The compound was clinically quiet as I walked through its maze of corridors.
Not the sleep of ordinary offices, but the kind of silence that felt manufactured—every bit of airflow, every rattle of machinery, calibrated for suppression. My boots found the small imperfections in the concrete and multiplied them. I counted each tiny echo, found rhythm in the unevenness.
The other operatives were probably either locked away in their rooms, or out in the field, or somewhere Father had put them to keep them from contaminating the perimeter of his little world.
Father's summons had come at 3 AM. I was about to tune in for the night after reviewing the materials from Viper when the call from Secretary came in.
"He wants to see you in his office."
"Now?"
"Yes."
I didn't waste time, but I didn't rush, either. I put on a pair of black pants and a black hoodie, covered my face as per protocol, and was on my way.
The adrenaline from earlier events and the information I'd learned via the materials still lingered, but I felt the exhaustion. As I walked through the compound, my mind kept on spinning the phone call on repeat.
Maybe it was the way her voice had sounded, or the way she'd looked in the window, not quite scared but not quite safe, either. Or maybeit was the way she moved or laughed. Or her curiosity. She was scared of every shadow but she wasn't scared of a strange man whose face she'd never seen.
She was full of contradictions.
Not she, I reminded myself. The client.
My body didn't know what to do with the memory, so it just kept cycling it. Like an error it wanted to clear, but couldn't.
I turned a corner, glanced at the cameras tracking my approach, took the stairs downstairs.
The office always looked the same.
A windowless coffin with a round table and a single lamp. The chair on the other side of the table was shrouded in darkness to ensure I couldn't see Father's face.
Only today, when I entered, he had already been waiting. Usually, he'd make you wait. If he was first to arrive, it meant he had something urgent to say and didn't want to waste time on psychological theatrics.
He wore a dark turtleneck and a jacket, the kind that cost more than my Ducati. His face was, of course, shadowed. I couldn't see the eyes, only the mouth, which was a pale, stern line.
He didn't move. Didn't say my name.
I stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to approach or hold ground, noting the thin folder on the table.
It was never the same here. Father could shift the temperature of a room just by breathing, and tonight he was holding it in that perfect, toxic balance—neither warm nor cold, but always about to tip.
I flexed my hands, forced the air in and out of my lungs, and waited.
Father let it stretch.
Then he gestured for me to take the chair across from him. I shut the heavy door behind me, moving slow, not wanting to trigger whatever he was loading into the chamber.
I sat.
The lamp was positioned so it blinded you, unless you kept your gaze on the table. My jaw ached. I unclenched it, then clenched it again, which made the ache worse.
I waited for him to speak.
He didn't.
Instead, he reached for the folder on the table. He tapped it once with his index finger, as if confirming it was real.
Then he let his hand rest on top of it, and said, very quietly, "You broke protocol."
