The First Mission

I follow Angela down the narrow stairwell, our footsteps quiet but purposeful against the cold metal steps. She walks ahead of me, her long coat swaying with each movement, while snowflakes drift lazily past the windows.

We're dressed casually—deliberately so. I'm in a plain white T-shirt layered under a puffy black jacket, paired with worn jeans and boots. Angela wears a deep blue shirt tucked into insulated pants, her long coat draped over her slim frame. To the outside world, we might look like two people heading out for a cold winter's walk.

But hidden beneath the padding and seams, inside carefully stitched interior pockets, are our guns. Cold steel against skin. A silent reassurance.

We step into the lobby where the Society members are waiting—eight of them, all standing in quiet solidarity. Their faces are calm, but their eyes are heavy with something deeper: trust, resolve, fear… and hope.

June stands at the end of the line.

As we approach, each member gives us a brief nod or word of encouragement. Quiet hands clasp shoulders. Muted smiles hide prayers.

Then June steps forward.

He looks at Angela first, his voice low and steady. "We'll be waiting in the cars out back. Make sure to double-check the number of captives coming down. I have no doubt you'll do great."

Angela nods firmly, her face unreadable, but her eyes sharp with focus.

Then June turns to me.

His eyes meet mine—and hold.

Time slows. The pounding in my chest grows louder than the wind outside.

He speaks softly, but every word lands with weight.

"Come back safely. I'll wait."

His final words "I'll wait" echo through me, lingering long after he turns away. They settle in my chest like a promise, both grounding and terrifying.

And just like that, Angela and I step out into the white-gray world beyond the door.

Snow drifts steadily from the sky, blanketing the streets in silence. The cold bites at my cheeks, but adrenaline keeps my blood warm.

We move forward—two figures disappearing into the snow.

Toward the hospital. Toward the mission. Toward the women we need to save.

It's my first mission.

And there is no turning back.

Julian slowly opens his eyes.

The dim light of dawn bleeds softly into the hospital room, casting long, blue-gray shadows across the walls. He lies curled on the small guardian's cot beside Grace's bed—lower than hers, narrow, and stiff—but he barely notices the discomfort. The air is cold, seeping in through the edges of the windowpane, and he can hear the low howl of the winter wind outside.

He reaches for his phone on the bedside table. The screen glows faintly: 5:03 a.m.

December is well underway now. The cold no longer bites—it settles, like a weight. And the wind outside doesn't simply pass—it lingers, as if mourning something unseen. It is truly winter. The deep, silent kind.

Still half-drowsy, Julian slowly sits up on the cot, his blanket sliding off his shoulders. He pauses for a moment, letting his breath steady before turning his gaze toward her.

Grace.

Lying motionless in the hospital bed, her face illuminated faintly by the outside light, she looks just as she did last night—eyes closed, chest rising and falling gently, steady but distant.

But even though nothing seems to change, Julian can feel she looks slightly different each time he sees her.

Not in the way her body lies, or how her hair rests on the pillow, but in the subtle shift of her expression.

Tonight… or this early morning… she looks different again.Her face, though still, seems somehow resolved. 

Julian gazes at her quietly, his eyes tracing the familiar curve of her cheekbones, the softness of her features. Then, slowly, he reaches out and brushes his fingertips along her cheek.

The warmth of her skin against his hand catches him off guard.

She's still there. Still herself.

His heart warms, a tender ache blooming in his chest.

Even like this, even lying still in silence, her presence soothes something raw in him. Her very existence fills the room with a kind of grace that words can't describe.

"Grace…" he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing something sacred. "Can you hear me?"

He exhales slowly, his fingers still resting gently on her cheek.

"I missed you. And now you're here… right beside me. But why won't you open your eyes?" His voice is calm, composed—but grief weaves through it like a low current. Not the wild kind, but the quiet grief of someone who has waited, and hoped, and remembered too long.

