Los Angeles — 11:47 PM
W.I.A. Western Los Angeles Headquarters
Los Angeles shimmered under the night sky, city lights glowing like fallen stars across quiet streets and nearly empty highways. A few buses still made their rounds, but most of the city slept in peace.
Rising above it all stood the Western Los Angeles Headquarters of the W.I.A.—a towering high-rise crowned with communication arrays and radio towers. From the outside, security seemed light. Inside, it was a different story.
Armed personnel moved with purpose through secured corridors. Agents in suits walked alongside officers in green tactical uniforms, patrol caps low over their eyes. Every hallway carried a sense of urgency—controlled, but constant.
On the upper floor sat General Cov's office, encased in reinforced bulletproof glass.
Inside, a sturdy black desk stood at the center. On it rested a framed photograph of Cov's graduation from the United States Army, another of his son, and a neat stack of sealed W.I.A. files. Behind the desk, the general sat still, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air.
A sharp knock broke the silence.
"General Cov, requesting permission to enter!"
"You may enter, Lieutenant Theo," Cov replied, his voice firm and steady.
The door opened. Lieutenant Theo stepped in and snapped a salute. "Sir."
General Cov stood and returned it. "At ease. Sit down."
"Thank you, sir." Theo took the seat across from him.
Cov leaned back slightly, studying him. "Any reports on yesterday's attempted attack on the President?"
Theo hesitated for a brief moment. "No official report yet, sir. They're still investigating."
Cov's eyes narrowed.
"We rely too much on others," he said coldly.
He stood abruptly, palms hitting the desk with a sharp thud.
"Spies are operating inside our borders—and we're doing nothing about it." His voice rose, controlled but burning underneath. "We wait. We depend. And because of that, they stay ahead of us."
Theo swallowed. "Sir… I thought they captured one of the E.I.S. agents—"
"It was fake." Cov cut him off sharply. "A fabrication."
Silence filled the room for a second.
"We thought we finally had something real," Cov continued, quieter now but far more dangerous. "But I won't stop until I uncover the truth. If these spies exist…" His gaze hardened. "I will bring hell down on them."
He exhaled slowly, regaining control, then returned to his seat.
"Now," he said, calmer, "any updates on Lieutenant Colonel Zoey Beatrice Alison and the Las Vegas robbery case?"
Theo straightened slightly. "She's currently on leave, sir. After the Tributero incident… command approved her break."
Cov let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his temple. "Of course she is."
A brief silence followed before he reached for a folder and slid it across the desk.
"Then you'll handle it."
Theo blinked. "Sir?"
"You have two weeks," Cov said firmly. "Use every resource available—including DOCI intelligence. Prove yourself… and I'll see to it your salary increases by the end of the month."
Theo's eyes widened slightly. "Understood, sir."
He stood immediately, snapping into a salute. "Lieutenant Theo, on duty. Permission to be dismissed?"
Cov gave a small wave of his hand. "Dismissed."
Theo held the salute for a second longer, then turned and walked out. Just before the door closed, he hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—feeling the weight of expectation behind him.
Then he left.
Silence returned to the room.
The faint glow of the cigar burned at the edge of the desk as General Cov leaned back in his chair.
A rare, quiet smile crossed his face.
"That's my son…" he murmured.
The smile faded just as quickly.
"…Don't disappoint me."
Elsewhere in Los Angeles — same night
E.I.S. Headquarters
While the W.I.A. searched for answers, another force moved in silence.
Even at this hour, the E.I.S. facility remained alive.
Agents, scientists, and black-uniformed guards moved with quiet precision through spotless white corridors. Bright ceiling lights stretched in perfect lines overhead, casting a sterile glow across polished floors. Doors stood evenly spaced along the halls, each one sealed, each one hiding something classified. Some guards walked in pairs, rifles held at ease, voices low as they exchanged brief conversations.
Everything was controlled. Measured.
Perfect.
Yet inside Director Cassandra Kane's office, the atmosphere shifted.
Quieter. Heavier.
The room blended cool gray walls with polished wood and sleek modern design. A soft desk lamp cast a warm glow over a neatly arranged workspace. Beside it sat a photo frame—Cassandra Kane, smiling, with two young girls.
