Chapter 9
Selina
I watched twilight settle over Munich through the frosted window of the bakery.
Snow had begun to fall, not the heavy, smothering kind, but delicate flakes that drifted through the fading light.
Across the street, Specter emerged from a small grocery, two canvas bags in his left hand, his right conspicuously empty.
Always ready , even here.
He caught my eye through the glass and nodded once. The signal to go.
I clutched my paper bag of still-warm pastries and stepped outside .
The cold air bit at my lungs. Specter fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders occasionally brushed.
Anyone watching would see a couple heading home after errands.
No one would notice his constant scan of rooftops, the way he used the glass to watch our backs, how he noted each passing car.
“You buying for an army?” He tipped his chin toward my overloaded bags.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked.” I shifted the weight, refusing to admit they were heavy. “Men typically eat more than women, and you need to heal. Plus, I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”
His focus never rested. Rooftops. Windows. Faces. His voice stayed easy, even warm.
“Protein bars and coffee. Standard operative diet.”
“That’s not food, that’s fuel.” The paper bag from the bakery rustled as I readjusted my grip. “Human beings need actual nutrition.”
“Grass-fed iguana meat with fermented tree bark.” His mouth quirked up. “Oblivion nutritionists swear by it.”
I laughed before I caught myself. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Cobra venom in small doses. Builds immunity and adds flavor to oatmeal.”
I nearly stumbled on the cobblestones. “You’re making that up.”
“Am I?” His expression remained deadpan, though amusement edged his expression.
“Fine. Then these donuts are all mine.” I raised the bakery bag, its paper still warm against my fingers.
He tracked a sleek black sedan that slowed as it passed us. “Cruel tactics, Doctor. I might have to requisition at least one for national security purposes.”
A quick sound escaped me, thin in the cold. When was the last time I’d genuinely laughed? Before the attack on the facility, certainly. Maybe long before that.
Streetlamps clicked on, laying shallow pools of light on the cobbles. Flakes crossed the glow and flashed. Beautiful, a little unreal.
And dangerous.
Because the black vehicle had just circled the block, passing us again.
“Don’t react,” he said, casual on the surface, while the body beside me tightened. “Keep talking, keep smiling. Tell me about the pastries.”
I slowed my breathing, trying to ignore the spark of adrenaline. “There’s a chocolate one filled with cream that looks decadent. And something with cinnamon the woman called ‘snowballs’ that seemed appropriate, given the weather.”
He leaned closer as if I’d said something amusing. Warm breath warmed my ear. “We’re going to turn left at the next corner. If the car follows, we’ll know it’s surveillance.”
“And if it is?” My voice remained steady, but my pulse hammered in my throat.
“Then we’ll lose them.” His hand found the small of my back, guiding me around the corner. The touch wasn’t only tactical.
“How?” I kept my voice low. “How?”
“First rule of counter-surveillance: never look directly at what you’re watching.
” He shifted the grocery bags, using the movement to check behind us in the reflection of a darkened shop window.
“Use reflections, peripheral vision. Change pace unexpectedly. Watch for patterns: the same face appearing twice, vehicles that don’t belong. ”
The analyst in me clicked in. “Like our black car.”
He inclined his head, his hand still at my back. “You’re a quick study, Doctor.”
That small praise shouldn’t have warmed me, but it did. I filed away his techniques, knowing they might mean survival later.
“So this is what you do? Turn ordinary moments into tactical operations?”
His expression softened. “This is what they made me do. But sometimes…” he paused, his mouth tightened then eased, “… sometimes I wonder if there was more before. Normal things. Grocery shopping. Walks in the snow.”
Those words hit hard. I found myself studying his profile in the golden glow of the streetlamps: the sharp jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, snowflakes catching in his dark hair. For all that training, there was something human in his uncertainty.
“The sedan didn’t follow,” he noted after a beat, but the wariness didn’t leave his body. “Could be nothing. Could be they’re good.”
“Either way, we should hurry back.”
We walked in comfortable silence, my shoulder occasionally brushing his arm, white vapor trailing from our mouths in the cold air.
The snow fell harder now, dulling the city sounds around us.
For a moment, I could almost pretend we were just a couple heading home on a winter evening, grocery bags and pastries in hand.
Almost, but not quite.
But the weight of his missing memories hung between us, as real as the weapon I knew he carried.
We turned onto our street, the safehouse only a block away. The snow had thickened, softening the sounds of the city. I shifted the bakery bag to my other hand, fingers stiff from cold.
A figure in a black coat emerged from a side alley.
