24 Seven
The compound was clinically quiet as I walked through its maze of corridors.
Not the sleep of ordinary offices, but the kind of silence that felt manufactured—every bit of airflow, every rattle of machinery, calibrated for suppression. My boots found the small imperfections in the concrete and multiplied them. I counted each tiny echo, found rhythm in the unevenness.
The other operatives were probably either locked away in their rooms, or out in the field, or somewhere Father had put them to keep them from contaminating the perimeter of his little world.
"He wants to see you in his office."
"Now?"
"Yes."
I didn't waste time, but I didn't rush, either. I put on a pair of black pants and a black hoodie, covered my face as per protocol, and was on my way.
The adrenaline from earlier events and the information I'd learned via the materials still lingered, but I felt the exhaustion. As I walked through the compound, my mind kept on spinning the phone call on repeat.
Maybe it was the way her voice had sounded, or the way she'd looked in the window, not quite scared but not quite safe, either. Or maybe it was the way she moved or laughed. Or her curiosity. She was scared of every shadow but she wasn't scared of a strange man whose face she'd never seen.
She was full of contradictions.
Not she, I reminded myself. The client.
My body didn't know what to do with the memory, so it just kept cycling it. Like an error it wanted to clear, but couldn't.
I turned a corner, glanced at the cameras tracking my approach, took the stairs downstairs.
The office always looked the same.
A windowless coffin with a round table and a single lamp. The chair on the other side of the table was shrouded in darkness to ensure I couldn't see Father's face.
Only today, when I entered, he had already been waiting. Usually, he'd make you wait. If he was first to arrive, it meant he had something urgent to say and didn't want to waste time on psychological theatrics.
He wore a dark turtleneck and a jacket, the kind that cost more than my Ducati. His face was, of course, shadowed. I couldn't see the eyes, only the mouth, which was a pale, stern line.
He didn't move. Didn't say my name.
I stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to approach or hold ground, noting the thin folder on the table.
It was never the same here. Father could shift the temperature of a room just by breathing, and tonight he was holding it in that perfect, toxic balance—neither warm nor cold, but always about to tip.
I flexed my hands, forced the air in and out of my lungs, and waited.
Father let it stretch.
Then he gestured for me to take the chair across from him. I shut the heavy door behind me, moving slow, not wanting to trigger whatever he was loading into the chamber.
I sat.
The lamp was positioned so it blinded you, unless you kept your gaze on the table. My jaw ached. I unclenched it, then clenched it again, which made the ache worse.
I waited for him to speak.
He didn't.
Instead, he reached for the folder on the table. He tapped it once with his index finger, as if confirming it was real.
Then he let his hand rest on top of it, and said, very quietly, "You broke protocol."
I felt the weight in my bones. There was no room for error in the Bureau, not unless Father willed it so.
He didn't raise his voice. Never. The words just dropped into the space between us and sat there, like a lead slug stuck in a time warp that could unravel any second.
I wasn't stupid. I had an idea what he was talking about and what was inside the folder. I made more contact with the current client than with any of my previous clients combined. With no valid reason. Still, I didn't know what to say since he was right.
He gestured for me to look inside the folder.
I took it and pulled out the contents. They were high resolution photos of me and Kimberly Holt.
On my bike. This was the night I took her home because she called me asking for my help.
There was another page. Call logs between her and me.
Burner or not, but the Bureau spied on its own employees too.
Father's excuse was security. But I knew it wasn't the kind of security he wanted us to believe.
"You do know the protocol, right?" he finally asked. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
"Yes." I slid the contents back into the folder. "To maintain separation with the client during the job."
"See. You're not that oblivious after all."
I didn't reply.
"There's a reason for this protocol, Operative Seven. It's to keep your identity secret."
"From whom?" I asked, surprised at my own boldness. "Even I don't know my own identity."
Father drew in a slow breath and let it out. "You are not a protector. You are a solution. There is a difference." He tilted his head, like he was about to tell me something funny. "You two spoke on the phone too. More than once. And the duration of those calls is what I don't like."
I said nothing again.
While the shadows made his face unreadable, I felt the burn of his attention all the way down to my gut.
"You can leave," he said, finally.
I got up. My legs worked, but they didn't want to.
I made it to the door, hand already on the knob, when Father spoke again.
"One last warning."
I stopped, glanced at him over my shoulder.
"The client is not your concern, Operative Seven. If the client is a distraction and you need a replacement for the assignment, let me know. Otherwise, complete your task while keeping your distance. Is that clear?"
"Understood."
He rose up from his chair, disappearing into the shadows completely.
The conversation was over.