For a moment, it didn't look like the office of someone running a covert organization.
It looked… human.
Cassandra stood behind her desk, reviewing a file with calm focus.
Across from her sat Frontier.
Dressed in a black tactical suit and a high-tech mask, he remained perfectly still—back straight, hands resting on his knees. His presence was controlled, almost mechanical.
"Director Kane," he said, voice low and precise, "the mission is complete. The individuals behind Ms. Allysa's attempted attack have been eliminated."
He paused briefly.
"Dave Cooper and Jack Cooper have been neutralized."
Cassandra closed the file gently.
"Good," she said, a faint smile forming. "And you weren't followed?"
"No, Director. W.I.A. forces were unable to track me."
"Good," she repeated, quieter this time.
A brief silence settled between them.
Frontier shifted slightly.
"Director… I have a question. If I may."
Cassandra lifted her gaze. "Go on."
"Why assign Agent 429-J to this mission?" he asked. "Why not deploy another operative?"
The question hung in the air.
Cassandra exhaled softly—not irritated, but thoughtful.
"Gary Eliot Borja… Agent 429-J," she said, almost as if weighing the name itself. "He's one of our best."
She stepped slightly to the side, resting a hand on the desk.
"Three hundred operations. No failures that matter. Targets eliminated. Threats contained." Her tone remained calm—but there was something beneath it. Pride.
"Chairman V.R. recognizes his work personally."
She paused.
"And before I became a handler…"
Her eyes lowered for just a second.
"…he was my student."
A small smile touched her lips—subtle, but real.
"When you have something worth protecting," she continued, her voice steady again, "you send the one person who won't fail."
Frontier nodded slowly.
"I understand, Director."
A short pause.
"A man like him…" Frontier added quietly, "is meant for something greater."
Cassandra didn't respond immediately.
Her eyes drifted—just for a second—to the photo on her desk.
Then back to the present.
"…We'll see."
San Diego, California — past midnight
The city had quieted, but it never truly slept.
A few buses still rolled through the streets. Cars hummed in the distance, and the occasional police cruiser cut through the silence. Moonlight stretched across the city, brushing rooftops and empty sidewalks, while distant lights glowed gold along the coastline.
Along Orbio Road, Gary walked alone.
Beanie low. Jacket zipped. Hands buried deep in his pockets.
For once, his artificial mask was gone.
His head stayed down as he approached a narrow alleyway swallowed in darkness.
"Hm. This must be the place."
He stomped his foot three times—sharp, deliberate.
A signal.
"I'm here. Agent 429-J."
A pause.
Then—
Three stomps answered back.
"Good. You're here, Agent 429-J."
A man stepped out from behind a parked car and casually sat on its hood.
Late forties—maybe early fifties. Scruffy beard. Tired eyes.
Same old smirk.
"Good evening, Agent 429-J… or should I say, Gary."
Gary didn't react. His face stayed neutral.
"Hello, Mike. Haven't changed, huh?"
Mike laughed as he walked over. "Hell yeah I did."
Then he pulled Gary into a tight, brotherly hug.
"Damn, man… it's been what—two years?" he said, grinning as he pulled back.
Gary adjusted his jacket slightly. "Still stuck in that bank-robber life?"
Mike smirked. "Kid, the shady business in L.A. never sleeps." He jerked his thumb toward the car. "Your weapons are in the trunk."
"I'll check later," Gary said. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "And why the hell did you drag me all the way to San Diego? My client's in Beverly Hills."
Mike burst out laughing.
"HAHAHA—get used to it, Sonny boy. L.A.'s locked down after my last job."
"You never change."
"Damn right I don't."
Mike lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag before glancing back at him.
"So… how's the mission going, my Gary boy?" He offered the pack. "Want one? It's cold as hell out here."
Gary took one without hesitation. "Yeah. Thanks, old man."
"Still cold as ice," Mike muttered with a grin. "Alright—talk to me."
"The mission, or your stupid heist addiction?" Gary shot back.
"Your mission, dumbass."
Gary exhaled smoke slowly.
"It's fine," he said. "Clean. Controlled. But—"
Mike cut him off, voice quieter now.
"But it's still there, huh?"
