Chapter Eight

I retold Chief's story of the Colored. Every beautiful detail I could remember, every vivid scene that was burned into my mind. I used my voice to emphasise, my tone to express. It took a lot to tell the story the way that Chief did, so I tried my best.

Dix looked at me in wonder, his eyes wide at my words. He became entranced when I described what Riedhak was before Kista, before the humans took over.

I took the time to look at him. And I mean, down to the details of his clothing. His perfectly tanned skin, his eyes of swirling dark colors. His dark caramel hair, with its vibrantly dyed ends. They fell loosely around his face in a dangerous and attractive way. His spark of red, down to the edge of his shirt. It was a loose dark gray t-shirt, with its ends dyed. His black sporty bottoms, lined in red, of course.

My gaze shifted to his eyes. With a closer look I realized just how gray they were.

"Feckter?"

"Yes? Sorry.. what?"

"So, what does all of this mean? What does this have to do with you?" He looked at me, and we locked eyes for a moment.

I took a deep breath, and noticed in my peripheral vision that our hands were mere inches apart. "Dix.. Do you remember the part I mentioned? The one about how the Colored began to blend in with society?"

He took a sharp inhale, the truth hitting him. He looked up and held my line of sight. "You mean..?"

"Braz. I'm part-Colored."

He froze in a state of shock, his mouth hung open in the shape of an O.

He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around me. "It makes you even more amazing. I didn't even know that was possible. You keep surprising me."

I smiled, looking downwards. His affection made me blush.

He sat back, his eyes never leaving my face. We gazed at each other for a minute.

Then I remembered something important. "I've been thinking.. Could the reason that your paint worked on my legs be that I'm part-Colored? Or is it something more?"

"What if..?" I started, hoping he'd guess what I was getting at.

"What if I'm part-Colored?" He breathed, staring at nothing.

"What if we went to my dorm to find out?"

Dix snapped with realization, shifting his weight to stand. "Your paint bucket!"

I nodded, and attempted to stand. We'd been sitting on his black fuzzy rug in the middle of his room.

For the first time in a few days, I stood with no pain. I warily stood on both feet, then smiled up at him.

"Yes!" Dixter cheered.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I was free from pain, at least for now. His tropical red crab had done me wonders. "Now I can go on missions again."

Braz put on a pouty face. It reminded me of a sad puppy. "You won't go without me, will you?"

"Of course not. Not with my partner-in-crime in an arm cast."

"But I'm more than that, right?"

I grabbed his good hand, making him face me directly. "You are so much more than that, Dixter.

"You're my best friend." I snickered, looking up at his face. We were inches apart.

"More than that?" He pleaded with his sad puppy eyes.

"Fine. My future husband."

Braz froze. I did too, realizing what I just said. I ducked my head, hoping to avoid his eyes.

Heat rose to my cheeks and crawled up my neck. Suddenly, his room was very stuffy. "I didn't mean–"

"We would..?" He trailed off.

"I meant to say.." I didn't finish.

We glanced at each other, then broke apart. Dix turned to leave, and gestured towards the door. "We should, um.."

"Right." I nodded curtly. "The door."

He swept his arm out for me, like usual. "After you."

"Thank you, doorman. You're most hospitable." I chuckled. He laughed a little, and it helped cover up the embarrassing moment from before.

We left his dorm, and I called a goodbye to his roommates. They responded in varying levels of attention. I got a grunt from Pine Tree, a quick bye from Dark Orange, and a See you later! from Sunflower Boy.

We walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind us. There were a few agents scattered left and right, but the elevator was open. We shuffled in awkward silence towards another painful ride in the Elevator of Embarrassing Torture.

Once the doors opened, we stepped inside and I pressed the button for my floor.

"So.." I prompted. "Your roommates seem nice."

"Nah. They're terrible at cleaning up after themselves. Junir's not too bad, though."

"Sunflower Boy?" I questioned. I didn't know who was who.

"What..? Oh. His color. Yeah, I guess." He smirked at me. "Is that what you called him in your head?"

I looked down. "Yes."

Braz put a forefinger on my chin and nudged my face to look at him. "You're so adorable."

I made a rather unattractive squeak, one that a top agent of B.L.A.D.E. should never even think of making. The elevator chimed its lovely note.

He only smiled at me, like nothing ever happened. "Come on. Let's see if your soulmate theory is correct."

I merely nodded as my cheeks flushed. Get a hold of yourself.

