“I’ve been here before. I’ve stood right here.”
Flash.
The carpet under my boots. The smell of scotch. Dresner looking up, his pen hovering over a document.
Report.
Target neutralized. No witnesses.
“Reporting. I stood here and reported.”
From the computer, Havoc didn’t look up. “Muscle memory. Your body remembers the trauma even if your brain dumped the data. Don’t let it freeze you.”
I forced my legs to move. I approached the desk not like a soldier, but like an animal approaching a trap.
Papers were scattered across the mahogany surface. Not tidy. An active workspace. Files, notes in precise handwriting, a half-empty tumbler of water.
And a photograph.
It was lying face-down near the edge of the blotter.
My hand reached for it. I didn’t tell it to. It moved.
I flipped the photo over.
Green beret. Formal dress uniform. A confident, cocky grin that reached eyes that were bright, clear emerald.
My breath hitched. “That’s me.”
Hellhound abandoned the cabinets. He crossed the room in three strides. “Before?”
I nodded, unable to speak. I stared at the stranger who wore my face. He looked whole. He looked arrogant and alive and unbroken.
Underneath the photo lay a manila folder. The edges were worn soft from handling. It was thick.
The label on the tab was typed in stark black ink.
SUBJECT 4 - BLACKOUT - QUINTA GENERATION - MALFUNCTIONED
“Why would he keep hard copies?” Havoc asked, his fingers still dancing over the keyboard. “Everything’s digital now. Cloud storage. Encrypted drives.”
“Dresner’s old school. Paranoid. You can’t hack paper.”
I opened the folder. My hands were shaking, and it wasn’t just the neurological tremor.
More photos spilled out.
First, a military ID. Master Sergeant Xavier Hale.
Then, a mugshot. My face, but harder. Angry. A black eye blooming on the cheekbone.
Then, the after.
A photo taken in a clinical room. My head was shaved. Surgical staples ran up the side of my neck. My eyes were open, but there was no light in them. Dead. Vacant.
“Jesus,” Havoc muttered, glancing over. “He kept trophies.”
“Not trophies. Study material. Look at the notes.”
