03 • Fish* •

Abandoned Warehouses,
Outskirts of the First District, Sector 3
70 Days Until Zero Hour

The introductory meeting had wrapped up after an hour. "The Trouble Squad"—as Callean’s assistant had dubbed them—left the room in moods dark enough to match the cement walls. Not that it was surprising. They’d been forced into a mission none of them had signed up for. At first glance, it seemed simple, even stupidly straightforward. But the more details Callean revealed, the more that straight wire twisted into a barbed one.

They were supposed to smoothly infiltrate Busterrix’s crew, then just as smoothly slip out—with Ragnarson on board. And all this without the slightest stumble. Because if they failed, Busterrix would take the kid. If he took the kid, he might seize power, blackmail the government, or—just for fun—kill the brat. And they’d be watching it all unfold from behind prison bars.

The thought made Kelly’s head spin as she flipped through the thick file on their mission. Inside were details of the plan and its overall outline (because once they got inside Busterrix’s crew, it would mostly be improvisation anyway), as well as profiles of their enemies. Kelly felt her stomach turn as she read—each file listed what these people excelled at, where they had weak points, their skill levels in various fighting techniques, preferred weapons, and how many souls they’d sent knocking on Hades’ door. Someone had clearly spent months analyzing them in depth, just so these five could understand what the hell they were getting into. At least, partially.

She shoved the briefcase at the end of the bed like it stank.

There was nothing about this mission she liked. Starting with the fact that they were supposed to protect the son of the very family she’d almost robbed (okay, that one was personal), and ending with the harshest truth: they had zero room for error. One slip-up, and they were done. No mercy. No one would take their side. Compared to the potential consequences, the promised rewards seemed smaller and smaller—and a lot less tempting.

And yet none of them backed out.

Maybe it was criminal pride. Maybe they just wanted to finish what someone else had started for them. Either way, the whole thing felt too surreal, too twisted to be real. But it was real. And they were stuck in it—armed with nothing but a bent spoon.

She let her legs slide off the mattress and exhaled loudly.

After the meeting, each of them had been led to their assigned quarters—tiny, windowless rooms with a dresser, chair, table, and bed. The wardrobe held essential items: clothes, toothbrush, other necessities. All personal things, taken straight from their own homes. The Bureau clearly didn’t believe in subtlety.

She glanced at the wall clock—it was nearly ten at night, and sleep hadn’t so much as waved hello. She let herself collapse onto the mattress again. Knowing full well that she wouldn’t fall asleep with all the adrenaline still buzzing in her blood, she’d originally planned to read a bit. Something to calm her down. But she couldn’t focus. She only skimmed the profiles of Busterrix’s crew, barely registering the grotesque faces without names. She’d hoped the monotony would tire her out—but no, her brain was still in overdrive.

Eventually, she slid off the bed again and began pacing the room with no clear purpose. She wandered to the door and tried the handle.

To her surprise, it turned.

“Huh. And here I thought they were really going to can us like sardines,” she muttered. After a brief moment of hesitation, she stepped into the silent hallway.

Wanting to test the limits of her so-called freedom—and also to get a better sense of where exactly they were being held—Kelly set off for a short recon. But it wasn’t long before she heard soft footsteps behind her. A glance over her shoulder revealed a young guy trailing a few meters behind. He didn’t look like he was trying to stop her, which meant one thing: each of them had their own personal watchdog, keeping tabs from a distance whenever they left their room.

So much for “freedom.”

She wandered through the empty corridors, finding nothing of interest. After a few minutes, the squeak of the guy’s shoes on the gray linoleum grated on her nerves. What was this, budget surveillance or were all their agents just this useless?

She picked up the pace and turned down the first hallway to the left. Sure enough, she heard her little tail hurrying to catch up. Problem was—she had no idea where anything was. The layout of the facility was a complete mystery. So she grabbed the nearest door handle, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. Moments later, she heard him walk past. She exhaled in relief and peeked out. No sign of her personal guard. Problem solved.

She moved forward, knowing full well that even if there was a wide-open door to freedom right in front of her, she couldn’t run. She couldn’t risk putting Estheim in danger. The fury at Callean bubbled back up inside her.

She’d imagined a lot of ways her career might end—but not like this. Forced into cooperation to save her own skin. Babysitting some rich brat. Honestly, the orange jumpsuit option was starting to look good. But Estheim...

