February 18, 2030 – Midnight
The noise of the gala had dulled into distant hums and champagne-fueled laughter echoing through marbled corridors. Victoria stood beneath the opulent chandelier of the east wing, every line of her body tense, her eyes scanning the dim hallway that led to the service exits. Her earpiece buzzed with static.
"William?" she whispered, voice low but sharp. "William, answer me."
Only silence replied.
Her heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she broke into a brisk walk. Her breath caught when she saw the small streaks of blood leading to the edge of the emergency stairwell. Panic clutched her chest. She descended the stairs cautiously, each step deliberate.
Near the service hallway behind the exit doors, she found him—William Vexley, slumped against the wall. His white shirt was soaked red beneath his coat, the blood spreading out like a blooming rose.
"Oh no, William," she gasped, kneeling next to him. "Who did this?"
"I—I didn't see," he wheezed, pain cracking his voice. "Shadow. Just a blur."
She pressed her fingers against his wound, scanning the area around her. A noise—too deliberate to be wind—echoed from down the hallway. A step.
"Shit." She yanked off her heels, tossing them aside, then tore the slit of her dress, allowing her full movement. Her elegant form now looked feral, poised for war.
"Stay here. Stay with me," she said.
But William was already slipping in and out of consciousness. She placed his hand over the makeshift bandage she tied around his side.
Victoria activated her comms. "September, someone made me. William's down."
"Wait—what? What's your position?" September's voice crackled urgently.
"No time. I'm luring them away. Rooftop."
She darted through the stairwells, climbing fast. The attackers had followed her trail—she made sure of that. Every door she left ajar, every scuffed tile. A deliberate path for them to follow.
The rooftop door banged open with a shriek of rusted hinges. Wind howled around her, sweeping through her tangled hair. Moonlight bathed the rooftop in pale silver. The city lights sprawled below like a galaxy, unaware of the war being waged in the shadows above.
The first attacker emerged. Victoria ran, low and fast, then flipped over the rusted air duct, catching the man with a spinning heel to the temple. He crumpled. The next came in swinging—a baton, aimed at her skull. She ducked, swept his legs, disarmed him mid-fall and drove her knee into his sternum, knocking the breath from his lungs.
A third man tackled her from behind, driving her to the concrete. She rolled with him, used the momentum to lock his arm and drive her elbow into his jaw. He grunted. She yanked his pistol with a twist. Then she froze.
He was standing at the rooftop's far edge. Grey suit, a faint gleam in his eyes. The scar that crossed his left cheek down to the jawline, unmistakable.
Michael.
The silence between them was louder than the wind.
"Victoria?" September's voice rang in her ear. "What are you waiting for? Shoot him!"
But she couldn't move.
Her hands trembled, gun pointed, locked—but not firing. She blinked, hoping the figure would vanish. But he was real. Older. Hardened. But it was him.
"You're dead," she whispered, almost choking. "You died."
Michael stared at her. His expression—unreadable. Not hate. Not anger. Something far worse. Recognition laced with pain.
"Hello, Brie" He said.
It struck her heart. The wind whipped between them, her tears drying the moment they fell. Her finger stayed frozen on the trigger. The pistol heavy, suddenly more like a relic than a weapon.
He stepped back slowly.
"Michael, wait—" she said, a tremor in her voice.
But he was gone. Disappearing into the night, a ghost carried by the wind.
She stood there alone. Heart pounding. Arms limp. The silence is crushing.
"Victoria?" September called again. "Did you take him out?"
Victoria dropped the pistol. Her hands covered her face.
"No," she whispered.
The stars above offered no answer. Only cold, unreachable light.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with sweat and blood.
The ghost of her past had returned. And he had left her with a choice she couldn't make.
Below, William bled. Inside, secrets burned. Above, the night remained mercilessly indifferent.
And for the first time in years, Agent February—Victoria—felt vulnerable. Not from the danger outside, but the one that had returned inside her heart.
She stood on that rooftop for a long time, the city oblivious to the storm unraveling inside her.
And somewhere far away, the scarred man with haunted eyes disappeared into the shadows, carrying secrets that could shatter everything.