I scanned my memory for mission briefing details. Target classification: moderate. Security risk: minimal. Reason for termination: classified.
Classified.
My handlers rarely shared information unless required for operational efficiency.
Yet with Maeve Durham, the file contained nothing beyond description and location. Minimal. Almost as if…
Almost as if they didn’t want me to know why she needed to be eliminated.
Pain spiked behind my eyes, sharp enough to make me grunt. My left hand trembled before I forced it still. I wiped the blood from my nose, staring at the red smear on my fingertips as if it belonged to someone else.
The protocol dictated an immediate mission status report. Target escaped. Pursuit initiated. Yet I remained motionless, tasting blood, feeling fracture lines spreading through certainty.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Not my activation. From them. Incoming secure transmission. Checking in. Already suspicious of the delay.
Three seconds to accept before automated alert protocols engaged.
Two seconds.
One.
My finger hovered over the accept button. For the first time in memory, I considered not answering.
She said she knew about me.
If she was lying, I lost nothing.
If she was telling the truth…
I accepted the call.
“Status report.” My handler’s voice was emotionless as usual. A mirror of what mine should be.
“Mission compromised.” The words felt strange in my mouth.
Silence stretched for exactly 2.4 seconds. I counted them without effort.
“Explain,” Brock said. A single word that carried an implicit threat.
“Unknown operative intercepted the target.” The lie formed with unexpected ease. “Black sedan, hidden plates. Target was extracted before I could make contact.” Another lie, flowing from the first.
Silence again. Longer this time. 5.7 seconds.
“Interesting.” Brock’s voice carried a note of uncertainty. “Maintain surveillance. Identify who she’s working with. When you confirm their identities, eliminate all parties.”
“Understood.” My response was immediate, mechanical. Perfect. But something shifted beneath the surface.
“Do not engage until you have a visual of all the players and the information gathered. This changes things.”
“Acknowledged.”
“And, Reaper...” A pause. “Report any… anomalies in your operational capacity.”
The call ended. I knew what he meant. The headaches. The flashes of memory. The nosebleed. All the symptoms that I was supposed to disclose. The protocol dictated that I report these immediately as system malfunctions requiring maintenance. Yet I said nothing.
I pocketed the phone and moved toward the exit, steps automatically adjusting to maintain stealth. Operational efficiency was uncompromised on the surface. But beneath, something had fundamentally changed. A name that wasn’t Reaper waited just beyond recall. And somewhere in the city, a certain Maeve Durham had answers.
For the first time in my operational memory, I had two missions. The one they gave me.
