She is lighter than she looks, but there is a tension in her body, a coiled spring of anxiety.
I carry her toward the elevator. Varro meets us there, holding a pre-loaded syringe, standard protocol for high-risk transport to ensure the asset doesn’t wake up screaming in the secure zone.
He jabs the needle into her upper arm. She flinches, releasing a small, pathetic cry, and goes limp in my arms.
I step into the elevator, studying her unconscious face.
I’m hunting for the tell. A crooked nose from a bad break, a scar on the jaw, the hardened lines of a trained operative. I find none. Instead, I get damp blonde hair clinging to a fragile neck and long, dark lashes resting on skin that looks like it costs thousands of dollars a month to maintain. Her nose is straight. Her plush lips are parted just enough to let a shallow, drug-heavy breath slip through.
She doesn’t look like a soldier. She looks like an expensive liability who has never had to look over her shoulder.
If she’s a civilian, I ruined her life. If she’s a spy, she’s about to ruin mine.
5
IRIS
I wake to the smell of lavender, starch, and sea salt.
For a long, hazy moment, I drift in the space between sleep and consciousness. My body is so heavy. I’m sinking into a mattress that is softer than clouds, wrapped in sheets that feel like cool water against my skin.
Silk. Expensive.
Am I at home?
I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids stay glued shut by exhaustion. A dull throb pulses at the base of my skull.
I force a breath into my lungs. My throat burns. It’s raw, the muscles aching and stiff, as if I’ve been coughing for hours. I try to swallow, but it triggers a sharp spike of pain that radiates down my neck.
Water. I need water.
I shift, reaching out instinctively for the nightstand where I keep my carafe. My hand brushes against smooth, cold mahogany.
Wrong. My nightstand is white lacquer.
The dissonance snaps my eyes open.
The room spins.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, violent and sudden, a tidal wave of bile. I clutch the duvet, anchoring myself until the world stops tilting on its axis.
I’m not at home.
I blink, trying to clear the fog from my vision. The light in the room is bright, harsh, and unfamiliar.
I push myself up to a sitting position, my head swimming.
The room is spacious, massive even, decorated in a minimalist, masculine style that screams wealth but lacks warmth. The walls are slate gray, the color of a storm cloud. The furniture is dark wood and black leather, favoring severe angles with clinical precision. There is a sleek desk in the corner with nothing on it. A sitting area with two velvet armchairs facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
It doesn’t look like a bedroom. It looks like a holding room dressed up as luxury.
But something is wrong. The silence is artificial. There is no hum of city traffic. No distant sirens.
Just... nothing.
I throw off the covers. I’m still wearing my clothes. They are dry now, but stiff against my skin, crusted with dried sweat and the starchy residue of the vase water. My sneakers are gone. I’m barefoot.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My knees tremble as my feet touch the plush carpet.
