then Ilsa was suddenly walking a much tighter line. Her mission: protect Lark. Ethan’s? Almost certainly, stop him.
She moved after them.
Not quickly, just enough to keep her face in shadow, her footsteps soundless beneath the thud of bass and murmuring voices. As she neared the door, her pulse began to rise. Not from fear.
From certainty.
Because she knew Ethan.
And she knew, whether she wanted it or not, their paths were about to collide again.
The bathroom reeked of gunpowder and blood.
Ilsa stood still for a moment, the gun still warm in her hand, her breath shallow. John Lark, no, the man who had claimed to be him, lay crumpled against the sink, a single shot neatly centered in his forehead. Too clean. Too final. The instant she pulled the trigger, she’d known it was a mistake. Not in killing him, he’d been a threat, but in the way it was done. A headshot. The face ruined. The mask, impossible now.
Damn it.
Ethan had already gone, slipping the man’s bracelet onto his wrist and vanishing into the electric haze of the White Widow’s gathering. Ilsa’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t listened. Or perhaps he had, and simply chosen to walk into danger anyway.
Of course he had.
Because that’s who he is.
She stepped forward, standing over the wreckage Ethan and his watchdog, he had introduced himself as Walker, had caused, her eyes flickering over the damage.
“We needed him alive,” she muttered bitterly. That had been the mission. Her mission. Her ticket home.
But she hadn’t hesitated, not when she’d seen Lark pointing the gun right at Ethan. She had chosen him.
Now she had to live with that choice.
Behind her, Walker crouched by the body, his face impassive. “I’ll take care of this,” he said gruffly.
Ilsa didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just turned.
The door was still swinging shut from where Ethan had left.
She wanted to scream. Wanted to shout after him, drag him back, shake him by the shoulders and tell him everything, about Lane, about MI6’s bargain, about the invisible noose tightening around his neck the moment he stepped into that party wearing Lark’s identity.
There were assassins here. Professionals. The kind who didn’t miss and didn’t ask questions. If they believed Ethan was Lark…
Ilsa drew in a slow, shaking breath and lifted her chin.
She moved quickly now, her stride smooth and fluid as she stepped out of the bathroom and into the strobe-drenched corridors of the party. The thump of bass rattled through her bones, echoing like a countdown. Ethan was already halfway across the floor, weaving through the velvet shadows and gilded predators who prowled the party’s edge.
Her eyes tracked him. Always him.
She moved closer. He didn’t turn, but somehow, she knew he felt her presence. That invisible thread that always tugged them together had tightened.
She reached him just as the room began to close in around them, a wall of champagne flutes, strangers, and soft, dangerous smiles. Her hand moved without hesitation, slipping past his wrist where John Lark’s bracelet gleamed as it was scanned.
Too obvious, she thought.
Without a word, she put her hand over his, her bracelet likewise scanned. It was a quiet gesture, one no one else would notice, but in her language, it screamed volumes.
He glanced down, then up at her, something flickering behind his eyes. Gratitude. Understanding. Concern.
She said nothing. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not here.
The lights flared. The music shifted.
Together, Ilsa and Ethan stepped into the lion’s den.
Streets of Paris
The impact was a thunderclap, sudden, punishing, and absolute.
The world twisted sideways as her motorcycle bucked beneath her, then flung her onto the unforgiving Parisian pavement. Pain splintered through her shoulder as she rolled hard, skidding across the stone like a rag doll, the breath knocked clean from her lungs.
Everything rang.
She forced her eyes open, disoriented, teeth clenched against the sting in her leg. A scream of rubber on road cut through the din, Ethan's car swerving away in a haze of smoke and exhaust. The same car she’d just emptied a magazine into.
He hit me.
He bloody hit me.
Ilsa groaned as she rolled onto her knees, dragging herself behind a row of parked scooters to shield her from prying eyes. Her leather jacket was torn, the exposed skin beneath burning with friction and bruises that would bloom dark and deep by morning. Her left thigh throbbed, angry and swelling. Not broken, but it would slow her down.
She spat out dust and rage in equal measure. “Damn you, Ethan…”
He’d driven right at her. Full force. No hesitation.
And yet—
She slumped back against the wall, breathing hard. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached down to assess her thigh, just a graze, maybe dislocated tissue. Manageable. She’d had worse.
Her mind reeled back to the moment before impact: how she’d raised the gun, lined up her shot. The window had been there. Lane, exposed in the passenger seat, restrained but vulnerable. The bullet went clean through, but missed.
That moment of hesitation.
And then Ethan had seen her. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal.
And he’d driven straight at her.
Ilsa closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cold stone, letting the truth sting more than the scrapes on her skin.
He didn’t do it to stop her. Not really.
He did it to save Lane.
His mission. Always the mission.
But that didn’t lessen the betrayal. Not entirely.
She had her orders: kill Lane.
But Ethan was a creature of impossible hope, always choosing the narrow, winding path that let everyone live. Even monsters.
Even Lane.
She clenched her fists.
She wanted to hate him for it. She should hate him for it.
But instead, all she felt was the ache of understanding. The same ache that had plagued her since Vienna, since Casablanca, since London. The ache of knowing him too well. Of knowing that he hadn’t just seen a target, he’d seen her. And he couldn’t let her pull that trigger.
