Start again. Wipe everything.
If that nightmare was reality, what Maeve had inflicted on me was nothing. A papercut compared to the systematic destruction I’d endured at the hands of my handlers. For how long? It was impossible to say. For now, at least, all I knew was that I needed to find out more.
I watched as she gathered a few things around us, movements efficient despite her obvious fatigue. The poker chip she’d found in my pocket sat on the small table. I picked it up, turning it over between my fingers. The weight felt right. Familiar in a way I couldn’t articulate.
Red. Worn around the edges. Casino markings partially obscured by years of handling. Not standard equipment for any mission I could recall. Yet I knew its weight, its texture, the exact sound it made when flipped across knuckles.
Memory or implanted familiarity?
“I believe you,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Not because they were a lie, but because belief—real belief, not tactical assessment—wasn’t part of my operational parameters. Something in me had shifted, a fault line cracking open where there should have been only solid ground.
The words cost me. Admitting doubt about my own reality violated every protocol and triggered warning signalsthroughout my body. My hand trembled slightly—an operational malfunction I’d never experienced before.
Maeve’s eyes widened slightly, her lips parting with an intake of breath. The wariness that had been etched into her features softened, though not completely—she was too smart for that. Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly before she steadied them against her thigh.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. She held my gaze without flinching, something few people managed to do. “We will find answers… for you and my brother. I feel it.” The conviction in her tone wasn’t blind hope—it was the same stubborn determination I’d seen when she had stood her ground despite my threats. From the fractured memories still deposited in my head, one thing was for certain—there was no way she could do it alone. If what she had said was true, then I was far more skilled—and far bigger than her physically—and they had still managed to break me. They’d kill her before she could even say a single word. She had done well so far…but the closer she got to uncovering the truth, the higher the stakes would be.
And I needed to be there by her side when it happened.
“What happens when we find answers I don’t want to hear?” The question emerged unbidden.
A painful expression crossed her face. “Sometimes the truth hurts before it heals.”
“And if I’m worse than what they made me? If Reaper is the improved version?” I tilted my head.
“Then we address that when we know for certain. But I don’t believe it.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No,” she acknowledged with a shrug. “I can’t. But I’ve seen how they operate. They don’t take good men. They take the ones who are already lethal and make them obedient.”
If Maeve was right, every mission I’d ever completed was based on a lie. Every kill had served masters who had stolen not just my name, but my entire existence.
The thought sent a wave of nausea through me, twisting my gut like someone had shoved a knife between my ribs and twisted. I’d always been certain—about targets, about protocols, about my purpose. Now my mind felt like quicksand, shifting and unstable beneath me. I didn’t recognize this hesitation, this doubt. It was foreign territory, and I hated every second of it.
My temples throbbed with a steady, drilling pain that intensified whenever I pushed at the edges of what I thought I knew. Questions formed, and my vision blurred. Simple things—Where had I been last month? Who had I been before?—sent spikes of agony through my skull that nearly brought me to my knees.
I wasn’t built for uncertainty. Operatives like me executed. We didn’t question. We didn’t doubt. We didn’t stand frozen, caught between two versions of reality, unable to trust our own memories.
Yet here I was, paralyzed by the possibility that everything—every kill, every mission, every memory—had been carefully constructed by someone else’s hand.
Nothing was certain…except for one aspect of my life right now.Her.
Forcing the thought away, I needed to move.
As I holstered the weapon, my gaze fell on Maeve. She was checking her phone, grabbing a water bottle, and sliding it into her bag. Something unexpected tugged inside my chest—a protective instinct I recognized as dangerous. I’d never protected targets. I eliminated them.
“Ready?” she asked, zipping her bag.
I nodded, then hesitated. “If we’re walking into a trap, stay behind me.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“Always.” I adjusted my holster. “But if your informant is legitimate, he might have the evidence we need.”
As we prepared to leave, another message from Brock vibrated against my thigh. The persistent reminder of what I was walking away from—the only life I could remember. I had been the perfect weapon. Now I was… what? A defective asset? A man with no past seeking answers that might destroy what little identity I had?
I silenced the phone once more, knowing the action marked a point of no return. Whatever time remained before Brock launched recovery operations was now ticking down. Each passing minute narrowed our window of opportunity, and there was no way of reversing the motion.
