She inhaled deeply and unsealed the case.
A soft hiss escaped as the airtight seal broke. The lid lifted slowly, and the scent of cold metal and something faintly chemical drifted into the room. Elara leaned closer, eyes narrowing as the contents came into view.
Documents.
A phone she'd never seen before—thin, unbranded.
A sleek envelope stamped with a red wax seal.
And a single boarding pass tucked into a leather wallet.
Her breath hitched.
The flight was scheduled for 5:10 AM.
Destination: Classified.
Passenger: Elara M. Vance.
She hadn't entered her middle initial anywhere in the email exchange.
A prickle crawled across the back of her neck.
She picked up the envelope last, running her thumb over the heavy wax. The seal was embossed with an intricate crest—unfamiliar, almost regal. When she broke it open, a stack of crisp documents slid out.
At the top: NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT — LEVEL III CLASSIFICATION.
The text beneath was unlike anything she'd ever signed. No company name. No legal representative. Only clauses that sliced like razor lines:
You will not discuss the client.
You will not reveal the location.
You will not attempt to leave until the job is complete.
Breach of contract will result in immediate legal action.
The client reserves the right to retrieve you at any time.
Her stomach twisted. Retrieve? What kind of contract used a word like that?
She skimmed the rest—her fingerprints required, voice signature, retinal scan. The form was already filled with her personal information.
But what made her blood run cold wasn't the contract. It was the final sheet underneath, the one she hadn't noticed before.
A dossier.
Her dossier.
Her full academic history.
Employment records—including jobs she'd never listed publicly.
Private notes from professors she'd never seen.
Photos of her restorations, ones she'd never posted.
Photos of her—walking to work, entering her apartment, waiting at a bus stop.
Her throat tightened painfully. This wasn't research. This was surveillance.
Her hand trembled as she dropped the papers onto the table. They scattered across the wood like a deck of cards thrown too hard.
For a moment she couldn't breathe.
The courier's words echoed again: Whatever you think this is… prepare for it to be something else.
Elara pressed both hands to the table, grounding herself. She wasn't easily shaken—years of scraping by had hardened her—but this was different. Someone out there had been watching her for a long time. Tracking her. Studying her work, her life, her movements.
Someone had decided she was the only person they needed.
And that alone was terrifying.
But as fear tightened around her ribs, something else—something sharper—cut through it.
Curiosity.
She swallowed, eyes landing on the boarding pass again. Freedom from debt. A chance at something bigger. The kind of restoration job that might make her career—if she survived it.
She let out a long breath, steadying her shaking fingers.
"Fine," she whispered, though no one was listening. "You want me? You'll have me."
One by one, she signed the documents. The digital pen felt heavier with each stroke, as if the weight of her decisions were sinking directly into the ink.
When she finished, she didn't feel relief. She felt something else—an invisible thread tightening between her and whoever had orchestrated this.
Like they were already pulling.
She gathered the documents, sealed them into the return envelope, and placed it inside the case where the courier had left instructions for retrieval.
As she closed the lid, a final tremor passed through her—not fear, not doubt, but the electric sense of something irreversible locking into place.
Her decision was made.
There was no turning back now.