Krish
The moment I got the call that Trisha had been shot, my blood ran cold.
Knowing Trisha was injured halfway across the world.
.. tore me apart inside. Trisha had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want me interfering in her life anymore—that shutting me out was necessary for her to succeed in her job role.
So, I respected her wishes, no matter how much it hurt.
But when the call came about her being attacked and wounded, all my resolve shattered.
Within an hour, I was on a plane to Singapore, protocols and promises be damned.
The excuse I gave everyone about my presence in Singapore was about the mission fallout—assessing the damage and determining what went wrong—that my personal attachment to the injured agent didn’t factor in.
But that was a lie. Seeing Trisha so pale and lifeless in that hospital bed wrecked me.
I couldn’t stay away simply to spare her pride or maintain distance.
I needed to see her, needed to know she would be alright.
And when Dr. Bhat told me Trisha was taking my name over and over again in her subconscious state, a flicker of hope sparked in me.
Perhaps there was still a chance for us.
Taking her to the safehouse felt justified.
It was for her own safety while recovering, or so I claimed.
But truly, I engineered this situation to steal time alone with Trisha.
Away from prying eyes, where we didn’t have to be so guarded.
Trisha could hate me for the manipulation, but saving our connection was more important now.
Maybe we still had a chance, despite the odds.
After all, my instincts had led me to her side when she needed me most.
Two days later, I pulled the car into the underground parking of the safehouse.
It was in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Singapore’s bustling metropolis.
Trisha gazed up curiously at the nondescript concrete building.
To an outsider, it looked like any other apartment block, but I knew its anonymous exterior hid state-of-the-art security features inside.
We took the elevator up to the third floor, and I keyed in the code to unlock the door. Ushering Trisha inside, I watched her take in our home for the next two weeks until I deemed her fit for the mission again and until we found out what compromised the mission in the first place.
It was a modest two-bedroom flat, intentionally furnished in muted tones and devoid of any personal effects. But the space had everything we needed—a fully equipped kitchen, living area, and two separate bedrooms for us to maintain a level of privacy and distance.
Of course, I had arranged for all the medical equipment that would be needed to treat Trisha’s injury and for her recovery before her arrival. But I also wanted her time here to be about more than that—reconnecting and lowering her defences around me.
While the nondescript safe house lacked warmth or character, but with Trisha by my side, I was determined to infuse it with warmth and possibility.
Fill the sterile shell with laughter, memories, and understanding.
Find our way back to the ease we’d shared before duty and protocol drove us apart.
Maybe it was optimistic to think we could recapture what had slipped away.
But I had to try. Being here, just the two of us removed from the scrutiny of GLEN, was the chance I had been waiting for.
A glimpse of the bond we could nurture, if Trisha was willing.