We headed down to my room. I opened the door, expecting to find Sytra. But the orange bedhead was nowhere to be found.

"Sy?" I called, my tone rising as a question.

"My arm, Feckter." Dix reminded me. I had forgotten that he hadn't received his pain-killing paint.

"Right." I nodded. I walked over and opened the door to my room. Braz stood in the doorway and admired my room while I searched for the paint can.

"Man." He started. "Your art is just.. incredible."

I turned around and stood up, paintcan in hand. My mouth eased into a soft smile. "Thank you, Braz."

We made eye contact and held our gazes, just admiring each other.

I glanced away. Maybe I imagined it, but Dix's face seemed to have dimmed with disappointment.

I cleared my throat. "Isn't your arm..?" I left the question open-ended, hoping he'd get the hint.

"Yes, yes." He looked at the paint bucket in my hand. "Same drill?"

I nodded, then sighed. "I hope this works."

"Not as much as I do. You've already had your pain disappear like my paint was a magic soulmate advil."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to heal you or not?"

He mumbled an apology and began unwrapping his cast. He grimaced in pain, and my heart wrenched.

"Don't worry. Hopefully, my paint is enough of a copy to heal you for a while. This might even be the last time you feel your broken arm." I tried my best to reassure him.

"I sure hope so." By now, his arm was completely bare of bandages. His exposed skin was red, and I tried not to think of the snapped bone beneath it. For an agent of B.L.A.D.E, getting squeamish seemed like a weakness.

Thankfully, I only got unsettled by broken bones. I had no problem knocking men unconscious.

I popped the lid and dipped my hand in. The paint responded slightly to my touch, as though it knew that it was a mere shadow of genuine color. For some odd reason, I began to feel bad for it. Imagine only living as something that was so clearly meant to be more. It would be like painfully knowing that you would never become someone that your ancestors would be proud of.

I shook my head, feeling ridiculous that I'd actually felt bad for an inanimate object. Who would feel bad for something as lifeless as paint? I scolded myself.

Maybe it holds more than you think. A voice suggested in my mind. Perhaps there is more to the story.

I marveled at the thought. Could a simple liquid hold power, hold purpose? It had already healed me, no questions asked.

But still. Feeling bad for a mere decoration?

The voice returned. Even as a shadow, paint is still an important resource. Give it a chance.

I didn't know where the voice was coming from, but I didn't doubt it. I assumed it came from the Colored part of me.

I reached out and touched his arm, carefully spreading it. I thought I saw Dixter shudder, but whether it was from the chill or my touch, I didn't know.

We waited a few moments. Then, I noticed Dixter's creases of pain ease up. His furrowed brow relaxed, his eyes closed in relief. My paint had done the job.

"Oh, Dix, I'm so glad."

"You have no idea how good this feels."

"Oh, I think I do." I smirked at him. "I experienced it a few moments ago."

My eyes snapped up as realization hit me. "Speaking of a few minutes ago..." I prompted him. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"I am part-Colored." His voice was a soft whisper as he looked up at me.

I gave him a gentle smile. "Just like me."

He looked up at me. "I feel like.. it was my dad. He must have been Colored."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I have no idea."

My eyes drifted to my desk, where the portrait of my mother was. Just like I have a feeling it was my mother.

"I wonder who my father was." Braz broke the silence, staring at the ceiling.

"I wonder who my mother was." I replied, recalling every feeling I've ever had about her. Chief used to know her. If we went to her, what would she say?

He glanced at me. "I wonder if we'll ever know."

I caught his eye, an idea sparking. "What if we asked Chief?"

He nodded. "I bet she'd know something."

We weren't sure what information she'd give, but it was worth a shot.

We crossed the living room and locked the door, then walked towards the elevator. Xielra walked by, once again. I gave her another side-eye. I was still unsure of her role. Agent? Spy? Assassin?

I have a feeling I shouldn't trust her. At least, not yet. I just wish I knew her intentions. Maybe I'll ask Dix what he thinks once we're out of earshot.

I pressed the button, and the elevator doors opened, revealing Sytra. She looked annoyed that the elevator stopped before her floor, but upon seeing us, she smiled.

"Where've you been?" Sytra and I asked simultaneously. We chuckled, rolling our eyes. We'd known each other for so long, we'd know what the other would ask.

"Dix showed me his room. What you been doing?" I leaned forwards a little. "Colves?"

She probably blushed, but it was hard to see with the color of her skin. "No, no! I've been... texting him."

