I slipped through the window soundlessly, weapon already drawn. Cleared the bathroom first. Empty. Moved to the main room, checking sight lines, corners, positions of advantage.
The safehouse hadn’t changed—still the same cracked plaster walls, the single bulb hanging from frayed wires, the mismatched furniture collected from who-knows-where. But it felt different now. Like something sacred rather than tactical.
I found her at the table, face pressed against her arm, hand still resting on the closed laptop. The room lay quiet except for her soft breathing. A chair sat wedged under the doorknob.
I paused. The improvised security measure wouldn’t stop anyone truly determined to get in. But something about the gesture caught in my chest. She had tried to protect herself while I was gone. BecauseIleft her alone. She could have run. In fact, it would have been the logical response—driven by fear, by instinct. Prey runs when threatened. That was the natural order. And yet… she hadn’t.
Yes, fleeing would have been a mistake. She would have exposed herself, made herself easier to catch, easier to hurt. But even knowing that, most would still choose escape. Most do. It was hardwired—fight or flight. Survival. But she chose neither.
She stayed. She waited.
Forme.
My first scan was automatic.Target status assessment: Breathing pattern: regular. Posture: collapsed from exhaustion, not injury. No visible threats in immediate environment.
But then my assessment… shifted.
Her hair spills across the table in dark waves. One strand clings to her cheek, rising and falling with each breath.
Tactical analysis irrelevant. Focus on mission parameters.
She looks peaceful. Vulnerable.
Emotional entanglement detected. Report for recalibration.
My thoughts warred against each other, programming versus something else breaking through like roots cracking concrete.
A small scrape marked her wrist where she must have caught it during our escape through the maintenance passage. Her fingers curled slightly, as if still holding onto something even in sleep.
I moved closer, steps silent from years of training. She didn’t stir. The laptop was closed, but a notepad beside it showed her handwriting—names, dates, connections. She had continued working after I left. After I abandoned her to face those videos alone.
The realization sat heavy in my stomach. Not a tactical disadvantage. Something else.
Guilt.
Emotional response detected. Guilt classification: Level 3 violation. Immediate handler contact required.
The voice in my head sounded like Brock now. I could almost feel the needle that would follow such a confession.The chair. The restraints. The void where memories should be.
My handler would call this mission compromise. Emotional entanglement with the target. But my handler had lied. About everything. About what I was. About what I had been.
Everything was a lie except her.
I stood over her now, caught between instincts I understood and ones I didn’t. The tactical part of me categorized her as vulnerable, unprotected. The other part—the part breaking through the programming—noticed how her eyelashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks. How one hand twitched slightly as she dreamed.
I reached out, then stopped myself. What was I doing? What impulse drove me to brush that strand of hair from her face? To wake her? To apologize?
Apologize. The word itself felt foreign in my mind. Assassins didn’t apologize. Assets didn’t feel remorse.
But I do.
Her face looked different in sleep. The wariness that tightened her features when awake had smoothed away. But determination remained etched in the set of her jaw. Even unconscious, she fought. Against what horrors did she continue searching while I retreated from my own past?
The memory of our kiss in the maintenance closet hit me without warning. Her body pressed against mine in that narrow space. The way she grabbed my shirt, pulled me to her with desperation that matched my own. My heart rate increased. Blood rushed to my face. Combat response?
No. Something else entirely. Something that made my skin feel too tight, my chest too full.
Physical response outside acceptable parameters. Chemical recalibration required.
