Only when she put out her cigarette, did she regret it.

The nights were cold in Zurich this time of the year. The air became stagnant and foggy, the lanterns and hanging lights becoming posts for wandering souls. Couples huddled close together, laughing and keeping each other close, and Angela found that's where the light shone brightest. In those stolen smiles, the borrowed kisses and shared hot chocolates.

Even if she had only stopped working for a break, she didn't want to leave the balcony just yet. She was waiting, hoping, walking a tightrope that would end into a great unknown, if sleep didn't take her before that.

If she looked behind her, the paperwork she had sought out had not decreased in her eyes. The missionary forms and reports were getting bigger and bigger, and she hated filling them out. Her place was with them, not reporting to the UN what good could possibly come from saving a human—or omnic—life. Along with those letters were news clippings, ones she held out for her memory to preserve: Overwatch's recall and reinstallation, Hana Song's successful charity drive, Doomfist's escape from prison. Tiny things, but important ones nonetheless.

She was on leave from the newly reinstated Overwatch facilities in Gibraltar, after insisting that she had too much to do and that people needed her. It was true, of course, but that wasn't why she had left. She had been glad to be free—free of the people who had caused so much conflict, so much war. They had stopped some—lest her forget King's Row way back when—but, she had always wondered, how would the world be if Overwatch hadn't stepped in?

She let out a breath. Talon would have destroyed it, a side of her chided. The Reaper, the Hacker, and now their fresh out of prison Leader would have made the world nothing but ash. She could never forget Winston's voice, the rage that danced in his tone, when he spoke about the man with the skull mask and shotguns. It was as if something had snapped inside him, and that pure, absolute justice that Overwatch was so full of seemed to explode, wanting to destroy anything they considered wrong. Null Sector, Talon, and Vishkar were—are—monsters, but is that all?

"Angela."

She does not turn for the voice. She does not want to acknowledge it. Insects are shrill, sneaky creatures. Their prey does not stand a chance.

"Darling, sweet, beautiful Angela. Have I done something to upset you?"

Mercy keeps looking beyond, over the city lights, to the thin line where the land meets the sky. She's better than this, she doesn't need this. But instead—

Cold, precise hands circle her waist and travel her body. She doesn't flinch away. She never has. This was a web she had traveled before, one she had thrown herself into on purpose. The spider's breath is hot on her neck, and she leans into her, complacent, wanting.

"Widowmaker, please, just go—"

"So, it's Widowmaker tonight? Where is that tenderness, the sweet girl who says my name while she gasps, Amélie, Amélie?"

She had fooled herself that way for so long. She wasn't sleeping with the cold, ruthless assassin, but with the ballerina, the quiet and smart woman whom had been her friend long before this. The beautiful dancer, who flew around the stage, twirling and twirling and glowing like the only star she had ever seen. Amélie had been the bouquet at the end of the show, red and striking and pretty.

How many times had she taken the spider to bed, convincing herself that it was the other one? That it was her old friend? Too many, but not all of them.

Widowmaker's hands became devilish. They pulled her inside and closed the door behind her. The apartment was blazing hot compared to the cold winds outside. And with that woman inside her house, it was no surprise.

She wore a black coat over her usual attire, no doubt as a precaution for the cold and for the guards that were hunting her day and night. Europe had not forgotten Mondatta, and neither had she. Even now, as her hands were still at her sides, they trembled.

I will never hurt you, she had once said. You are my favorite toy, mon ange.

The games they played where ruthless. How many missions had she spotted a sniper on top of a roof, aiming at her, but missing ever so slightly, just enough to draw blood. The spider tended to those wounds personally those same nights.

Angela couldn't say a word. What would happen? Would she be thrown into jail for compliance, for sleeping with a killer? The world needed her, and she needed the killer to keep her alive. Because she no longer craved the dancer, the lover, the human being.

No, she only wanted the spider.

As if sensing her thoughts, Amélie smiled. "Are you afraid?"

She didn't reply. Widowmaker stepped up closer, bodies against each other, and Mercy backed away, slowly. But she was insistent, and the wall was at her back in a second. It didn't help that she was so beautiful. Golden eyes, full lips, and—oh, lord, please forgive me.

Widowmaker had tried to recruit her once. A morning after, with Mercy's self-loathing at its peak. Running down a slim, nerve-wracking finger down her back, she whispered. "Be with me. Join me. Our time together would be so much more fun."

Because that was all it was. This woman felt nothing, nothing, other than blind desire. What did she see in her, a matted, worn-out doctor? What made her pin her to the wall like this? A part of her still hoped—foolish thing—that it was the ballerina, not the killer.

Angela's hands found Amélie's sides.

They were a devastating force of nature, one that would either destroy her or everyone else. And she was okay with that. She felt guilt, but she was okay with that. The spider made her feel like fire, and she would indulge herself, no matter what.

"I have never been afraid of you."

After all, Hell is just a place. She has been through worse.

The spider smiled into her mouth. Then there was nothing, and everything.