Vows Lost

The tall woman sat alone at the airship's bar, her thoughts as heavy as the drink she nursed in her hand. The bar was empty, save for the soft clink of glass and the bartender's quiet shuffle, wiping down the counter for the thousandth time. She blended into the shadows, her dress a sleek black that hugged her form, leaving only her shoulders and neckline exposed. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over her face, obscuring everything but the faintest hint of her lips. A veil shrouded her eyes, but the gaze beneath was sharp—always watching, always calculating.

She toyed with the rim of her glass, lost in thought as the hum of the engines droned around her. The city below was in chaos, and the attacks were growing bolder, more coordinated. Terrorists had severed key communication lines with an audacious strike on a radio tower, throwing the regime into a blind panic. New drug Mobias, smuggled in like water, spread through the gutter, poisoning the people from the inside out. And now, elves posing as job seekers were worming their way into the heart of the city, stirring tensions that were already too high.

She took a sip of her drink, feeling the burn as it slid down her throat. She couldn't afford to lose anyone else. Not to the rebels, not to the street gangs, and definitely not to their delusions of freedom. She wasn’t driven by some noble sense of duty—no one in this city was anymore. The regime’s grip was weakening, and crime had become the currency of the day. St. Kiev Hospital’s skyline came into view as the airship docked, the shadows of the gutter beneath a constant reminder that the city was rotting from within. The bar was abandoned, save for the lingering smoke of a cigarette left burning on the counter. The woman watched it smolder, her mind wandering to Marcus. He was a problem she hadn’t quite figured out how to solve. She rose from her seat, walking across the skybridge that stretched over the city, her heels clicking softly on the metal as she moved through the haze.

She thought about all she’d asked of Marcus over the years, the tasks she’d sent him on—some that had nearly killed him, others that had changed him in ways she hadn’t expected. Especially the time she’d sent him into Salvador "The Virgin" Nigel Phileas Kingsford's lair, that elegant pirate king turned mob boss with a smile that could charm his way out of hell. Marcus had gone in to gather intel, but Salvatore saw through the ruse almost immediately. Instead of killing him, though, Salvatore had offered Marcus something far worse: a partnership.

That was a mistake.

Salvador was ruthless, calculating. He’d seen something in Marcus—a soldier, a tool to be used. They cut a deal. Marcus became part of his world, learning the ins and outs of the city's criminal underbelly, feeding intel back to her while playing the role of a loyal henchman. It had been a dangerous dance, one that blurred the lines between undercover agent and criminal. She hadn’t known just how deep Marcus had gone until it was too late. By then, the damage had been done. Salvador’s fleet of ships lay at the bottom of the bay of lost nights.

The air grew colder as she entered the hospital, her steps now softer, more deliberate. She slipped into a locker room when no one was looking, picking the nearest lock with the precision that came from years of practice. The nurse’s uniform was neatly folded inside. She dressed quickly, the transformation seamless. Blending into the environment was second nature to her now.

At the records desk, she smiled politely, her voice low and exasperated. "I need the updated chart for Marcus Brea. He’s asking for it again." The young woman behind the desk rolled her eyes, a subtle sign of frustration that told the handler everything she needed to know. Marcus was causing a scene, which meant either his wounds were worse than she’d thought, or his temper was getting the better of him—again. With the chart in hand, she walked briskly down the sterile hallway, the sounds of hospital life fading into the background as she approached Marcus’s room. The yelling hit her before she even saw him.

"I don’t need a wheelchair! I don’t need your sympathy—I need you to fix my leg!" Marcus’s voice was hoarse with frustration, his injured arm waving wildly in the air. "My arm will be fine, but I need to walk to get out of here."

She stepped into the doorway, her eyes falling on Marcus—bedridden, angry, vulnerable in a way she wasn’t used to seeing. His face was a twisted mask of pain and rage, the toll of the mission evident in every line. The sight of him like that—broken, but still fighting—made something in her chest tighten. Not pity, but something close.

“Doctor!” she called, her voice slicing through the noise. The room fell quiet as Marcus’s eyes locked onto her, the anger simmering beneath the surface. She nodded, understanding his desperation. The world didn’t wait for anyone, and Marcus was no exception. But she also knew there was more to this. The mission had taken its toll, not just physically, but mentally. And H.E.A.T. had decided he was no longer fit for the job.

“Dr. Fisher, you're needed in room 308B! It's an emergency!” The nurse's voice cut through the tension, offering the doctor a convenient escape. He nodded in relief, making for the door and leaving Marcus behind in a haze of frustration and pain.

The handler stepped forward, her presence as sharp as ever, the soft click of her heels punctuating the silence. She stood over him, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her hat.

“You really have a way with words, you know,” she said, her tone casual but edged with something darker.

Marcus opened his mouth to respond, but she wasn’t interested in hearing it. “Hush,” she commanded, her voice firm. “You have a slashed tendon, multiple breaks in both your tibia and humerus. And that’s not even mentioning the burns and cuts decorating the rest of your body. Oh, and let's not forget—” she leaned in slightly, her eyes hard, “you rushed in without backup. Again.”

He tried to protest, the words forming on his lips, but she silenced him with a look. “No, Marcus. You’re going to sit there and listen for once because you can’t run off this time. You may never walk again. And even if you do, you may never finish this case.”

She let that sink in for a moment, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve already assigned the case to someone else. You’ve always played the lone wolf, always chasing the glory, thinking you could carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. This—” she gestured to the bed, to his broken body, “—is your reward.”

With a fluid motion, she dropped a sealed folder into his lap, the weight of it landing with a quiet thud against the sheets. “You’re an ace fighter, Marcus, but you’ve always been a dreamer. And that’s your problem. There are no heroes left. Not in this city.”She stepped back, the distance between them growing, not just physically but in every way that mattered. Her next words came out cold, final, like a judge delivering a sentence.

“When you can walk again—walk away. From this life. From this city. From me. You’ve got nothing left to offer, Marcus. As of this moment, you are no longer a member of H.E.A.T. Grey already has been assigned a new partner, she may be young, but she has all the talent to do your job.” Her words struck like a hammer, each one landing with a brutal finality. Marcus stared up at her, eyes wide with disbelief, the weight of her message sinking in. His breath caught in his throat, but no words came. What could he say? It wasn’t just his job she was taking from him—it was his entire life.

She met his gaze one last time, and though her face remained impassive, something flickered behind her eyes—regret, maybe. Or perhaps just the smallest whisper of pity.

“Marcus,” she said quietly, almost softly now. “You don’t report to me anymore.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her figure disappearing down the sterile hallway without so much as a backward glance. The only sound left was the echo of her footsteps fading into nothing.

Marcus stared at the empty doorway, his mind racing, but his body frozen in place. “Why?” he whispered, though there was no one left to answer. He glanced down at the folder sitting in his lap, its edges crisp and unforgiving. His hands trembled as he reached for it, but he hesitated. Inside that folder was the end of the life he had known—everything he had built, everything he had fought for, was over.

His heart pounded in his chest as he opened it, each moment dragging out like a slow-motion fall. The contents within were simple, yet devastating. Hisaddress. An address that could change everything. Photos of a body. Notes on the scene. None of it seemed real. Marcus leaned back, the envelope falling to the floor as his hand covered his face. His mind raced, trying to reconcile what had just happened. The room felt cold, like the world outside had crept in, stealing the warmth from his body. Slowly, the realization dawned—he was on his own now. And as he lay there, broken but still breathing, Marcus understood one thing: he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. No matter what path lay ahead, no matter what pieces of himself he had to put back together.

He would keep moving, keep fighting.