Before I could react, Specter’s hand clamped around my arm. He pushed me backward into a recessed doorway, his body pressing against mine. The grocery bags dropped.
He didn’t budge, pinning me in place. One hand already held a weapon I hadn’t even seen him draw.
“Don’t move.” His mouth was near my ear, warmth against my frozen skin.
I remained perfectly still, my back against the cold door, his chest against mine. Through the layers of our coats, I felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, unnaturally calm compared to my rushed pulse.
The scent of him, clean snow, faint gunmetal, and something else uniquely him, cut through the cold for reasons that had nothing to do with danger. His face hovered inches from mine as he watched the street’s reflection in a darkened shop window across from us.
I studied his profile, the tight jaw, the focused look, the complete absence of fear. This was the operative in his element, the predator assessing threat.
The black-coated figure passed without slowing, hunched against the cold, breath billowing white in the freezing air. Just a local hurrying home.
Specter remained pressed against me for several beats longer than necessary, sharing the same thin pocket of air, small white clouds between us.
I became aware of every point of contact, his hip against mine, his thigh alongside my leg, the hand that had moved to brace against the door beside my head.
“Clear,” he said, though he didn’t move.
He looked down at me, calculation easing for a moment. His attention flicked to my lips for a fraction of a second before he finally moved away, creating cold space between us.
He didn’t acknowledge what had just happened. “Let’s go.”
We continued toward the safehouse, walking closer together than before. The earlier lightness had vanished, replaced by a hard silence. The playful banter seemed to belong to different people in a different world.
The safehouse door closed behind us with a soft click. I set down the bakery bag on the kitchen counter while Specter secured the locks. He moved through the apartment, checking windows, sightlines, escape routes. Only when he’d completed his inspection did his shoulders lower slightly.
I hung my coat on the back of a chair. “All clear?”
He gave a brief nod, posture still wired from our near-encounter on the street. The playful man who’d joked about cobra venom in oatmeal had vanished, replaced by the operative.
I unpacked the groceries, stealing glances at him as he stood at the window, watching the street below through a narrow gap in the curtains. The charge from that moment in the doorway, his body pressed against mine, our shared air sat between us, sharp and present.
I opened the bakery bag. “You should eat something.” The rich scent of sugar and butter filled the small space.
He didn’t turn. “Not hungry.”
“That wasn’t a question.” I arranged the donuts on a chipped plate I’d found in the cabinet. “The girl at the bakery said these are some Eastern European specialty. I couldn’t understand half the flavors she described.”
When he didn’t respond, I picked up the plate and crossed the room to where he stood. “Doctor’s orders.”
“I don’t need…”
“One bite won’t kill you.” I studied the colorful array, selecting one with deep purple filling oozing from its side. “This one looks interesting.”
He glanced at the pastry, then back to the window. “I’m fine.”
“You’re being stubborn.” I broke off a piece, purple jam sticking to my fingers. “You need to keep your strength up. For tactical reasons.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Is that your professional assessment?”
“Absolutely.” I moved to stand beside him at the window, holding out the morsel. “Consider it medicinal.”
He stepped away, moving toward the kitchenette. I followed, hand extended.
“Most operatives would consider it a luxury,” I said, trailing him as he checked the apartment’s rear exit.
“I’m not most operatives.”
“Clearly. Most would recognize superior tactical nutrition when offered.”
This time he did smile, just barely. “You’re persistent.”
“Part of my charm.” I shadowed him back toward the front door, where he paused to adjust the locks. “One bite. Then I’ll stop bothering you.”
He turned, exasperation and amusement battling across his face. For a moment, I glimpsed the man beneath the operative—someone who might have enjoyed ordinary pleasures before Oblivion stripped them away.
“Fine.”
I expected him to take the piece from my hand.
Instead, his focus caught mine, something passing between us.
He bent slightly and took it directly from my fingers, his lips brushing against my fingertips.
The contact was brief, but my muscles tightened.
I froze, my hand suspended in the air where his mouth had been.
The playfulness dropped from his face. He didn’t look away. Then his pupils spread until almost no gray remained. His entire body went rigid, one hand slapping the wall to steady himself.
“Specter?” I moved toward him, medical training kicking in. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes fixed past me, focused on something I couldn’t see. The hand against the wall trembled.
“Talk to me,” touching his arm. “Are you having another seizure?”
He swallowed hard, a tremor moving through his body. The purple jam still stained his lower lip, a stark smear against the horror tightening his face.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded hollow, distant, as if it were coming from somewhere else.
“There were children… And I think… I think I killed them all.”