“Fine,” I say.
Holt gives me the address and explains the check-in procedure. Pay in cash, don’t draw attention – standard undercover protocol.
I leave the FBI building and go home to pack a few clothes, whispering under my breath the whole time.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The mission is finally happening, and I should’ve been ready, but this whole bodyguard thing threw me off, and now I can’t even focus. My hands shake as I shove clothes into a duffel bag. I’m sweating even though my apartment isn’t warm. This is going to be a disaster.
With my bag thrown over my shoulder, I take two buses to throw off anyone who might be watching, then walk to a random parking lot where I grab the car the FBI left for me. It’s a beat-up 2008 Honda Civic with faded blue paint and a dent in the passenger door, perfect for blending in. I drive to the motel, my heart pounding the entire way.
The motel is exactly what I expected, the kind of place where people pay in cash and don’t ask questions. I check in at the front desk, and the clerk barely looks up as he takes my money and hands over the key to room fourteen. I walk to the room, unlock the door, and step inside.
It’s worse than I imagined. The carpet is stained and worn, and the wallpaper is peeling at the corners. There’s a small TV on the dresser that looks twenty years old, and the bathroom is tiny with rust stains in the sink. The window is covered with heavycurtains that smell like cigarette smoke, and the air conditioning unit rattles when it runs. Everything feels dirty despite having probably been cleaned. This is exactly the kind of place where someone desperate would stay.
I inspect every nook and cranny, checking for hidden cameras or bugs, even though I know there won’t be any. It’s just habit. When I’m satisfied that the room is secure, I pull out my phone and text Zeth with the address and room number.
He texts back almost immediately.
“Will be there shortly.”
I look around the room again, my eyes landing on the bed.
Yep, there’s only one bed. A full-sized mattress with a faded comforter and two flat pillows. My stomach twists. I try not to freak out, but it’s hard. Zeth and I are going to be sharing this room, sharing this space, and there’s only one bed. And at some point, probably soon, we’ll share the same body. Mine.
As I wait for him, I keep whispering to myself, trying to calm down.
“I can do this. I’m a professional. I can do this. Fuuuuuck.”
Chapter Seven
Zeth
I flow over the ground, my body spread thin and liquid across the asphalt. This form is as natural to me as breathing, maybe more natural than the humanoid shape I wear to blend in with the world. Every particle of my being stays connected, aware, moving together with purpose. I am not scattered, I am whole, just in a different state.
The textures underneath me register with perfect clarity – rough asphalt first, then the smooth concrete of the sidewalk with its hairline cracks running through like spider webs. I flow over cigarette butts ground into the pavement, dried gum turned hard and black, and the grooves between concrete sections where dirt has compressed over years. Each texture is distinct, and I feel the sharp edges of scattered gravel, the oily residue near a storm drain, and the warmer patches where the sun has been beating down all afternoon.
Nothing sticks to my matter even as I sense every detail, and my body repels debris while cataloging everything I pass over.
I chose this approach intentionally. Wren is supposed to be alone in the motel room, and no one can see a seven-foot symbiote walking up to her door. The Kyzers could be watching already, and I will not compromise her cover before the mission even begins.
I reach the door to room fourteen and slide under the gap at the bottom. The worn rubber weather stripping brushes against me, and I sense decades of dirt compressed into the threshold, and feel the slight downward slope of the floor inside. Then I am through, pooled on the stained carpet.
I pull myself back together. The process takes only seconds, but I am conscious of every moment. My molecules condense and reshape, drawing inward and upward. Legs form first,because I need stability, then my torso, arms, and head. My eyes take shape last, and suddenly I am seeing instead of sensing. The dim motel room comes into focus.
Wren stands a few feet away, staring at me with her mouth agape.
“How...” she starts, then stops. “You... Oh, when you said...” She trails off again and shakes her head. “I didn’t quite picture it.”
Her voice wavers between confusion and awe. She looks at me like I am something impossible that just happened right in front of her eyes. Then she pulls herself together, her shoulders straighten, she clears her throat, and the wonder disappears behind her professional mask.
“I’m sorry about this situation,” she says, gesturing around the small room. “I hadn’t expected Captain Holt to throw us into a motel room so soon.”
Frustration edges into her voice. Things are moving too fast for her, I can tell. She needs more time, more space, and definitely more control over what’s happening.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “This is the mission, after all. I expected it eventually.”
I look around the room properly now. It is cramped and worn down in the way cheap motels always are. Stained carpet, peeling wallpaper, and a single bed dominates the small space, taking up most of the room. It looks old, the mattress sagging in the middle, covered with a thin comforter in a faded floral pattern. Two flat pillows rest against a scratched headboard made of fake wood veneer. A small dresser holds an ancient television, and the bathroom door hangs slightly crooked in its frame. Barely any floor space remains between the furniture.
