My head continued to pound with each step, glass shards shifting behind my eyes. The narrow pathways of the favela stretched before me like a labyrinth I couldn’t escape.Concrete and corrugated metal. Satellite dishes clustered on rooftops. Electrical wires strung in haphazard webs overhead.
I cataloged essential escape routes. Blind corners. Camera placements. The data scrolling through my mind fragmented, dissolving into static like a radio losing signal. I tried to focus on the things that were always my focal point during missions, but I couldn’t, because all of my rationale kept drifting toward one question.
Who am I?
The mystery tore through me like a hollow-point round, expanding on impact. Something ruptured behind my eyes again.
Pain spiked behind my left eye. I pressed my palm against it. Came away wet. Blood. Malfunction. Source unknown.Pain threshold exceeded. Report to the handler for recalibration.
My fingers closed around the poker chip again. Red plastic, worn edges. I couldn’t understand its relevance, still… but if, after all I had been through, I somehow managed to keep it—it must have been important. A crucial part of the man I once used to be. My thumb traced its ridges in a pattern that felt… practiced. Necessary. Like breathing.
“Double down, jackass. You’re not folding with that hand.”
A voice. A memory? Gone before I could grasp it, leaving behind the taste of expensive whiskey and the lingering scent of cologne that made my nose wrinkle with… disgust? Familiarity? The sensation of sitting at a felt table flashed through me, cards in hand, someone laughing beside me. Then nothing.
Was this what it felt like to lose one’s mind?
It most certainly felt that way.
I found myself positioned against a wall, back protected, sight lines clear to three intersecting pathways—standard defensive positioning. I didn’t remember stopping. Another system malfunction.Failure to maintain continuous situational awareness. Critical error.
The rain had tapered to a drizzle. Steam rose from the pavement. Children emerged from doorways, splashing through puddles, their laughter bouncing between buildings. A soccer ball made of taped-together plastic bags rolled past my feet.
One boy retrieved it, looked up at me, then ran back to his friends without fear.
Something twisted in my chest. Sharp. Unfamiliar. Like a blade between ribs.
They’re free.
The thought blindsided me. Free from what? From whom?
Failure to control unauthorized thoughts. Recommend immediate psychological recalibration. Last recorded instance: Asset JD-2399. Termination required.
The memory slammed into me—a man strapped to a chair, eyes wild as they pushed the needle into his neck. His screams cut off mid-breath. A demonstration. A warning.
My vision blurred again. Not from blood this time. Something else. Something I couldn’t—
Maeve.
Her name cut through the chaos in my head. I’d left her alone. Unprotected. Vulnerable.
Mission compromised.
No.
This was different. Not mission parameters. Something else. Something that made my heart rate accelerate beyond acceptable tactical response levels.
I turned back toward the safehouse, pulse elevated, movements quick but controlled. The sun broke through the clouds, catching on the puddles, temporarily blinding me.
My pace increased. Houses and shops blurred together. I scanned for surveillance, for followers, for threats. Nothing. But the certainty grew with each step: leaving her was a critical error.
What if they found her?
The thought sent a surge of something cold through my system. Not just mission failure. Something worse. Something that made my chest constrict until breathing became difficult. I didn’t know when that feeling had taken root in my head, but it was undoubtedly there. Mistakes were unacceptable during my missions—each one could bring a fatal outcome. Now, for the first time, there was something for me to lose. Something other than the red chip that I held onto.
I scaled the back of the building in eighteen seconds. The half-broken window remained as I left it. No signs of forced entry. No disturbance to the makeshift alarm I’d set—a thread stretched across the frame that remained unbroken.
Relief flooded my system. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. I’d never felt relief before. Never needed to.Emotional response detected. Protocol violation.
