By the time I got home, my body ached in places I didn't want to acknowledge.
I stripped off my jacket and headed straight for the bathroom. The mirror didn't lie—bruises blooming along my ribs, a split lip, shallow cuts along my arms. Nothing fatal. Still, I cleaned each wound carefully, wincing as water stung raw skin. When I was done, I wrapped myself in a towel and collapsed onto the couch in the living room.
That was when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over it. Something about the timing felt wrong. Dangerous. I almost ignored it.
Almost.
I answered.
"Good evening, Mr. Cartez," a calm voice said from the other end.
My jaw tightened.
It's never a good sign when someone uses that name.
I hadn't gone by Cartez in a long time—though it was still mine. I hated it. Still, I kept my voice steady as I powered on my computer, routing the call signal through it.
"It's been a while since I used that name," I said. "Who are you?"
"Just call me TRAD," the voice replied smoothly. "Short for The Royal Advisor. I'll be your guide for the upcoming tasks and assignments."
"Assignments?" I asked, fingers already moving across the keyboard. "And why me?"
Lines of code scrolled across the screen as I began tracing the call—signal hops, server masks, digital footprints.
"The princess has personally chosen you," TRAD said. "You should be proud."
I narrowed my eyes.
"We know you were laid off from your job. We know you're trying to enroll in a prestigious tech school. And we know"—his tone sharpened—"that you're currently attempting to locate my position and identity."
My screen froze.
"You should stop," he added calmly, "before I get mad."
I slammed the laptop shut and lifted the phone back to my ear.
"I'm sorry, Specter," TRAD said lightly. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I don't go by that name anymore," I snapped. "What are you—some kind of spy?"
A chuckle came through the line. "We are far beyond those low lives. And we want to make you one of us."
I said nothing.
"The pay," he continued, "is twice what you made in a week at the pub—for a single mission. Are you in?"
He paused.
"…What am I saying? This isn't an offer. It's a demand."
"Then why pretend I have a choice?" I asked. "I want to get into that school ethically. No hacking. No stealing. I changed. I'm not the Specter you're looking for."
"I'm not forcing you," TRAD replied. "I'm explaining your responsibility. This work is ethical—for the greater good of the city. We intend to eliminate the gangs poisoning it."
He paused.
"And protect your girl."
That hit.
"What does that have to do with me?" I asked quietly.
"Everything, Specter. Your expertise will help us—a lot."
I clenched my jaw.
"Look under your coffee table," he said. "You'll find everything you need."
I glanced down and leaned forward, lifting the table slightly.
"There's a briefcase," I said.
"No," he replied dryly. "It's the grain of dust beneath it. Of course it's the briefcase, Mr. Smart."
"Oh. Now you're sarcastic," I muttered.
"Say that again," TRAD said coldly, "and I'll reopen every buried record tied to your past and remind the world who the real villain is."
"…Okay," I said. "What's the password?"
"16593."
"Huh?"
"One-six-five-nine-three."
"Got it."
The locks clicked open.
"What do you see?" he asked.
"A phone," I said slowly. "A lens case. Ear pods. Black shoes. And a suit—some kind of tactical suit."
"Good," TRAD said. "Don't lose any of it.
The phone is advanced—untraceable signal, maximum battery life, global connectivity. Use it after this call.
The contact lenses sync automatically. GPS-enabled. They can track tech signatures, footprints, fingerprints.
The shoes are silent. Lightweight. Terrain-proof.
The ear pods are for live communication.
And the suit—well… you'll learn what it does soon enough."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Get some rest," TRAD continued. "Tomorrow, you'll be assigned your partner."
The call ended.
The room fell silent.
I sat there, staring at the open briefcase, my reflection faintly visible in the black glass of the phone—wounded, exhausted, and standing at the edge of something I could no longer pretend wasn't real.
Two days.
That's all it took for my life to spiral out of control.
The apartment felt smaller once the call ended.
I closed the briefcase and left it beside the couch, untouched. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside my window. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, my body heavy, my mind restless.
Specter.
I hadn't heard that name in years—not spoken aloud, not even in my thoughts. I built walls around it. Buried it. Told myself that part of me was gone.
But the bruises on my ribs told a different story.
I flexed my hands, watching my fingers curl and uncurl. They still remembered how to calculate angles, how to anticipate motion, how to move without thinking. Skills don't disappear just because you stop using them.
I thought about Code Legacy High. About earning my place honestly. About proving I could be more than what people once feared.
Then I thought about Kenzie.
Her laugh. Her eyes. The way she stood her ground in the park. The way danger seemed to orbit her like a constant shadow.
TRAD had said your girl.
I didn't know when she had become that—but the idea of her caught in the crossfire of gang wars made something twist in my chest.
I stood up and walked to the window. The city sprawled beneath me, fractured and restless. Sirens wailed somewhere far away. Violence wasn't slowing down. It was only changing shape.
If I walked away, someone else would take my place.
Someone worse.
I looked back at the briefcase.
"I don't want to be you anymore," I whispered to the version of myself I'd tried to erase. "But I won't let this city burn either."
Maybe Specter wasn't a monster.
Maybe he was just a weapon—and weapons depended on who wielded them.
The thought didn't comfort me.
I lay down on the couch without turning off the lights, exhaustion finally overpowering resistance. As my eyes closed, memories surfaced—code scrolling endlessly, shadows moving too fast to see, blood on concrete that wouldn't wash away.
The last thing I felt before sleep took me was the weight of a choice I'd already made.