She shook her head, pausing at a junction. She could’ve sworn she’d passed this spot before. The place was a damn maze. She turned into a narrow corridor, short and dim, with a faint glow of light at the far end.

She’d always had a bad habit of worrying about others first and herself second. That habit had earned her more than one scar. And here she was again, more worried about Estheim than herself. He had more to lose. A longer sentence waiting.

At the end of the hall, she stopped and tilted her head to look out through a barred window. Their rooms didn’t even have a crack in the wall, so they hadn’t been able to figure out where they were. She glanced behind her—still no one. Then she jumped, grabbed the windowsill on the second try, and hoisted herself up to peek through the bars. Moonlight lit up an endless stretch of empty fields.

“Bit of a godforsaken dump, huh?”

She nearly fell flat on her ass.  She twisted around and saw Callean’s assistant. Damn her lack of focus.

She dropped down to the floor and turned to face the woman, who was a few centimeters shorter but made up for it by tilting her chin up in defiance. Shoulder-length black hair, Japanese features, looked maybe just under thirty. What the hell was someone like her doing in a place like this.

“This your main base?” Kelly asked, spotting an opportunity to dig for info. “Because it screams not just backwater, but half-assed too.”

The woman laughed, short and quiet, shaking her head.

“Nah, just a temporary setup. Thrown together for the duration of your mission,” she explained. “Quick warehouse conversion—pretty obvious, isn’t it? Come on, I’ll walk you back.” She spun on her heel and started down the corridor at a slow pace.

“I know the way.”

“I don’t doubt it. But we’ve got to find your bodyguard first,” she said with a chuckle, waving a hand.

Kelly sighed loudly, gave one last look toward the window—and followed. So much for freedom.

“You could’ve at least hired better staff,” she muttered when she caught up. “The ones you’ve got could be taken down by a toddler picking his nose.”

“Well,” the woman replied, amused, “the more experienced agents are out in the field or at HQ in downtown Brightmoore. The unlucky ones got stuck with you lot. And from what I heard, you roughed up two of them already.”

She chuckled again, clearly enjoying the memory.

They walked side by side through the empty corridor. Their footsteps echoed along the bare concrete, flickering bulbs buzzing overhead. The woman—Megan, if Kelly remembered correctly—was holding a paper coffee cup. She drained the last drops, crushed it in one hand, and dropped it in a nearby bin. She didn’t look like she was heading to bed anytime soon.

“Out for a walk?” Megan asked, slipping her hands into the pockets of her black overalls. She looked more like she’d just stepped off a skate park than out of an intelligence unit.

“Trying to burn off the adrenaline.”

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, her tone friendly. Like they were old friends, not reluctant allies. And definitely not enemies—which they technically still were.

“Kinda hard to drift off after being kidnapped and held against your will with a bunch of strangers in the next room,” Kelly snapped, but the girl didn’t even blink.

“You’ll get used to it,” Megan said softly, with a pale smile.

You have to, was the part she didn’t say—but it was there all the same.

She was right. Callean had told them they’d be staying here for a full week before the mission started, to get used to each other and prep both mentally and physically.

They reached the hallway with the rooms. Her tail—her so-called bodyguard—was already there, visibly relieved at the sight of her. He probably had his resignation typed out.

“Found your missing stray, Marcus,” Megan said smoothly as the boy walked up.

“I’m sorry, Inspector Nakane, she just disappeared so sudden—”

Megan Nakane raised her hand. He shut up instantly.

“It happens to the best. But next time—stay sharp,” she said sweetly, though her eyes remained cold. The boy flinched, nodded, and scurried away around the corner like a chastised intern.

“Interns,” Megan sighed under her breath, then opened the door to Kelly’s room.

“Try not to give our staff heart attacks next time.”

Kelly gave a crooked smile.

“No promises.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Kelly, unable to resist the question gnawing at her, asked softly, “Why me?”

Megan tilted her head, not understanding.

“Out of all the thieves you could’ve picked, why me?” Kelly clarified. “You knew I tried to rob the Ragnarsons. Doesn’t that seem like a conflict of interest?”

The inspector tilted her head back slightly, as if weighing how much to say. In the end, she offered only:

“Let’s just say… someone wanted you on this mission. Sleep tight, Thifer.”

*fish --> in gambling slang, a player who is inexperienced or easily outplayed