The ship swallowed us whole the moment we stepped inside.
It was massive—far larger than it had looked from the dock—its ceilings rising high above us like the inside of a cathedral made of steel and glass. Chandeliers spilled warm light over polished floors, and the low hum of voices layered itself into something almost musical. People moved everywhere: couples laughing softly, men in tailored coats pulling luggage, women gliding past with the confidence of those who had never known fear. It all looked too normal. Too clean.
And that was what unsettled me most.
Because with every glance that brushed past us, every lingering stare or careless bump, tension wound tighter around my chest. I felt it in my bones, the way animals feel storms before the sky changes. I knew—without proof, without evidence—that we were not alone. That somewhere among the silk dresses and expensive shoes, there were eyes calculating distances, hands memorizing faces, minds already rehearsing violence.
Assassins blend in best where luxury lives.
I kept my face neutral, my pace unhurried. Fear was a language here, and I refused to speak it.
Dorian walked ahead of us, as always. Calm. Controlled. He carried himself like someone who belonged anywhere, which made him invisible in the best way. Clara followed close behind him, Yeager cradled in her arms. The boy's head rested against her shoulder, his small fingers knotted into her coat as if letting go would make the world fall apart. I stayed behind them, watching everything—reflections in glass, shadows along the walls, the way people's gazes slid toward us and away again.
Relax later, I told myself. Survive first.
An attendant met us near the central corridor, a young man with a professional smile and eyes that flicked quickly to our tickets. He spoke softly, politely, and gestured for us to follow. I let him walk just ahead of Dorian, keeping enough distance that I could see his hands at all times. He led us through wide hallways lined with heirlooms—ornate vases sealed behind glass, clocks that looked older than nations, and portraits of long-dead men and women staring down with expressions of quiet authority.
History preserved in gold frames.
It should have impressed me. Normally, it might have. But all I saw were hiding places, blind spots, corners where a knife could appear from nowhere.
Still, nothing jumped out at me. No sudden shifts in movement. No repeated faces. No subtle signals exchanged between strangers. If there were threats—and I was certain there were—they were being patient.
We reached the stairway that led to the suites. The steps were wide, carpeted, curving upward in an elegant sweep. As we climbed, I watched Clara. Her grip on Yeager never loosened, but there was something steady about her, too. Fear lived in her eyes, yes—but so did resolve. And every time I saw the way she held her son, shielding him without even thinking, something inside me eased. Just a fraction.
This was why I was here. Not the mission number. Not the clearance level. This.
Suite 204 sat at the end of a quiet corridor. The attendant unlocked it, handed the keys to Dorian, and left us with a courteous nod. I didn't relax until his footsteps faded completely.
"I'll clear," I said quietly.
I entered first.
The suite was enormous. A living room stretched out before me, furnished with soft leather couches, a dining table set for more people than we were, and tall windows draped in heavy curtains. I moved methodically—checking corners, scanning ceilings, opening cabinets. The kitchen was spotless, stocked, unused. I checked under counters, behind panels, inside vents. Bathrooms next—marble floors, spotless mirrors, no signs of tampering. Bedrooms followed, each with its own bathroom, each silent and still.
No microphones. No cameras. No unfamiliar wiring.
Either we were lucky… or this was only the beginning.
When I finished, I nodded to Dorian. "Clear. No mics. Nothing suspicious."
He met my eyes for a brief second and inclined his head. Trust, silent and solid.
Clara came in next and sat down heavily on the couch, Yeager still in her arms. She exhaled, long and shaky, as if she had been holding her breath since the night before.
"I'm so tired," she whispered—not weakly, just honestly. "But I can't stop. Not for him."
I watched her stroke Yeager's hair, her expression softening even as exhaustion weighed on her face. Love like that was terrifying. It made people brave in ways that got them killed—or saved.
Hours passed quietly.
Too quietly.
The ship's gentle vibration hummed through the walls as it moved, and daylight shifted slowly across the room. I sat near the window at first, then paced, then stood still again. My mind kept circling the same thought: What if they weren't on board? What if this was all a distraction, and the real danger waited at the border?
Don't spiral, I told myself. That was how mistakes happened.
I went looking for Dorian.
He was near the door when I found him, posture relaxed but alert, as if his body never truly rested. He had ordered food—something simple, nothing flashy. Another good call.
Watching him, I felt that familiar doubt creep in. This was my third year as a spy. Mission thirty-two this year alone. And still, I felt… small. Fidgety. Like I was always one step behind people like Liam, like the seniors who carried themselves with the certainty of legends.
Liam believed in me. He kept pushing me higher, trusting me with things that mattered.
I wasn't sure I deserved it.
Dorian reached for the door.
And then—
Time shattered.
The door opened, and pain exploded in my eyes. A sharp hiss filled the air, followed by the unmistakable burn of tear gas. I barely had time to register it before my legs gave out. The floor slammed into my back, knocking the breath clean out of me.
They were already here.
I coughed, choking, my vision dissolving into fire and blur. Somewhere behind me, Clara screamed. Yeager cried. The sound sliced through me deeper than any blade.
Move.
I forced myself up, every nerve screaming. My back felt like it had been struck by lightning, but adrenaline drowned it out. I rolled, scrambled, and pushed myself toward the inner room, dragging air into my lungs that felt like poison.
Breaking my life or not, this ended now.
I burst into the other room, heart pounding, hands already reaching for the weapons hidden against my thighs. There was no time to think, no time to fear. Only motion. Only purpose.
They had made their move.
And so had I.