Chapter 19
The warehouse district was a graveyard of rusting steel and cracked asphalt, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and exhaust. As Arman and I approached our rendezvous point, a quiet tension settled over the three of us. We moved in a practiced formation, our footsteps barely a whisper against the grime. Arman, ever the brawler, clenched his fists, his gaze locked on the empty space ahead, prepared his strings to target the hero right in front of us.
She was there. A shimmering distortion in the humid air, and then the hero materialized, her form coalescing from nothingness. The moonlight glinted off the intricate tattoos that snaked up her arms, their lines shifting like living things. Her face was a mask of cold fury, her eyes, two pools of emerald fire, fixated on me.
"I will kill you today, monster," she hissed, her voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in my bones.
Arman, bless his reckless heart, didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward, a human cannonball of muscle and rage. But Rachel was faster. A flick of her wrist, and the air crackled. Her hand morphed, digits fusing and hardening into the shape of a pistol. The muzzle flared, a silent, deadly flash. Arman twisted, the shot grazing his side. He staggered back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but he didn't fall.
I acted on instinct, my hands already forming a glowing green sphere of condensed energy. But Rachel wasn't the kind to wait for an attack. Before I could launch the projectile, she was on me, a blur of motion. I released the sphere, but she was already past its trajectory, her form a ghost of motion. I went for my knife, a practiced motion born from countless fights. My hand plunged into my boot, my fingers closing around the worn leather hilt. I drew it in a single fluid motion as she raised her arm, her hand already reforming into a gun. I blocked her, deflecting her aim toward the ground and plunging the knife downward. But she moved again, too fast, and my blade sunk into the concrete with a jarring thud, the tip stuck fast.
A sharp kick to the ribs sent me flying. I slammed into the cold, brick wall, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. Rachel closed the distance in a single, menacing step, her arm aimed at my chest. I felt the surge of power within me, the cold, volatile energy I'd been trained to control, and I readied a blast. I would end this with a single, massive detonation. But a moment later, she was gone.
Arman, his face a mask of furious concentration, had landed a blow that sent her soaring backward. She hit the ground in a graceful, acrobatic landing, her eyes now burning with a cold, terrifying resolve. We couldn't underestimate her. The air around her seemed to vibrate with her renewed power.
I wrenched my knife from the concrete, the metal scraping with a sound like a shriek. I pointed the blade at her. She stood, not a single hair out of place, her movements as fluid as water. Her hand morphed again, and this time, it was a massive, multi-barreled gun. The air thrummed as she activated it, bullets tearing through the night, a storm of lead and fire. We dodged and ducked, the air filled with the deafening roar.
Then, a sharp, searing pain in my arm. I stumbled, the force of the impact spinning me around. I looked over and saw Arman, a spreading crimson stain on the side of his chest. He gasped, a hacking cough that brought up blood. This was a battle we couldn't win with brute force. It had to end now.
I charged, a blur of motion fueled by adrenaline and desperation. I had to reach her. I had to end this. Just as I was about to close the distance, a voice spoke in my ear.
"Lena, your mission is done. Retreat."
The words were a hammer blow. I ignored them, my pace quickening. Rachel saw the surprise on my face, saw my resolve, and a flicker of shock crossed her features. She switched her weapon, the large gun dissipating and her hand-molding into a short-range blade. She met my charge, blocking every thrust and parry, our blades a blur of steel. I managed to score a few nicks, shallow cuts on her arm and leg, before I pushed her back against the brick wall.
She slumped against it, defeated. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a profound weariness. She was exhausted, broken. I held my knife to her throat, both of us breathing heavily, the silence now deafening. I reached for my earpiece to report in, but my hand met nothing. It had been knocked out during the fight.
Her voice, a whisper, broke the silence. "Kill me already."
I looked at her, at the raw surrender in her eyes. I had killed thousands of people in this life, in this line of work. Yet, the words that came out of my mouth surprised even me. "I won't kill you." I stopped, the old guilt washing over me. "It's not... I've already killed thousands." I looked at her, and a strange new thought, a plan, blossomed in my mind.
"Thursday," I said, my voice low but firm. "Let's meet at the other cafe, the one on the side of the road, at 3 p.m." The words left my lips with a confidence I didn't feel a moment ago. She just stared at me, a blank look of confusion on her face.
"Escape now or you'll die," I said, my voice hardening. I dropped my knife, the clatter echoing in the stillness, and nodded towards the exit. She didn't hesitate. She got to her feet, a shadow fading into the darkness.
Once she was gone, I turned my attention to Arman. He lay on the ground, his body a wreckage, his breathing shallow and rattling. I knelt beside him, picking up his earpiece. "Copy, it's Lena," I whispered into the device.
"Shadow will arrive in 10 seconds," the admin replied.
Just as the timer ticked down to zero, a man dropped from the rafters above. It was David, our cleaner. He landed without a sound, his form a silent, menacing shadow. He knelt beside Arman, his face impassive. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Just a few scratches. No problem," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "But Arman... he's hurt bad. We need to fix him."
