51 Seven
I walked the corridor with my fists balled at my sides.
Every time my boots hit the concrete, the echo came back louder, sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. The compound had a way of doing that—amplifying whatever you tried to keep inside your head, forcing it into the open.
The floor had been waxed recently, and it reflected my own silhouette as I moved through the maze.
My mind had been a chaotic storm these past few days.
It wasn't just the night I'd spent with her or the earth-shattering revelation of my identity or the demands of the current job that I needed to wrap up.
It was everything crashing down at once, a tidal wave of emotions that had been surging inside my chest ever since I'd been given the assignment.
At first, I was terrified of those feelings.
They twisted the way I thought, and they clung to me like an unshakable shadow.
But now, I realized that they were meant to remain.
They'd already carved themselves into the very fabric of my being.
I didn't know when exactly—maybe the moment I saw her in the photo Father showed me, or maybe that night at the gala when Wick cornered her.
Or maybe it was a process, a combination of little things building upon each other as I watched her and talked to her.
I didn't know and I didn't care.
She'd burrowed into my heart slowly but surely, and I didn't want her to just be gone from my life.
I found myself standing in front of Father's office, and pushed the door open.
Inside, nothing ever changed.
No windows. The table in the center of the room. Two chairs on opposite sides, like the world's most antagonistic tea party. A single lamp.
Father was already there, hulking in the far chair with his hands folded in his lap. The light left his face in shadow as always.
"Operative Seven," he said by way of greeting and gestured at the empty chair.
I didn't bother sitting.
The room was cold, and today I liked it that way—it kept the blood sharp.
"What is it this time?" Father asked. "You wanted to see me again?"
I looked past him at the dead zone where wall met floor. "You know why I'm here."
Father nodded, slow and ponderous, like he was conceding nothing.
"The job is done," I said. "All three targets have gotten what they deserved."
"And the tail?"
"No longer relevant. Valmont's assets are frozen—no money to pay his watchdogs.
We both know he has much bigger issues to deal with…
Like trying to salvage his political career.
Unfortunately, assault isn't a small matter.
I expect a number of victims will step forward.
He'll be drowning in legal battles for years. "
"Interesting," Father said.
"I don't see how."
"We don't use names, Operative Seven."
I paused for a moment, attempting to grasp his meaning, then realized I had referred to Valmont by his last name instead of simply labeling him as a target. "About that…" I forced myself to speak louder. "I want out."
Father let the silence swell until it was a living thing between us. "It's not easy to leave the Bureau, Operative Seven. You know this."
"I don't care."
Another nod. Then, "Is it the girl?"
That caught me. Not the fact that he knew—I'd always assumed he knew everything—but that he'd say it out loud.
"It's not."
"So your little impromptu investigation into her mother's case has nothing to do with that fact that she asked you to handle the problem?"
Of course, nothing could remain off the books with him.
"An innocent woman being scammed and attacked by the target just so he could exercise his power over others…" I chuckled bitterly. "If you think we should just leave it alone because the client's mother didn't pay us, it'd disappointing."
"No one asked you to dig into the insurance fraud and to chase down the other driver, Operative Seven."
"I volunteered."
"It is the girl," Father concluded.
"It's not about the girl," I insisted, even though it partially—well, mostly—was. "I'm a person, a human being. I know there's more to this existence. Haven't I done enough for you? Isn't this why you took me away from the group home? To make me your little soldier."
He didn't produce a response.
"I don't want to be an instrument. I want to do things other people do."
He didn't flinch. "You were always more than an instrument. I gave you skills to protect yourself."
"From what?"
He was quiet again.
"From what, Father?" I asked, louder this time. "From figuring out who I really am?"
"You are proof the system works."
I laughed. "You call this working?" I gestured at the bare walls of the room.
"You are alive, aren't you? Alive and fed and have a purpose."
"Not really," I said.
"You know too much. You've seen too much. There is no exit for someone with your knowledge base. And even if you could run, the world would eat you alive. That's why I'm here."
I stepped around the chair, closing the gap until I was almost in the spill of the lamplight.
"You taught me better than that. If I wanted to disappear, I could.
I'd be out of the country in a day, and you'd never find me.
But I don't want to run. I want you to let me go.
I want to do this right, Father. Because we're not here to do dirty deeds for fun.
We're here to punish those the law failed to punish.
And if you're the man I think you are, you'll see it too—I haven't gotten my justice yet.
And I'm no different from all those clients. I deserve dignity too."
The room fell silent.
Even though I couldn't see his face very well, I knew he studied me. I sensed the calculation behind the shadows.
"Your parents are dead," he said. "That's justice."
"That's not what I meant," I countered. "For what it's worth," I added, "I came to you first. Out of respect."
He leaned forward. The chair creaked softly under his weight. Finally, he tipped up his face just enough to catch some light. The eyes were as flat and dark as river stones. "And if I say no?"
"Then I walk," I said. "And you send your worst after me. And we play the old game. But I'm sure you know I have a backup plan if something happens to me or certain people."
Father considered it. He took his time.
"You'd kill the others if I sent them, wouldn't you?"
"I'd try if they try to kill me."
He smiled, but it was the kind of smile you saw on a dead man's lips in a coffin. "You're my masterpiece, Seven. A pity you turned out so fucking sentimental."
"That's not what this is."
He barked a laugh. "Of course it is. The emotions got the best of you."
"Is that a bad thing?"
In his eyes, they were. He'd always interpreted emotions as liabilities, not realities.
He didn't respond to my question. Instead, he leaned in some more, planting elbows on his knees and said, "Let's pretend I say yes. What then?"
"I disappear. You'll never see me again."
Father's voice was very low, almost gentle. "And if I need you?"
I shook my head. "You won't."
He thought about it for a very long time. The only sound in the room was the whir of the air vent above. He had this thing where he'd let a moment hang until you couldn't bear it, then make his move just as you started to sweat.
Finally, he said, "Here's my condition. If you go, you're gone. But if I ever need your set of skills, and I call you, you come and do the job. You owe me that much. No strings. One-time contract."
I looked at him, really looked at the lines in his face. He was an old man, who wanted to keep a leash on me, even if it was a thin one. But he'd taken me out of that group home I barely remembered. He'd brought me here, he'd made sure I wasn't bullied or hungry. In my own way, I was grateful.
What he was asking of me now was the best offer I'd ever get. And I knew it. The alternative, where I ran would put Kimmy in danger.
So, after a moment of deliberation, I nodded.
"Use your words," Father insisted. "I want to hear you say it."
"If you ever need me for a specific job," I said, "I'll come."
He relaxed, only a little, and it was terrifying how much power there still was in his stillness.
"Good," he said. "I hope you can get through this life, Operative Seven."
As I reached the door, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder.
"My name is Milo," I said. The words felt heavy but true.
I turned the handle and stepped into the hallway, letting the door fall shut behind me.
With every step, I felt lighter. The echoes of my own footsteps sounded different—less like a threat, more like a heartbeat.
Somewhere out there, Kimmy was waiting.
And this time, I was coming back as myself.