When the doors opened, the top floor greeted me with soft lighting and quieter halls. Revenant executives preferred calm. The kind of calm that comes right before a knife slips between your ribs without a single word of warning.
A young man in a tailored suit approached me. He was wearing a Revenant security uniform. His expression didn’t shift as he appraised me.
“Ms. Volkov,” he said with a nod. “Right this way.”
He led me down a long corridor lined with framed satellite imagery, before and after shots of revolutions Revenant had ‘facilitated.’ I used to stop and stare at them. Pride, maybe. Or hope. Now they just looked like mass graves.
We stopped before a set of double doors made of some dark gray material I couldn’t place. The guard tapped twice, then opened them.
“Go in.” He directed me with his eyes.
I stepped into a room flooded with bright light from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the frozen city. A desk of dark oak dominated the space, expensive and immaculate. Behind it sat a man with silver hair, a tailored suit, and a face that belonged to a person who’d never been told no once in his life.
He smiled when he saw me. Not kindly. Not cruelly. But calculated.
“Katerina Volkov,” he said, rising to greet me. “Our most accomplished agent.”
I stiffened, but I didn’t say anything in response. Instead, I waited for him to continue.
His gaze narrowed in on me. “We need people like you.”
“You already have me.”
“We want to give you more responsibility.”
That made me stand straighter. Seating myself gracefully in a chair facing his desk, I unhurriedly folded my hands in my lap, and only then did I lift my eyes to his.
“In what capacity?”
He slid a document across the desk. A mission portfolio. Satellite images. Supply routes. A drone schematic that made my stomach flutter uneasily.
“We have identified a group seeking independence from their oppressive government,” he said. “Freedom fighters. Resourceful. Passionate. Desperate.”
Desperate. That word should have rung louder, but at the time, it didn’t.
“They need support,” he continued. “Technology. Intelligence. Tools of war.”
“Weapons? Drones?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who leads this group?” I asked.
“A man named Bashir al-Khayran. He’s intelligent. Driven. He wants peace but will have to fight for it.”
That was the moment I should have stood up and walked out. That was the moment a cold chill crept up along my spine.
“You understand oppression, Miss Volkov. You carry the scars of it. Use that. Help these people. Help them fight back. Help them do what your people never could.”
Emotional manipulation at its finest.
“Before we send you though,” he continued, “there are a few people you must meet.”
He pressed a button on his desk.
The door behind me opened.
Two sets of footsteps entered, and I turned as they walked in.
