Ash's POV
The thing about secrets?
They don't stay buried.
Not in this life. Not in this business.
Not when they're already clawing at the back of your skull like a fucking parasite.
I couldn't sleep.
Didn't even bother trying.
That badge—it haunted me like a ghost with unfinished business. Doyle wasn't just some name from my past. He was my past. My mentor. My handler. My only goddamn ally when the system spit me out.
He was dead.
Or so I'd been told.
And yet there he was again. Paper, plastic, a bloodstain the size of my fist, and a look in his old photo like he knew I'd eventually find this.
I stared at the locker mirror, knuckles raw from the fight earlier.
Seraphina's bruises would fade.
Mine wouldn't.
They never did.
"Fuck this," I muttered, throwing on my jacket and yanking open the door.
The hallway was dead quiet. Just the soft hum of the compound lights and distant muffled groans from recruits getting patched up in med bay.
I moved like a shadow. Past the command wing. Down the supply corridor. Into the old archives—restricted section.
No one came here anymore.
It reeked of dust and secrets.
I found an ancient holopad console tucked beneath layers of cobwebs and flicked it to life with my override chip. The interface blinked, hissed, then loaded.
Search Term: DOYLE, AGENT L.
I didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Results: 0.
Bullshit.
I dug deeper. Cross-referenced off-grid records, defunct branches, flagged missions. After ten minutes of silent war with the system, a single classified file blinked to life.
"OP: BLACK VULTURE."
Status: Terminated.
Personnel: Doyle, Agent. Vega, A. (trainee status).
My blood turned cold.
I scrolled.
One name redacted. Syndicate-affiliated.
No details. No closure.
Just a cryptic note:
"Survivor presumed compromised. Operative neutralized."
My hand curled into a fist.
That file wasn't supposed to exist. I wasn't supposed to exist.
Which meant someone knew I did.
And they were covering it up.
I heard the door open behind me.
My heart jumped.
I grabbed my blade, ready to slit the throat of whoever—
"Jesus, relax," came her voice.
Seraphina.
Of course.
She stepped in like she owned the goddamn shadows, dressed in nothing but joggers and a tank top, glistening with post-run sweat.
"You stalking me now?" I said, trying not to look at the curve of her collarbone. "Didn't peg you as the desperate type."
She crossed her arms. "You weren't in your room. Or the sparring hall. Thought maybe you got shot and didn't tell anyone."
"Oh, how tragic. You'd miss me?"
"Not even a little." Her tone was dry, but her eyes scanned the screen.
She saw the file.
I stepped in front of it, blocking her view.
She tilted her head. "Digging through classified files now?"
"You following me at 3AM?"
"Touché."
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
The tension was thicker than Kevlar.
Finally, she said, "You keep walking into darker corners, Ash. One day, something in the dark's gonna bite back."
I gave her a smile I didn't feel.
"I hope it chokes."
Next morning, we were summoned to the upper base.
Base Director Rayne herself.
A woman whose voice could peel skin off bone.
Seraphina and I stood at attention while Rayne circled us like a hawk eyeing two rats in a cage.
"There was a leak," she said flatly.
No preamble.
No bullshit.
"A rival syndicate intercepted a transport this morning. Someone's feeding them intel."
She looked directly at me.
Then at Seraphina.
"I don't care which one of you rats it out. But if this happens again, both of you are getting buried in a fucking oil drum."
"Understood," we said in unison.
She waved us off like flies.
In the hallway, Seraphina spoke first.
"She thinks it's you."
"She always thinks it's me."
"Maybe you should stop acting like you have something to hide."
I whirled on her. "Don't you fucking start."
People turned. I didn't care.
She stepped close, nose to nose. "You've been twitchy since Sector Eleven. What aren't you telling me?"
"I don't owe you shit, Seraphina."
"Then stop dragging me into your messes."
That was it.
I snapped.
I shoved her back hard into the wall. "You want to fight, fight me. Stop acting like your pussy's in charge of the whole damn compound."
Her eyes flared. "You really think I won't hit you right here?"
I smiled with no humor. "Oh, please do. Give me a reason."
And she did.
Right hook to my temple.
My vision popped white.
I stumbled back and caught myself, spitting blood.
Then I lunged.
We crashed into a utility closet, door slamming shut behind us.
Fists flying.
Teeth gritted.
She slammed me into the shelf. I elbowed her in the ribs.
Her hand gripped my hair. My knee slammed into her thigh.
"Goddamn bitch!" I snarled.
"Jealous much?" she spat.
"Of you? I'd rather die choking on glass."
We rolled across the floor, every movement a blur of fury and skin and sweat.
Then I straddled her.
Pinned her arms down.
Our breaths tangled.
Her chest rose against mine.
I hated how good it felt.
"You done?" I panted.
She just looked at me. Breathing hard.
Something shifted in her eyes. Just for a second.
Not soft. Not tender.
Just… sharper. Hungrier.
Like she wanted to bite me just to see if I'd moan or scream.
I got off her before I lost my mind.
"This isn't over," she said as I opened the door.
"It never fucking is," I muttered and walked away.
Later that night, I slipped out again.
Went back to Sector Eleven alone.
No backup.
Just me, a gun, and a question burning in my chest like a goddamn bullet.
I found the safehouse still empty.
But someone had been there since we left.
Different boot prints.
A broken picture frame. New blood.
And something scratched into the desk wood with a knife.
"STILL ALIVE. TRUST NO ONE."
My fingers trembled as I touched the groove.
Doyle was alive.
Or someone wanted me to think he was.
Either way…
This wasn't just a mission anymore.
It was personal.
And if Seraphina got in the way—
I'd gut her without blinking.