Goddamn him.
Her anger softened, against her will. Like it always did. Because whatever else they were, allies, obstacles, shadows passing in the night, Ethan Hunt was the only person who had ever looked at her, seen the weight she carried, and chosen to carry some of it with her.
Even if it meant driving a car into her.
Ilsa pushed off the wall, wincing as she straightened her leg. Her body screamed in protest, but her mind was already moving ahead.
Ethan was on the run. With Lane. He’d be boxed in soon, with half the city chasing him: CIA, local police, the Apostles. She had to move. She wasn’t out of this game yet.
She limped toward the alley’s mouth, blending into the flow of foot traffic as sirens began to wail in the distance.
She could still finish this.
And if Ethan wanted to stop her again, well, he’d better be prepared to hit her harder next time.
Medical Camp Near the Siachen Glacier (Kashmir)
The clang of the stolen plutonium from the bomb still echoed in her ears.
Ilsa stood in the cold, high air of Kashmir, the wind kicking dust over the scorched earth. A mushroom cloud hadn’t risen. The world hadn’t ended. Somewhere, billions of people were carrying on with their lives, blissfully unaware of how close they’d come to annihilation.
But Ethan wasn’t here.
The moment the final bomb had gone offline, she’d turned, searching, scanning the craggy ridgelines above. Nothing. No radio. No signal. Just the last transmission he’d choked out over comms before cutting off.
He’d pulled the switch.
And now he was gone.
She spotted Erika Sloan emerging from one of the arriving helicopters, wrapped in a black coat like she hadn’t just waited for the world to stop burning before bothering to show up. Surrounded by aides, barking orders, clipboard in hand, playing the cleanup act now that the day had been saved.
Ilsa stormed toward her without hesitation.
“Director Sloan!”
Erika barely turned. “Agent Faust. I’ve been informed the situation is under control. Congratulations.”
Ilsa didn’t slow down. “We don’t know that.”
Sloan arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Ethan Hunt is still out there. In those mountains. No comms. No tracker. For God’s sake, he pulled the switch with seconds left, and he hasn’t come back.” Her voice rose, heated and unrestrained, eyes flashing. “You will send out a search team. A helicopter. Now.”
Sloan blinked, thrown off balance by the fury in Ilsa’s voice. The calm, precise MI6 operative had always played her part with poise and restraint. This wasn’t that version. This was a woman raw with fear, with desperation buried beneath the thin shell of command.
“You seem… very certain he’s still alive,” Sloan said carefully.
Ilsa’s jaw tightened. “Because he is.”
It wasn’t a guess.
It wasn’t hope.
It was Ethan.
Sloan paused. For a moment, something in her expression softened. Then, with a nod to one of the waiting agents, she spoke into her radio. “Deploy the secondary chopper. Grid sweep, full thermal. I want every damn ridge covered.”
Ilsa didn’t say thank you. She just turned away and walked back toward the field, where Benji and Luther stood beside a tent, their shoulders slumped, eyes distant. Survivors of too many endings.
Benji tried a smile when he saw her coming. “So, how’s our favorite government bureaucrat? Still as warm and cuddly as ever?”
“Colder,” Ilsa said. “If that’s even possible.”
Luther huffed. “She’s not the one that just jumped off a mountain with a nuclear detonator in hand.”
“Fair,” Benji muttered, his voice cracking despite the quip. He looked out over the ridge, hands fidgeting. “He’ll make it. He always does.”
Ilsa folded her arms tightly, trying to suppress the shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. “This time was different.”
“Yeah,” Luther said quietly. “But so is he.”
Minutes passed like hours. The wind was louder now, choppers circling overhead, scanning the wilderness.
And then—
The distant whup-whup of rotors grew louder. A grey helicopter crested the ridge, angling toward the clearing. It descended slowly, carefully, dust kicking up in a storm around its landing skids.
They all froze.
Ilsa’s heart climbed into her throat. Her eyes locked on the side doors as they swung open.
A gurney was being lowered.
Benji took a half-step forward and stopped. “No…”
Then he saw the movement. A weak, unmistakable lift of a bruised hand. A medic calling for help. A hoarse voice, Ethan’s voice, croaking something no one could hear, but everyone felt.
He was alive.
Battered. Bloodied. Barely upright.
But alive.
Ilsa’s breath hitched. Her knees nearly buckled. She hadn’t even realized the tears had come until she tasted the salt on her lips. They spilled freely now, warm on her wind-chilled cheeks, carving lines down her dust-streaked face.
Benji and Luther looked at her, both surprised and quiet, giving her the space. The silence.
They had never seen Ilsa cry.
And neither of them said a word.
Ethan was being wheeled out fast, medics flanking him as he was rushed toward the nearest field tent. His face, half-covered in dried blood and sweat, still managed a ghost of a smile as he caught a glimpse of them all.
But Ilsa didn’t wait.
She broke into a sprint, pushing past Luther, Benji, and a dozen uniformed strangers. Her coat flared behind her like wings as she tore across the field, lungs burning, heart pounding.
She wasn’t letting him out of her sight again.