I wasn't convinced. "Uh-huh. And let me clarify, you're not dating him?" I waved my forefinger in her face to exemplify my sassy side. I didn't have much of one, but Sytra always managed to bring it out of me.

If it was possible, she looked even more flustered. "No! Stop, Feckter." She tried to laugh it off, but it sounded choked. "We're.. we're not dating. At least, not yet."

"You will tell me when you kiss him." I referenced, poking her.

She laughed nervously, but it seemed more at ease. I was a pro at this, being her best friend.

"Anyways. We're going to see Chief. Wanna come?" I asked. I needed to let her back into our trio, and I figured this was a good place to start. If I've given Dix a second chance, I might as well try to mend our bonds now. At least try to get our trio back to the way it used to be.

I remembered the albino walking down the hallway. "What do you guys think of Xielra?"

Sytra answered first. "She seems.. nice?"

Braz seemed uneasy. "I'm not sure. I get the vibe that she doesn't talk much."

I nodded in agreement. "I mean.." I lowered my voice. "I'm not even sure she's loyal to B.L.A.D.E."

Sytra gave a little gasp. "She couldn't have.." She trailed off.

"Delstrie." Dixter breathed.

"Close to Chief, no friends, no color.." I pointed out.

"But murderer?" Dix questioned, looking me in the eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Have you met her?" Sytra asked pointedly.

I sighed. I didn't like accusing someone of murder just because I had a bad feeling about them. "Okay, okay. Should we just ask Chief?"

They both nodded, Sytra looking a little pale. I mean, I'd probably look the same if someone I'd been friends with died in front of me.

The elevator chimed for Chief's floor. The doors opened, revealing a frenzy of administrators. They were speed-walking all around, almost in a panic. Voices argued and spoke in harsh tones. Papers were thrown violently.

I took a step back. Is this just the stress of war, or something much worse?

"C'mon." Braz nudged me forward, in the direction of the office at the end of the hall. "We have to talk to Chief."

I nodded, and the three of us made our way down the chaotic hallway. The trio. The power team.

I hoped we stayed that way. If anything happened to the three of us, I don't know what I'd do. Alka, as well. That feisty, sweet little French girl.

If M.A.S.K. wounded more than Dix and I, I'm not sure I'd keep a level head.

Revenge. For my parents. For my wounds. For my boyfriend's broken arm. For the life of Delstrie.

M.A.S.K. is going to pay. One way or another. If I have to charge the president's office myself, then so be it. I will not die without trying to avenge my family.

I knocked on Chief's door. "Come in." Her voice sounded strained.

We walked in, and immediately noticed something was off. Chief's hair was even more unkempt than usual. She kept clenching and unclenching her hands. She was pacing frantically back and forth.

Her desk was littered with papers. They appeared to be floor plans and blueprints for the headquarters of M.A.S.K, with arrows and notes scrawled all over. Some were ripped, others shredded. Their remains were scattered on the floor.

Plans were pinned half-hazardly on the walls. Coffee cup stains were inked into most of the papers. Some of the edges were torn. Most looked like they'd been crinkled due to more than one pair of frantic hands.

Oh, Chief.

How she ended up like this in the span of breakfast to now, I have no idea.

"Oh my god." Sytra breathed.

"Chief?" I asked cautiously, stepping forward. "Are you okay?"

She froze, staring at the ground. "No."

"Hey," I said, putting as much reassurance into my voice as I could. I slowly walked over to her, making sure my steps were light. "It's going to be alright. You have an entire agency to back you up. You don't have to wage war against our long-time rival all by yourself."

"Feckter." She breathed, looking me in the eye. "Thank you. But the entire agency is relying on me to decide on how to divide our agents. Which subplan to go with. Which agents are our top. What to do with our youngest members."

She looked weak. Like she hasn't slept in weeks.

"Chief. Please sit down."

She sighed, easing into her chair. She ran her hands through her messy hair, which explained why it was so ratty. "I just.. I don't know what to do anymore."

I leaned down and looked sympathetically into her eyes. "Brianna. You shouldn't stress yourself out this much. What the agency needs is a calm, collected, well-rested Chief. And I need a stable, taken care of, healthy Brianna."

I could see the pain in her eyes. The weariness. The stress. "Chief, can you do that for me?"

"Can you take care of yourself?" I asked in a soothing, low tone.

She nodded slowly. "I.. I should."

Chief blinked as though she was reawoken. "Well. You three came here for a reason, I assume?" She forced a weary smile.