David raised a hand, his power coalescing into a small, shimmering pocketknife. He knelt, his eyes on Arman's chest. "His time ends here," he said, and with a single, merciless motion, he plunged the knife into Arman's heart.
I stared, my mind reeling, my body frozen with a horror so profound it stole my breath. David stood, his gaze sweeping over the scene. "The cleaning group will arrive shortly. They'll handle the damage and the mess." His eyes rested on Arman's lifeless body as if it were nothing more than garbage to be disposed of.
My throat was dry, and my tongue felt like lead. To speak was to risk the same fate. David's next words sealed my silence. "Let's go. We'll take him back for interrogation." He turned and ran toward the exit, expecting me to follow.
I stood there for a long moment, my mind a storm of disbelief and betrayal. My eyes fell one last time on Arman's motionless body. I hoped, with all my heart, that he would be given a good burial, a final rest for a man who died for a lie. Then, with a heavy heart, I turned and followed David into the night.
The warehouse was a tomb. Rust dripped from the beams, chains swayed faintly in the drafts, and the smell of blood—warm and metallic—clung to everything like smoke after a fire. Edward hung slumped in the chair, his head bent forward, eyes glassy and empty.
I couldn't move. My stomach turned, my chest tight, the taste of bile rising at the back of my throat. First Arman, now Edward. Their deaths overlapped in my head, blurring together until I couldn't tell which memory I was reliving, the spray of blood, the last gasp, the silence after.
My heart pounded so loud I was sure David could hear it. Panic clawed its way up my throat, threatening to rip me open. My hands trembled against my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. I forced my breathing into measured pulls of air. In. Out. In. Out. Not here. Not now.
If David saw weakness, he would sharpen it into a blade.
"Let's go," David said. His voice carried no weight, no grief. Just boredom, as if he'd snapped the neck of a bird. He strode out without looking back.
I swallowed the bile and followed, each step dragging like I was wading through mud. My mask—the cold, expressionless face I'd taught myself to wear—stayed fixed in place. If I faltered even a second, they would pounce.
Outside, Roland stood on watch, his posture straight. He saluted the moment we appeared. David nodded without breaking stride. I didn't return the gesture. My eyes slid past him blankly, like he wasn't even there. It was easier that way.
The walk back to base was silent. David's back was straight, unbothered, his pace steady. I stayed a step behind, trying to quiet the tremors in my arm where the bullet had torn through. Each pulse of pain reminded me of how close I had come, how fragile I still was beneath the mask.
By the time we stepped into the base, I had rebuilt my walls, brick by brick.
Katara waited for us. She stood in the center of the room, arms folded, her crimson-striped suit immaculate, untouched by the dirt and blood we carried. Her eyes locked onto me first. Sharp. Curious. She was hunting something in me.
"You've returned," she said. Calm, smooth. Her smile was faint, but her gaze was dissecting. "Report."
I stood tall, my mask colder than ice. "Mission complete. Interrogation finished." My tone was flat, practiced.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing not at my words, but at me. She saw the stiffness in my shoulders, the faint tremor in my fingers I thought I'd hidden. Her smile deepened, not with pity but satisfaction, as if she enjoyed peeling back the edges of my armor.
"You hide your fear well," Katara murmured. "But I see it. I see the weakness you try to bury."
My chest tightened. I forced myself not to react, to keep the mask in place. "Weakness or not," I said evenly, "I've done everything you asked." I let my voice harden, colder. "Killed thousands for you. Completed two missions. Don't I deserve a prize?"
Her brows rose, amused. She stepped closer, circling me like a predator circling prey. " You're getting ahead of yourself, it's only two missions but a prize, is it? Interesting." Her eyes gleamed. "And what would you ask of me?"
My heart thudded so hard it hurt, but my voice stayed steady. Controlled. "I want to travel to the city where I had my first mission."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Katara chuckled low in her throat. "That's true. You have given us much. Weapons, intelligence, victories painted in fire and ash. You've torn open their peace and given us power." She leaned closer, her breath warm and venomous. "A reward is fitting."
But her amusement sharpened into warning. "You will not go alone. Mike will accompany you. He has been… restless. Annoying. This will settle him."
I nodded once, letting no hesitation show. "That's fine."
Her gaze lingered on me, searching, testing. For a moment I feared she saw everything—the panic, the doubt, the cracks in my soul. Then her lips curled into a satisfied smile, as if my performance pleased her.
"When?" she asked.
"Thursday afternoon."
Katara's smile widened. Approval, as if I had passed another test. "Then it is settled. I will inform the others." She turned slightly, already dismissing me. "Go."
I bowed my head faintly and turned away. My steps were steady, deliberate, but the moment the door shut behind me, my lungs collapsed. I let out the breath I had been strangling inside.
Thursday.
The word repeated in my head, a promise and a risk. A chance I had stolen right under Katara's gaze.
She thought she saw through me. She thought my cracks meant I was hers.
But she didn't know what I planned to do with them.