Gary stilled slightly.
"That thing you don't talk about," Mike continued. "Still messing with your head."
A brief silence.
Gary didn't answer right away.
"…How'd you know?" he muttered.
Mike shrugged, exhaling smoke into the cold air.
"Because I've been there."
Gary looked at him.
Really looked at him.
For once, Mike wasn't joking.
"Being a robber ain't easy, kid," Mike said, voice lower now. "I'm tired of this shit."
He stared down at the pavement.
"I'm in debt with some idiot in Vegas—Mr. Villano. Guy threatened my family. Said he'd wipe them out if I don't pay up."
Gary's expression hardened.
Mike dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot.
"I thought things would get better after I faced my past," he continued quietly.
"What past?" Gary asked.
Mike let out a slow breath.
"I left someone behind," he said. "A friend. Promised we'd make it out together."
His jaw tightened.
"He didn't."
Silence.
Cold. Heavy.
Gary didn't interrupt.
"You know…" Mike said after a while, "you shouldn't keep everything locked up like that."
"I'm not," Gary replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Mike gave him a look. "Kid, I'm old—not stupid."
Gary said nothing.
"Whatever they taught you over there…" Mike continued, "that whole 'no emotions' thing—it's bullshit."
Gary let out a quiet breath.
"It keeps me alive."
"For now," Mike shot back.
He stepped closer, pointing the cigarette at him.
"But you keep that up long enough? It's gonna mess you up."
Gary's eyes shifted slightly.
"Especially with that client of yours," Mike added with a smirk. "She's pretty. Don't tell me you didn't notice."
Gary snapped.
"What? I don't have feelings for my client." His voice rose slightly. "That's how agents die."
Mike just shook his head.
"You're not a machine, Gary."
Silence.
The words hit harder than expected.
"You don't gotta walk around like a damn statue all the time," Mike continued. "Feeling something doesn't make you weak."
Gary looked away, exhaling slowly.
The night felt colder.
Quieter.
He didn't argue this time.
Mike leaned back against the car, voice softer now.
"You're still human, kid. Don't forget that."
Gary's eyes stayed on the cracked pavement.
Mike flicked ash to the ground.
"And yeah—I didn't pull this out of nowhere," he added. "Had a handler once… old E.I.S. guy. Chairman something. V.R., I think."
Gary glanced at him.
"Mike… you don't understand my mission."
Mike didn't flinch.
"You're protecting someone important," he said simply. "People are after her."
Gary's silence confirmed it.
"But that doesn't mean you gotta kill yourself inside to do it," Mike added. "You can still live a little. Just don't be stupid about it."
He paused.
Then sighed.
"Look… I'm old, kid."
For once, there was no humor in his voice.
"My time's running out. You?" He glanced at Gary. "You've got everything ahead of you."
Gary didn't move.
"If you keep living like this…" Mike said quietly, "you're gonna miss it."
Gary lowered his gaze again, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement. Mike's words lingered, pressing quietly at the back of his mind.
He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing faintly in the dark before fading as he exhaled.
Silence stretched between them.
"Anyway, kid," Mike said, breaking it. "How's your team? Miguel, Zion, Celine… they holding up?"
Gary nodded slightly.
"They're fine," he said. "Zion's still loud as hell—but when it matters, he locks in." A faint pause. "Miguel's the same. Still ahead of everyone else."
"And Celine?" Mike asked.
Gary hesitated—just for a second.
"…She's still herself," he said quietly. "Same as before."
Mike gave a small nod. "Good. That's good."
Another brief silence passed.
Mike scratched his chin. "What about your client again? What was her name… uh—"
"Allysa Sydney Wu," Gary cut in.
"Right. Her." Mike looked at him. "How's that going?"
Gary exhaled slowly.
"It's stable," he said. "We got hit yesterday. Two guys on a motorcycle."
Mike's expression shifted instantly.
"I took a round to the side," Gary added, almost casually. "Nothing serious."
Mike frowned. "You sure about that?"
"I'm still standing."
Mike let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. "Jesus… kid."
"Relax," Gary said. "She's safe. That's what matters."
Mike studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small nod.
"…Yeah. Guess it is."