Dixter cleared his throat behind me. I stood with my best friend and my boyfriend on each side of me.

"We came here to ask.. something." He looked pointedly at me for backup.

"Chief. Today, out of curiosity, I covered my leg wound in Dixter's paint. After a few moments, the red turned to our combined color: A unique purple. My pain started easing up, then completely went away. However, it didn't heal my scar in any way. Just the pain. The same thing happened for Dix's arm."

Dixter shook his head in amazement. "It was like.. a color miracle."

Finally, Chief looked up at us. "No. It wasn't color. Your paint is a mere shadow of what true color can do."

She turned her weary head to look at me, her disheveled hair following. Her Latina beauty had taken a beating. "Feckter. Your mother was one of the finest color-wielders I've ever seen. Surely you've felt that your paint is a measly replica?"

I nodded. It felt so good to have one of my color theories confirmed. "Yes, Chief. I have felt it. We came here for confirmation."

Dixter glanced at me. "Another thing, Chief. We came to ask about.. our parents."

"Who, specifically?" Chief questioned, a worried look in her eye.

"My mother." I started.

"And my father." Dixter added.

Chief exhaled for a few seconds. "Feckter, your mother was.. the best dorm mate I could have ever asked for. She was bright, lively, and she always had a fighting spirit. She wouldn't give up. On her dreams, on her lover, on you, Feckter. She wouldn't give up on B.L.A.D.E. And she wouldn't give up on her family.

"But this.. stubbornness, this determination. She told me the day before she was sent on her last mission that she knew about all of the dangers. She knew of the risks. But she was willing to go through with it anyways.

"And that's how she died." She choked on the last word. Tears slipped down her face.

My throat was closing up, and heat was filling my senses. I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry.

Not in front of everyone. Not in front of Dixter. Even though he'd told me that he didn't want me to hold anything back from him.

"Your father," Chief began again with a shaky breath. "Dixter, I don't think I ever told you this. But I.. I loved your father. When I was younger, when color was closer... when M.A.S.K. wasn't such a threat.." She broke into sobs, her face in her hands.

I stood to hold her, but Dix grabbed my arm. Give her space. He mouthed.

I shook my head and pulled my arm out of his hold. I went behind her desk and wrapped my arms around her. Her trembling body seemed to break down under my touch.

She's been holding up all of this emotion for weeks now. The stress was too much, a building pressure. All she needed was a push before the dam broke.

She gently pushed me away, wiping at her eyes. "You.. you agents shouldn't see me like this. My sincerest apologies."

I shook my head and touched her shoulder. "We're not just your agents."

Her pooling eyes met mine. "We're your friends."

She nodded, blinking quickly. "Th.. thank you."

She straightened, rubbing her face. Her drying eyes fluttered open as she exhaled. She was trying her best to remain composed. "Now. Before I embarrass myself further, is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

Sytra spoke up. "There is.. one other thing." She looked at me with uncertainty, and I nodded. Sy wasn't sure if Chief could take anything else.

She drew in a deep breath. "Our only albino– Xielra –has been acting.. strange. We're not sure how close you are to her, or how well you know her, but we've.. had our doubts." It came out in a nervous rush, like she wasn't even sure she should be mentioning the odd agent.

Chief's barely-calm face quickly turned into something worse. She looked offended, and like she was trying her best to contain her anger. "Xielra. She's a special case. I raised her like my own, as I've done for all of our young agents. She's just.. required more of my attention. Her condition requires some additional vision assistance. And because of her.. uniqueness, she's likely withdrawn to herself. She feels isolated, and rather unrelatable.

"There is no reason to doubt her motives or behavior. I'm certain that she isn't working for the enemy, as you're implying."

She stood, looking down at our slightly pale faces. The sudden mood shift shocked us. I've never felt fear in front of the Chief of B.L.A.D.E, but now, as I watched just how protective she could be, slivers of guilt slithered into my mind. Don't doubt her or her motives, or who she chooses to allow into B.L.A.D.E. She could have easily dumped me into the hands of another organization.

"I'm going to follow Agent Feckter's suggestion and freshen up a bit. If you'd be so kind to leave with me, I have hair to tame."

We nodded submissively and followed her out the door like naughty children. Don't doubt her. Don't doubt her. Don't doubt her.

"Goodbye, agents." Chief turned and left us standing in front of her office door.

As soon as she was out of earshot, we all released the breaths we'd been holding.

"Oh my god." Sytra shuddered. "She can be weepy and terrifying within a few minutes."

