Earth. Central Office of the Security Service.
The holographic sky above the panoramic walls shimmers in shades of ultramarine, as if searching for some long-lost serenity. Clouds drift lazily across the digital blue—an illusion of peace in a place where peace has never lived.
Inside the office: silence, stretched taut. The openness and light do nothing to soften the invisible threat. The air—clean, sterile—feels laced with something sharper. Tension you can almost breathe.
Camilla sits in a high-backed chair. From her radiates a silence sharp enough to end careers.
A translucent tablet rests on her lap. With a slow flick of her finger, pages of a report scroll past like frames from a ruined life. But her eyes aren't on the words. They read between them.
Too neat. When everything's clean, someone swept. And the one who swept is either a fool—or dangerously clever.
A voice crackles through the internal comms:
"Director, Head of Intelligence Nicholas has arrived."
Camilla brushes the armrest. The illusion of the sky vanishes like a mirage, leaving behind only walls—clean, austere, true. The room tightens. Illusion gives way to intent.
The time for lies has passed.
The door slides open. Nicholas enters. His uniform is crisp, his step exact—like he's wired into protocol. The badge on his chest gleams as if freshly replaced. In his hands: a tablet. In his eyes: anticipation.
"Madam Director," he says, his voice precise, honed by command. "We've captured the mercenary. He's on base. Interrogation has begun."
Camilla rises. Smoothly. No sudden movements, but her walk is a restrained blow. Tension thickens around her. Her body says: I am law. I am sentence.
"Show me," she says quietly, but there's a thrill in her voice. Ice waiting for the crack.
**
Corridors. Deep. Soundless.
The ceiling lights drift like artificial dawns doomed never to reach the real thing. Footsteps echo like knuckles on a sealed vault.
Every shadow here knows too much. And says nothing.
A turn. A pause. Another stretch—and they enter the observation room. Silence.
A panoramic bulletproof window separates two worlds: one of judgment, one of consequence. Beyond it, a white, timeless cell. At the center, a metal chair bolted into the floor like a cross.
The mercenary sits motionless. Sharp features, dark clothes. Clamped by magnetic locks—as if he's not a man, but equipment. Yet his eyes are alive. Too alive. And disturbingly calm.
Not the type who breaks. The type who watches. Which means—he's not simple.
The interrogator sits across from him. Voice even, sharpened. Questions land like a surgeon's cuts—not cruel, but precise.
Camilla watches. She doesn't just observe—she dissects. She hunts not for evidence, but intent.
"What was he trying to do?" she asks, breaking the silence. Her tone restrained, but heavy with pressure.
"Posed as a tech to infiltrate the diplomatic wing," Nicholas replies, voice slightly rougher. "Tapped into the session hall's networks. Planted a thermite charge in the climate system. Nearly worked. If it weren't for our people..."
"The Mars scenario would've succeeded," Camilla finishes. Coldly. No judgment—just diagnosis.
"Who is he?"
"New guy," Nicholas exhales. And in that breath—a fracture of doubt. "Brave because he's dumb. Didn't even try to cover his tracks. We caught him on entry. Cameras. Network traffic. Breathing pattern."
Camilla turns. Slowly. Her gaze: clinical, like an X-ray.
"Too easy. Too clean. He's a decoy, Nick. A storefront dummy. They tossed him to us like a bone. And you... bit. While we stare at him—the real agent's already inside."
You got caught. And now I'm caught with you.
Nicholas clenches his jaw. His shoulders tighten. He says nothing. Because right now, any word would bleed weakness.
"Any other leads?" Her voice sharpens.
"None. Just him. Too clean."
Camilla steps closer to the glass. As if she might walk through it. She stares directly at the mercenary.
He lifts his head. Their eyes lock. His—defiant, laced with a smirk. Hers—empty. Like a scalpel.
"Drop it. Lock him up. Let him rot," she says, voice dry as a blade. "Right now he's trash. Work the rosters. Special focus—Mercury delegation techs. That's the thread. That's where it'll snap."
"Understood," Nicholas replies, clipped. And then he's gone. No drama. No footsteps. Just fades into the gray corridor—like a mistake that was never meant to be.
**
Camilla stays behind. Alone. Facing the glass. Behind it—a man. Before it—a machine. In the reflection, she sees her own face. What's left of it.
If there's no fear in the mirror anymore… maybe you've already lost your edge.
The lights dim softly. Then flicker back.
And the world… still waits for the next mistake.