Silence settled again—but lighter this time.
Gary flicked ash from his cigar, then glanced toward the car.
"Alright," he said. "Let me see what you brought."
Mike smirked. "Now you're talking."
He pushed himself off the hood and walked toward the back of the car. Gary followed, boots scraping softly against the pavement.
Mike reached for the trunk.
Click.
The lid lifted with a heavy sound.
"Here you go," he said, stepping aside. "Best I could get my hands on."
Inside, the trunk revealed an arsenal.
Clean. Organized. Deadly.
Metal gleamed under the dim light—precision tools, not just weapons.
Gary stepped closer, eyes scanning each piece.
A SCAR-H.
HK416-C.
M4A1.
A compact Honey Badger, short barrel, built for close work.
All fully equipped. Ready.
For a moment, Gary didn't speak.
His hand reached in, brushing lightly against the M4A1—familiar weight, familiar balance.
Comforting.
Dangerous.
The kind of thing you don't forget.
Gary reached into the trunk and lifted the M4A1.
The weight settled naturally in his hands—familiar, almost comforting. Like muscle memory never left.
He pulled the charging handle.
Click.
Clean. Smooth.
A faint smile—rare, barely there—touched his lips.
"Mike," he said, "I'm taking this one."
Mike grinned. "Of course you are. That beauty's practically part of you."
Gary didn't reply. He just gave a small nod, still holding the rifle for a second longer before lowering it.
Mike turned back to the trunk, scanning the rest.
He picked up the SCAR-H, inspecting it briefly.
"This one's for Celine," he said. "Kid's got good taste."
He set it aside, then grabbed the compact Honey Badger.
"Miguel gets this. Close-range, fast work—fits him."
Next came the HK416.
"And Zion…" Mike smirked slightly. "Yeah. This'll keep him in check."
One by one, he placed them back carefully, like he wasn't just handling weapons—but something with weight behind it.
"All fresh from E.I.S. storage," Mike added, satisfied. "Handpicked."
Gary's eyes stayed on the arsenal.
Not admiration.
Recognition.
These weren't just guns.
They were survival.
A reminder of the life he was still tied to—whether he liked it or not.
A quiet moment passed before Mike clapped his hands lightly.
"Well… that's the package."
He flashed a smug grin. "And with that, I'm out."
Gary finally looked up.
"…You're driving me back."
Mike blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You dragged me all the way out here," Gary said flatly. "I'm not riding a bus back to Beverly Hills with a trunk full of illegal weapons."
A slight pause.
Then—
"Also," Gary added, voice dry, "fuck you for that."
Mike stared at him for a second.
Then burst out laughing.
"Alright, alright—damn, kid." He shook his head, still grinning. "I got you."
He started closing the trunk.
Thud.
"But it's gonna cost you," Mike added casually. "Fifty bucks."
Gary didn't even blink.
"Drive."
Mike chuckled under his breath.
"Cold as ever…"
The two of them walked toward the side of the car, footsteps echoing softly against the pavement.
Gary's face was blank again.
Poker-faced.
Like that brief smile had never happened at all.
Los Angeles — Beverly Hills
Inside Allysa's mansion, the house rested in quiet darkness.
Most of the lights were off, leaving only the soft flicker of the television spilling across the living room. Outside, security lights cast faint glows across the estate—but inside, everything felt still.
Almost too still.
Allysa sat on the couch, awake.
A pillow rested gently against her stomach, her posture relaxed but her eyes distant. Beside her, Celine slept with her head resting on Allysa's shoulder, breathing slow and steady. A few strands of her hair had fallen loose across her face, shifting slightly with each soft breath.
The silence lingered—
Until a door creaked open somewhere down the hall.
Footsteps followed.
Measured. Calm.
Alejandro stepped into the living room.
"Good morning, Allysa," he said, voice low but steady. "I'll do a routine check-up."
Allysa turned slightly, offering a soft smile.
"Good morning to you too, Alejandro. Go ahead."
"Thank you."
He didn't stay long.
Just a glance. A quick scan.
Then he turned, walking past the living room, through the door leading into the garage, and out toward the yard.
The moment he stepped outside, the cool night air hit him.
Quiet.
Open.