Dixter looked especially shaken. He hadn't said a word since he'd mentioned his father. His eyes looked far away.

"Braz?" I asked, concerned.

"She.. she loved him. And he's not here anymore."

"But that's not her fault." I stood in front of him, putting a hand on his cheek. My fingertips grazed his hair. "And it's not yours either."

"This isn't about me. It's about him." He shook his head, and I took my hand back. "As the Chief of B.L.A.D.E, don't you think she could have done something?"

"Dix, we don't know the story. She broke down before she could tell us."

He stepped away from us. His voice was becoming dangerously deep with a sharpening edge of anger. "She didn't have to tell us what happened. What she said was enough. She stood by while my father died."

"It's her fault." Dixter growled.

"No," I said quietly. "Braz, you know it's not true. Chief wouldn't do that. She didn't get the chance to explain everything."

"You're wrong!" He spun around to yell at me. "Chief has done nothing but cry in her office! I doubt she even knows how to lead an agency!"

Silence fell upon the corridor like heavy midnight rain. Administrators stopped moving. Everyone was staring at Dixter, who was shaking with anger. He didn't seem to know that everyone was watching. Or he just didn't care.

An admin dropped a stack of papers. A paperclip slipped from someone's fingers. No one spoke of Chief that way.

"Dix." I touched his arm. "We should probably go."

"Fine." He yanked his arm away and stormed into the elevator alone. The doors closed on his fuming face.

With the center of attention gone, everyone turned to stare at those who came with him. Every pair of eyes was trained on us.

I laughed nervously and grabbed Sytra's arm. "We'll be heading out. See ya!"

Thankfully, the elevator was built to be fairly high-speed, as everyone in a secret organization was probably in a rush. The doors reopened for us, and we were quick to get it. Anything to escape that awkward situation.

With the doors shut and our floor's button pressed, Sytra and I took deep breaths.

Sytra turned to me, her voice a mix between deeply embarrassed and borderline.. humored?

"Did you just say "See ya" to the entire administrative staff of B.L.A.D.E?" She smirked, trying to contain her giggling.

"I.. I think I did." I stifled my laughter.

We couldn't take it anymore. We broke into heaves of uncontrolled laughter, which did a good job of covering up our embarrassment. All of the pent up emotions from visiting Chief spilled out of us in fits of joy.

"Oh my go–" Sytra's erratic breathing got the best of her as she tried to steady her inhales.

I exhaled a short breath. "You okay?"

She nodded silently, smiling as she regained her normal breathing patterns.

It felt so good to just.. laugh. With the death of an agent, (or multiple, as Chief had told us about our multiple spies earlier), the stress of the coming war, and Dix's outburst, pure bliss was becoming harder to find.

"Our floor, Sy." I pointed out as the doors opened. "Think you can make it to our dorm?"

"No–" She broke into heaves of laughter once again. I rolled my eyes and grabbed her wrist. I dragged her to our dorm, where I pulled the key out of my pocket and unlocked the deadbolt.

"We're home!" I declared to no one. Sytra stood to her full height and wandered over to her room. I made my way over to my room and flopped onto my bed. Today has certainly been an emotional rollercoaster.

I moved my head against my pillows, turning to catch the time. The clock on my dresser read 1:21 AM.

Late enough for trouble, don't you think? Dix's words echoed in my mind. It reminded me of his sudden outburst today on level 2.

Dixter, why were you so upset? I sat up, thinking of my boyfriend. Oh, is it..

Your father. He was the Colored side. That's why he was so ticked off. It wasn't just that Chief "didn't do anything," it was that the Colored part of Dix's family was killed. And the person crying in front of him was the reason that he isn't alive today.

Imagine if you thought that Chief killed your mother. Would you have the same reaction?

"No." I answered my own question. "I'm better than that."

Dix is back to switching his sides again.

He has so many. Romantic hottie, protective boyfriend, Mr. Explosives, excited child, the list goes on...

But when did he stop? I thought back to when I'd seen Mr. Explosives last. That I-could-blow-up warehouses-and-enjoy-every-minute of it side.

I haven't seen it since.. that mission a few days ago. When we did our first mission as a duo in months.

Is it because.. I became his girlfriend? The question hung over me as I stared at the floor of my room.

Has giving him love settled him? It was the only reasoning I could come up with. Is that why he's always asking for love? Because it gets rid of his bad sides?

I remembered that he told me that he'd tell me later, but I had a feeling that I'd guessed correctly. We'd gotten distracted by our paint healing each other, and we never got to discuss it.

