It's surprisingly hard to relax when there's a gun to your head.

The cold metal digs into my temple. My knees are starting to ache. The officer holding me "hostage" shoots me an apologetic look out of the corner of their eye, but I don't dare acknowledge it. 

The vigilantes across the room are watching me too, and I can see the pain etched onto their faces. Their hands tremble as they face the officers.

They seem vulnerable.

Which means it's my time to shine. 

"Don't tell them anything," I say hoarsely to the vigilantes, staring down at the ground and perfectly playing the part of a solemn, self-sacrificing hostage. "I'm good as dead anyways."

One of the vigilantes bites his lip, clearly fighting back tears. Peter. A quick pang of remorse slips past my defences, but I will it away. 

The officer with a gun to my head raises their hand menacingly. "Tell us where you planted the bombs," they warn, dark-gloved hand starting to glow. 

The vigilantes exchange nervous glances, clearly wracked with guilt.

"I-I-" Peter lets out a half-sob. 

He's going to be the one to break. I can feel it. 

The officer closes their hand into a fist, gold light erupting from between their fingers. I don't feel a thing, but I play along, collapsing to the ground and pretending to writhe in agony. My hands beat the ground relentlessly. I twist and contort my limbs. I scream until my throat starts to ache. 

"Please," Peter says quietly. 

He looks weak and fragile and breakable. His dark pink eyes try to meet mine, but I squeeze them tight as if to shut out the imaginary pain I'm feeling. 

I don't really want to look at him.  

"The glass bridge," I hear him say softly. "The bomb's at the glass bridge, set to detonate in an hour."

And that's all we need. 

I stand up quickly and smooth out the front of my ragged clothes. My posture shifts from meek and defeated to upright and rigid. A cold smile flickers across my lips. The officer who'd held me "hostage" salutes me, and that's what tips them off. 

I'm used to the slow transition of expressions I see on the vigilante's faces—surprise, at first. Confusion. Shock. Then slowly, sickeningly, a bitter understanding. Hurt, anger, and sadness. 

And then, every single time, crystal-clear and crisp as daylight. 

Betrayal. 

They don't fight back as a steady stream of officers flood into the large warehouse. They're pressed against the floor. Thick black shackles are placed around their wrists. I can see the moment when the needles go in—their eyes widen first, smooth and glassy as marbles, before they slump over like puppets with cut strings. My skin prickles in sympathy. 

The officer who'd pretended to torture me glances my way. "Well done, Operative Collyn," they say with a smile. 

"Thanks," I reply, returning the smile. They might know who I am, but I don't know them. 

Once all the vigilantes are unconscious, I make my way down the stairs. My footsteps echo and bounce, cutting through the steady work-filled silence and rattling around the walls. I relish the way officers glance my way, unable to ignore my presence. I'm undeniable. 

As limp bodies are carried out of the warehouse, a slender figure slips inside. Long, lean limbs; slight build. General Lynch. 

"General," I say respectfully, making my way towards him. 

"Jaime," he grins. I bristle at the familiarity. "Great work. Got the location?"

I nod. "The glass bridge, sir." 

"Well done." He claps me on the back as he walks by, and I resist the urge to tense up at the touch. He leans forward. I shiver involuntarily. "I heard there might be a new opportunity coming up for you," he says. 

His breath is hot and sour against my neck. 

He starts to walk away, but my interest is piqued. I catch his wrist and pull him towards me. "What is it?" I ask him. 

His eyes glint dangerously. "She's resurfaced," he tells me. 

My heart thuds in my chest. "Ivory Spiers?" It's too good to be true. 

"Ivory Spiers," he repeats. "And with your stellar performance today... well." His smile reveals pointed teeth, razor-sharp and needle-thin. "She could be yours." 

She could be yours. 

I uncurl my fingers from his wrist. "Thank you, General." 

"Oh, it's my pleasure, Operative," he replies with a twisting grin.

As he brushes past me I do my best to shove aside my revulsion. Ivory Spiers. I've never met her, but her name is legendary. If Lynch's information is true—and it probably is, knowing him—and I'll be going after her...

Well, that could change just about everything. 

I do my best not to grin like a lunatic  as I walk out of the warehouse.