Real.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He paused.
Pulled it out.
Mom.
Miguel exhaled slowly before answering.
"Hello, Mom."
"Hello, Miguel, sweetie," her voice came through—warm, familiar. "Are you alright, my dear?"
"Yeah, Mom," he said. "I'm alright. It's almost nighttime here."
"Oh, really?" she replied. "Did you eat already?"
"Yeah. I already ate."
"I hope the Filipino food there is good," she said, a hint of concern in her tone.
Miguel let out a small breath. "Don't worry about it. The food here's good. There's a lot of variety."
"That's good to hear," she said softly. Then, after a pause— "So… how is the police force treating you there, Miguel?"
Miguel froze.
Just slightly.
His grip tightened around the phone.
His eyes dropped.
—
A dark alley.
Gunshots cracking through the night.
His hands shaking as he raised the gun—
Then hesitation.
A single second too long.
The weapon slipping from his fingers.
A police officer collapsing to the ground.
Blood spreading.
And Miguel…
Standing there.
Doing nothing.
—
"…It's good, Mom," he said quietly, voice more controlled now. "The police force here is good. The American and Philippine police work well together."
"That's wonderful, sweetie," she replied.
A voice interrupted from her side.
"Hello, I'd like to buy this, please."
"Oh—just a moment!" his mother said.
A faint shuffle. Distant noise.
Then she came back.
"Miguel, you should get some rest, okay? It's nighttime there. A police officer needs his sleep."
Miguel didn't answer.
He just stared ahead, the darkness stretching in front of him.
"Okay, honey?" she said gently. "Good night. I love you—my smartest son."
Miguel opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
The call ended.
Silence returned.
The night air felt colder now.
Carlsbad Road — heading back to Beverly Hills
The engine hummed steadily as the car cut through the empty highway.
Streetlights passed in slow rhythm, casting brief flashes of yellow across the windshield before fading into darkness again. The city felt distant out here—quiet, almost forgotten.
Inside the car, Gary sat in the passenger seat, reloading his pistol with practiced precision.
Click.
Slide.
Check.
Routine.
Mike drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by his side.
"Hey, kid," he said after a moment, voice lighter now. "You ever think about getting old?"
Gary didn't look up. "Not really."
Mike let out a short chuckle. "Yeah… don't rush it."
He shifted slightly in his seat.
"My back's already killing me. Hips aren't what they used to be either." He shook his head. "Used to run jobs clean. Now I feel it the next day."
Gary smirked faintly, still focused on his weapon.
"Sounds rough."
"It is," Mike muttered. "Got meds for it too. Three times a day." He scoffed quietly. "Miss one dose and everything goes to shit."
A brief silence settled between them.
The road stretched on.
Mike exhaled slowly, his grip tightening just a little on the wheel.
"Kid… this life?" he said, voice lower now. "It's a mess."
Gary didn't interrupt.
"If I could take it back, I would," Mike continued. "But you don't get that option. You just… keep going."
The car rolled forward, steady and quiet.
"Don't end up like me," Mike added after a beat. "Messing with the wrong people, thinking you've got it all under control."
Gary leaned back slightly, eyes forward now.
"…Too late for that," he said.
Mike gave a small, humorless laugh.
"Yeah. Maybe."
Another pause.
Then Gary spoke again.
"How are your kids?"
Mike blinked, caught off guard for a second.
"…They're alright," he said. "Cindy's doing good. Got her own thing going."
A faint pause.
"Started smoking though. Don't like that."
"And Aaron?"
Mike exhaled through his nose.
"That kid…" He shook his head. "Doesn't listen. Always glued to a screen. Got into some bad shit too."
Gary gave a small nod.
"Sounds like a handful."
Mike huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yeah… they are."
The car continued forward, tires humming against the asphalt.
For a moment, Mike didn't say anything.
Then, more quietly—
"But they're still my kids."
His eyes stayed on the road.
"And I'd do anything for them."
Silence followed.
Not empty this time.
Just… real.
Outside, the horizon began to shift—dark blue softening, hinting at the first signs of morning.
Inside the car, neither of them spoke.
The road stretched ahead, leading them back toward Los Angeles.
Back to everything waiting for them.