February 18, 2030 – 1:07 AM
The shrill wail of the fire alarm cut through the lavish chaos of the gala. Crimson strobe lights flickered along the corridors, casting eerie shadows over panicked billionaires, staff, and guards scrambling in their tuxedos and gowns. In the chaos, Victoria pressed her hand tightly against William's wound, guiding him through the back exits, her heart hammering in her chest. Her mind was a storm—Michael was alive, William was bleeding out, and the mission was falling apart.
"Just keep breathing," she murmured, half to herself, half to him.
They burst out into the cool night air. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, but she didn't wait. She waved down a taxi with her free hand, blood smudging her fingers, her once-elegant dress torn and stained.
The driver stared for a moment, eyes wide.
"Hospital. Now," she ordered.
The cab shot forward, the city blurring past. William was losing consciousness, his head lolling slightly onto her shoulder.
"You're not dying tonight, detective," she whispered.
_____________________________________________
The hospital was lit in sterile white, the air thick with antiseptic. Nurses rushed with a gurney the moment she stepped in, taking William from her arms. One of them, a young man with anxious eyes, paused.
"Are you family?"
Victoria hesitated, then said, "His wife."
They disappeared into the emergency room, leaving her in the waiting lounge, blood drying on her palms, dress tattered, face blank. She sat for a moment, listening to the beeping machines, the murmurs of nurses. Then, quietly, she left.
She stepped out into the cold night air, staring up at the stars hidden behind the haze of city lights. Her hands trembled. The image of Michael's scarred face hovered before her eyes.
She'd made a mistake.
_______________________________________
O.Y.A. Northern Operations Hub
February entered the base like a shadow slipping through cracks. The moment she stepped into the central debriefing hall, she was greeted by sharp voices and sharper stares.
Agent September was already pacing.
"What the hell was that?" he snapped. "You compromised everything."
She didn't flinch. "William was shot. I had to get him out."
September's eyes were hard as glass. "You think that justifies what you did? You were supposed to extract intel, kill Graves and disappear. Instead, you hit the fire alarm, revealed your location, and let Graves' allies vanish into smoke."
"I did what I had to," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
He stepped closer. "Don't give me that."
Agent December's voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. He stood in the corner, arms folded, eyes like cold steel.
"September is right," he said. "You disobeyed. And worse, you let someone live."
February clenched her jaw.
"He was presumed dead," December continued. "He could be the leak. He could be the third player in this war. And you let him go."
She said nothing.
"You're benched, February," December said. "Effective immediately. You are not to participate in any missions until we say otherwise.Control your emotions. Clear?"
February nodded stiffly.
Agent August, calm as ever, stepped forward. Her presence was like cool water poured over fire. "Come with me," she said softly.
February followed without a word.
_____________________________________________
August's medical bay was dimly lit, filled with vials, custom nanobots, and precision tools far more advanced than any hospital. February sat on the examination bench, her hands in her lap, eyes vacant.
August cleaned the blood from her arms in silence, her movements deft.
"You froze up," August said at last.
February looked away. "He's not supposed to be alive."
"That doesn't change what he might be now."
February closed her eyes. "I know."
August injected a vial of nano-healing serum into her shoulder. It stung. "You need rest. But also clarity. Figure out what this is to you. Ghost or threat."
______________________________________________
Across the base, Agent January – Charles – was at his personal command center. The room was dark, save for a dozen monitors illuminating his sharply chiseled features. A trace program blinked on screen. A name.
Michael Renner.
Not the real name, not anymore. But a false one embedded in private paramilitary registries. He'd infiltrated under the alias "Harlan Myles," and had been traveling between Switzerland, Belarus, and now operating under a contract group backed by energy moguls connected to Israel.
Charles zoomed in on satellite feeds, digital ledgers, manifests.
A shipment.
Tomorrow. 0600 hours.
Location: Haifa Port, Israel.
Contents: Biomedical containers, advanced weapon components.
Escorted by armed private security.
Michael was overseeing it.
Charles leaned back, fingers steepled. "Time to end this."
In the command center, Agent January—Charles—stood before the main monitor. His suit was crisp, his posture impeccable, but his tone was deadly serious.
"I've reviewed the data from Graves' last transmission. Michael was never officially documented. Whoever he is, he's good. Deep cover, multiple passports, and he's been operating under the name 'Julian Ryser.' That's why we missed him."
He tapped a location on the map. "One of his identities surfaced in logistics manifests for a weapons drop happening tomorrow morning. High-grade bio-enhanced missiles and thermobaric payloads. Destination: Tel Aviv. Shipped from a defunct port in Sicily."
Agent December stepped forward. "We intercept the shipment."
"No," Charles said. "We destroy it."
He turned toward the assembled agents, the war room silent.
"This mission won't be a stealth operation. It's a controlled strike. We go in, take out the crew, erase the cargo. No witnesses."
December glanced with a convincing voice as a steel blade.
"Four agents. Tactical rotation."
He looked across the room.
"Agent November. Agent May. Agent January. Agent October."
Victoria, listening from outside the doorway, closed her eyes as the names were called.
They were the sharpest edge of the blade now. And she was no longer holding it.
Not yet.