I went over to my bathroom and washed my face, trying to give myself a clearer mind.

God, I need fresh air.

I grabbed the weapons that I'd left on my dresser and did a jacket check. Keys, knife, money, crossbow, grappler, journal, pencil.

My crossbow wasn't from medieval times. It was made of silver metal, bolted to fold. It was convenient, with a lightweight but strong build. My arrows were short and sharp, and I kept a cluster of them in another one of my pockets.

Whenever I shot with my crossbow, I whipped arrows out my jacket so fast I usually couldn't see them. My eye would be trained on my target, which was more important. One to the throat, head, or chest, and my enemy would be dead.

Then again, I tried not to think about the deaths. It's best for the agency. It's best for the agency. It's best for the agency. I reminded myself every time I took on an assignment.

On the way home from the mission of the white shortblades, I'd realized that I'd need more line for my grappler. I went over to my refills and slid the metal wristband off. I popped its frame and slid the thin wire in. It connected to my body further in my jacket, so my wrist didn't take all of my weight. My hand was strong nonetheless.

Sometimes, the line got tangled in something I didn't want to deal with, so I used a unique snap to break it. The wire I used was strong and sturdy, but weak when I needed it to be. I got low from time to time; I could tell by its weight.

I took a deep breath, but it was nothing like the open wind. Maybe a trip to the B.L.A.D.E. club would do me some good.

I said a quick bye to Sy as I headed out. I closed the door behind me, then headed towards the elevator at the end of the hallway. I passed some agents on the way out. Their colors were shimmering gold, midocean blue, and rusting red.

In the elevator, I pressed the button for level 0, or the entrance. I took a moment to appreciate the ability to express our colors. They were such an identity, a foundation. They became part of who we were.

It might seem hard to distinguish between colors, since there were only three primary colors, three secondary colors, and six tertiary colors. Seemingly only twelve to choose from. But in reality, there were millions. Every shade was slightly different. Every hue was a unique blend. Every agent was one-of-a-kind.

But it was more than that. I feel something every time I have to choose my color among hundreds of teals. It just.. speaks to me.

It must be the Colored part of me. There's no other explanation. Normal people don't just feel things for paint.

I've heard other members talk about this weird ability. Odd occurrences, strange emotions, all questionable things happening to people in color markets. It had been going on ever since I could remember.

They had no explanation. But finally, I found one.

I was beginning to theorize that every B.L.A.D.E. member was partially Colored, they just didn't know it. It could be from any generation. Parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, as many greats as you could fit. But the color never truly leaves.

Just a hypothesis. I have no idea if it's true or not. I guess there wouldn't be a way to tell.

The elevator doors open once again, and I greet the front guards as usual.

A curt nod in each of their respective directions. "Agent Jewleft. Agent Wekdrey."

Two quick nods in response. "Agent Feckter."

I left down the corridor after they opened the wall for me. After the marked metal sheet, freedom.

I took a deep breath of the cold night air. It was fresh and bright, and it made my lungs fill with new life.

Like I belonged in the night.

A few grappling hook shots later, and I was well above ground. It was a thrill to travel this way, with the cool wind ruffling my clothes. The moon shone above me like an old friend.

I ran along rooftops, sprinted down alleyways. I was nearly silent as I travelled through Kistra.

This freedom is mine. I darted onto the roof of the familiar abandoned warehouse. As long as I live, I will never let this go. Even if I have to fight for it.

I entered the passcode, the metal sheet placed gently above me. This. The tiny light flipped to green. This is something I need.

I crawled down the small space via ladder, the lights of the bar illuminating the vertical tunnel. I turned towards my fellow B.L.A.D.E. agents.

This. I smiled at the sight. This is who I am.

My agency's members gathered in clumps, conversations igniting the place like scattered candles. Friends laughed and joked around. Others were more to themselves, with heads bowed to their phones.

Someone caught my eye. A bartender handed a drink to a man, who smiled back with a handful of money. He accepted the katr and turned to make the next customer's order.

The man with the drink met my gaze with a smile, and my breath caught in my throat.

He was deep ocean blue. His black hair faded into it, his clothes melted into its gentle swirl. His fingerless gloves were tipped in it. His eyes were a silver-navy mix, his skin a perfect bronze. His jawline was an impressive build, but his cheeks drew my attention next. They were beginning to rosen.

"Hi." His navy silvers held my dulled blues. "Care for a drink?"