"You always made it through," he says. "From the first mission you went on… you survived. You always do. Because He's been watching over you—guiding you every step."

His voice softens even more.

"You didn't make it back from the last one. Not really. But somehow… here you are. You're still here."

He swallows hard, blinking against the heaviness in his chest.

"So I'm not afraid of losing you anymore. I've already lost you once. And still… you came back."

He closes his eyes for a moment, his hand still on her cheek, as if trying to memorize the moment—her breath, the silence, the nearness.

"I'll wait," he whispers. "As long as it takes."

Angela and I step through the main entrance of the hospital, the heavy glass doors closing behind us with a quiet thud. The fluorescent lights above flicker faintly, casting a pale sheen over the worn linoleum floor.

The security guards at the front barely glance our way. They're slouched behind the desk, eyes dulled from boredom, thumbing through their phones like this is just another long shift.

They check our IDs lazily, ask us to sign the visitor log, and wave us through without a second thought.

Just two women in thick winter jackets, here to see a patient. Nothing to raise suspicion.

They don't realize what we carry beneath our coats.

They don't see the fire in our eyes.

The stairwell is hollow and dim, the echo of our boots on the concrete steps the only sound as we ascend. Dust lingers in the air, caught in the weak shaft of light from a nearby window.

Angela leans closer as we climb, her voice low and steady.

"Hannah," she murmurs. "The others are already in position. The vans are waiting in the back alley behind the west wing. Once I bring the women down from Room 302, you distract the guards posted at the third-floor left corridor. Keep them occupied."

I nod, my jaw set. 

"Got it. No worries."

She gives me a brief, approving smile, one that's half steel and half warmth. Then she turns and disappears quietly into the corridor toward Room 305, her coat trailing behind her like a shadow.

I breathe in, then exhale. My path leads the other way.

Turning left, I head down the dim hallway toward the far corner where three hospital guards stand clustered together, thick cigarette smoke curling around their shoulders like a haze of decay.

They're laughing at something—low and crude—and smoking inside the hospital. The stench hits my nostrils before I even reach them, making my stomach twist. I flinch slightly but force my expression into something neutral.

"Excuse me," I say, stepping closer.

All three of them turn, one raising an eyebrow. They scan me—my coat, my face, my hands—but I hold my posture steady, slightly frazzled on the outside, calm underneath.

"I just wanted to ask where the pharmacy center is?"

One of them exhales a stream of smoke and scratches his chin.

"Pharmacy? It's closed right now. On Fridays, they don't operate."

I nod slowly, feigning confusion. 

"Ah… I see. I didn't know that."

Of course I know. I memorized the floor plan, the schedule, everything. But I keep playing the part.

"I'm actually here on behalf of a pharmaceutical distributor. There's an urgent ingredient shortage issue, and I need to talk to someone from the department. Is there a contact number, or maybe someone I could reach out to?"

They glance at each other.

"You got the contact?" one asks, cigarette balanced on his lip.

The second shakes his head. 

"Nah, I don't. You?"

The third one, the tallest, shrugs. 

"Maybe it's in the documents in the guard room. I'll check."

He turns and walks inside.

Now two remain. I need them all inside.

I smile politely, shifting my weight.

"Actually… could you maybe check too? Just in case? I really can't leave without some kind of info. My boss is breathing down my neck."

The shorter one groans. "Man, we're not customer service…"

But the second one sighs and mutters, "Fine, whatever," before stomping after his colleague into the guard room.

Only one left.

I lock eyes with him, my heart thudding like a drum.

Every second counts now.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the other end of the hallway—the corridor Angela will guide the women down.

It has to be clear.

"Do you mind too?" I say gently, softening my tone. "It would really mean a lot."

He gives me a suspicious look, then reluctantly flicks his cigarette into a dirty bucket beside the wall.

"This better not be a waste of time," he mutters, stepping into the room and letting the door fall shut behind him.