A man stood in the doorway. He hadn’t been there seconds ago. I hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t caught even a whisper of movement.
I lunged for my bag, where I’d stashed the gun from Reaper’s safehouse.
“That won’t be necessary.” The stranger moved with unnatural fluidity, crossing the room before my fingers could close around the weapon. “If I wanted either of you dead, you wouldn’t have seen me at all.”
I threw myself across Reaper’s convulsing body, using my own as a shield. “Stay back!”
The intruder’s cold silver-gray eyes assessed me before dismissing me entirely. Everything about him screamed danger, from his coiled stillness to the predatory grace of his movements. The thin scar along his jawline looked surgical rather than accidental, and when he turned his head, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a barcode tattoo behind his ear.
“I’m your informant, in the flesh. My name is Specter,” he said, voice low and controlled.
I felt caught between terror and desperate relief. The ghost from the screen had materialized when we needed him the most—but his sudden appearance without warning set off every alarm bell in my head.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded, still positioned between him and Reaper.
The man tilted his head slightly. “The same way anyone gets in anywhere. Through the door.” A ghost of something like humor flickered across his face. “I just make less noise about it than most. Now let me see him.”
Something in his voice triggered memories of Reaper’s earliest interactions with me, but with subtle differences. This man had been through conditioning, but he’d recovered more of himself—or was hiding less of his damage.
I hesitated, weighing our limited options. Reaper’s convulsions were worsening, the blue-black lines spreading visibly by the second. If this man were truly our ally, he was Reaper’s only chance. I didn’t have any other choice. Perhaps my begging had paid off, after all.
The stranger immediately leaned over his thrashing form, hands moving with practiced efficiency as he checked pulse, pupil dilation, and lines tracing patterns beneath his skin.
“How long has he been like this?” he asked, peeling back Reaper’s eyelid.
“The seizure started about an hour ago,” I answered, watching his every move. “The blue lines have been spreading for hours.”
“It’s getting into his neural tissue.” He glanced at me, something like concern in his eyes. “Without help, he won’t last the night. And what would come after might be worse than death.”
He nodded once. His fingers worked methodically over Reaper’s body, but his voice had a halting quality, as if he wasstill relearning the rhythm of normal conversation. “Second generation—they call us ‘Secunda.’ Started remembering fragments of…before. Been investigating while keeping my cover intact.”
“I just spoke to Brock,” I said, the memory of that conversation sending fresh waves of nausea through me. “He said the compound wasn’t meant for Reaper—it was designed to begin my conditioning. There is no antidote.”
Specter’s hands stilled for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Well, that changes the equation.” He returned to his examination with renewed urgency. “Explains why it’s moving so fast. Prima metabolism would treat it as an attack, not a modification. Fighting it instead of absorbing it as it’s already modified.”
He pulled back Reaper’s eyelid again, revealing whites now threaded with blue-black lines. “His Prima metabolism is fighting the compound, but losing. Without intervention, he’ll experience complete neural collapse.”
“Will he die?” I forced myself to ask, though I dreaded the answer.
“Death would be merciful compared to what’s coming,” Specter said quietly, a haunted look crossing his face. “I’ve seen what happens when an operative’s neural pathways fragment but don’t shut down. It’s… not something I’d wish on anyone.”
Specter pressed two fingers against Reaper’s carotid artery, his brow furrowing. “Prima operatives were built to adapt, to heal. If we can slow the compound enough…” He trailed off, clearly uncertain.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small metal case. Inside, nestled in foam cutouts, were three syringes filled with a milky white substance.
“What is that?” I asked, eyeing the syringes with equal parts hope and suspicion.
“Insurance policy I stole before leaving.” His voice dropped, and something dark flashed in his eyes. “They keep it for the handlers in case of accidental exposure. I’ve been saving it for myself in case my conditioning started to return.”
His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the syringes. “Never thought I’d use it on another operative.”
None of the words he was saying made sense. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Spector could tell I needed more explanation, though.
“Antagonist for handler protection,” he explained, lifting one syringe to examine it. “Not designed for us. No idea what it would do in a Prima’s system, especially with conditioning compounds already in play.”
He extended the syringe toward me. “It’s your decision. I can’t guarantee it will work. It might even accelerate the process—there’s no precedent for using this with a Prima generation subject receiving a conditioning compound. Any generation or agent, to be honest. I can tell you one thing, though. If they get their hands on him…his fate will be far worse than whatever this can do.”
I looked at Reaper, at the blue-black poison creeping closer to his brain with each passing second. His body continued to convulse, though the movements were growingweaker—energy depleting as the compound stole whatever made him himself.
