I didn't untie him.
I just left.
Left him there, still bound to the chair, with my fingerprints on his wrists and his confession in the air like ash.
"She chose the war."
I'd rather he'd slapped me.
I walk down the hall barefoot. My footsteps echo on the marble like they belong to someone else.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear.
From clarity.
Because the past twenty-four hours have shattered every illusion I had left, and I still know — somewhere under my ribs — the worst is still coming.
And when it does, it'll come from someone I trust.
That's what Killian taught me.
That's what this city always teaches.
I enter the den.
Dim. Cool. The only light comes from the laptop I stole from one of Killian's contact drops. I don't need authorization to log in.
Because I know someone who can make authorization irrelevant.
Eva.
She owes me a favor.
And Eva?
Eva doesn't forget her debts.
Not in this city.
I type out the message.
PHEOBE:
Need eyes inside Langley. Blackbox archive. Keywords: Killian Cross. Burn file. Redacted content. Do not trace.
Her reply comes six minutes later.
EVA:
You really know how to pick your men.
Give me an hour. No more. No less. If I disappear after this, you owe me a resurrection.
I smile. Barely.
Because Eva might be the only person alive more dangerous with a keyboard than my father is with a lie.
I wait.
I don't move.
Don't blink.
Because the moment you ask for the truth — really ask — you don't get to turn away once it arrives.
Exactly one hour later, the screen pings.
One attachment.
No text.
No commentary.
Just a file.
KILLIAN_CROSS_BURN.dmg
Encrypted twice.
Password protected.
Self-destruct protocol embedded.
I bypass it. Eva taught me how. Years ago.
When she was still just a girl who hated governments and liked espresso shots laced with cyanide.
I open the file.
It expands.
One folder.
REDACTED MATERIAL: EYES ONLY
Inside:
Ninety-three pages.
Timestamped.
Coded.
Stamped with a red line across the top of every one:
OPERATION: SERAPHIM — ASSET 019-A
I open the first document.
SUBJECT: KILLIAN MICHAEL CROSS
DOB: 01.19.1984
PLACE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN
MILITARY CLASSIFICATION: NON-EXISTENT
TRAINING: BLACK OPS / OFF-RECORD / ECHO DIVISION
ENTRY INTO SERVICE: SEALED
My breath goes shallow.
I scroll.
Next page:
MISSION OBJECTIVE (PHASE ONE): INFILTRATE WHITE HOUSE PROTECTION DETAIL — CODE NAME: "BRIDEGUARD"
TARGET: PHEOBE THORNE
I stop.
No.
No, no, no.
The word "Brideguard" jumps out like a branding iron.
I scroll again.
The language gets colder.
More detached.
PHASE TWO: GAIN TARGET'S CONFIDENCE. ELIMINATE THREATS TO RELATIONSHIP DYNAMIC. CONSTRUCT "FAKE MARRIAGE" SCENARIO TO HEIGHTEN PSYCHOLOGICAL DEPENDENCE.
I want to vomit.
I want to scream.
I want to believe this is a lie.
But it reads like every moment I ever trusted him was pre-written in someone else's playbook.
Scroll.
PHASE THREE: SECURE TARGET'S LOCATION IN EVENT OF INTELLIGENCE BREACH. MAINTAIN COVER UNTIL DEBRIEF OR TERMINATION.
And then, at the bottom of that page, underlined three times in thick black font:
NOTE: ASSET TO BE RETIRED AFTER PHASE THREE.
I close my eyes.
"Retired."
The CIA's favorite euphemism.
They don't fire you.
They don't let you go.
They clean you up.
Disappear you.
Kill you.
My throat burns.
My eyes don't.
Because there's nothing left to cry with.
I scroll again.
Photos now.
Surveillance.
Me.
Through windows.
In crowds.
Dancing.
Smiling.
Bleeding.
Dates and times logged beneath each one.
All before Killian was ever "officially assigned" to me.
He was watching before we ever met.
He was memorizing me.
Curating me.
Hunting me.
I reach the last document.
It's short.
Just a sentence.
FINAL CLEARANCE APPROVED — OPERATION WILL PROCEED UNLESS ASSET FAILS TO REPORT.
Signed:
CRANE.
My godfather.
Of course.
Of course it ends with him.
I close the file.
Delete the trace.
Burn the drive.
Turn off the lights.
And sit there.
In the dark.
With the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears like a war drum.
I feel the weight of the room shift.
And I know.
He's behind me.
Killian.
I don't turn.
I don't move.
His voice is quiet.
Measured.
Broken.
"You looked."
I nod.
"You weren't supposed to."
I laugh.
A single, sharp, humorless sound.
"You weren't supposed to be trying to kill me."
He says nothing.
Not yet.
I turn in the chair.
Look at him.
He's standing in the doorway like a man walking into his own execution.
I hold his eyes.
The burn file still glowing behind mine.
"You were never protecting me," I whisper.
His jaw flexes. "I was."
"No. You were assigned to train me. Break me. Marry me."
"I didn't plan the marriage."
"But you played the groom."
He takes a breath like it hurts.
"I didn't know they planned to retire you."
"Bullshit."
"I swear it."
"Bullshit."
He steps forward.
But I raise a hand and he stops like I've drawn a weapon.
And in a way, I have.
"You knew, Killian."
"I didn't. Not until—" His voice cracks. "Not until I stopped filing the reports. Not until I went dark. That's when I realized they had no use for you if I couldn't control you."
"So I became disposable."
"No." His eyes blaze. "You became dangerous."
I stare at him.
Heart hollow.
Voice calm.
"What happens now?"
His answer is quiet.
"I don't know."
I nod.
Because I do.
I know exactly what happens now.