A Small Hope

Anderson's POV

*Ring* *Ring* *Ring*

The sound cut through the darkness like a blade. I didn't sit up. Didn't move.

The phone kept ringing.

It didn't seem like it was stopping anytime soon so I finally reached for it, swiping the screen without looking. "Yeah?"

A pause. Then a voice—distorted, cold.

"Am I speaking to Tobi Anderson?"

I swallowed. "Who is this?"

My breath caught. Too late. I already knew.

This wasn't NBM's style. Too direct. Too quiet. No bluster. Just weight.

This was the Lynx Syndicate.

The silence that followed felt intentional. Punishing.

"You will arrive at the location we send you," the voice said. "If you don't come to us, we'll come to you."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long moment. My knuckles whitened from my grip.

Then, slowly, I rose—but not like before. No cold shower. No shave. No suit.

I just threw on a jacket and boots, grabbed my keys, and walked out.

The address led me to the edge of the city—an abandoned teahouse half-swallowed by ivy and time. The air felt wrong. Still. Tense.

I raised a hand to knock, but the door creaked open on its own.

I hesitated.

Then stepped inside.

It slammed shut behind me.

The interior was stripped down to bone—bare floors, faded beams, dust suspended like ghosts in the amber light.

I followed the hallway through to the courtyard.

It's sole occupant was a masked man.

The man stood in the center, calm, precise. An owl-faced mask covered his features, white and bronze, gleaming faintly under the old lanterns.

"You're late," the masked figure said. "But your reputation precedes you, Portador de la Muerte."

I didn't stop walking. "Let's skip the formalities. What do you want?"

The figure tilted his head slightly, amused. "You will work for us. You always did. But now… it will be direct. As Stockholm's handler."

I laughed once. Dry. Disbelieving. "What a waste of time."

I turned to leave.

The moment I did—I felt it.

An attack—fast, silent, direct.

I tried to dodge. My body didn't move.

Instinct took over.

Blink.

I teleported across the room.

Breathing hard, I scanned the space. This wasn't a threat—he was actually trying to kill me.

I moved again, reaching for a long-range jump—

The masked man pressed something on a small device.

The courtyard lit up red. Lines pulsing in the walls, floor, ceiling.

My knees buckled. The pressure hit me like a vice. Ability dampeners.

This is Aegis-grade tech. How the hell did Lynx get their hands on them?

No time to wonder.

The man lunged. No warning. Just movement—surgical and fast.

I barely had time to brace.

His fist grazed my temple—I twisted, redirecting the momentum, then countered with a sharp elbow to his ribs. He grunted, staggered half a step. I pressed forward, turning pain into rhythm.

We circled.

No powers. No flash. Just grit and reflex.

He jabbed—twice, fast. I ducked under the first, caught the second with my forearm, and used the opening to hammer my knuckles into his side. It felt like hitting steel wrapped in skin.

He twisted, arm snaking around for a choke. I slipped out, dropped low, and swept at his knee.

He jumped it.

I surged up, catching him mid-air with a shoulder to the chest—he stumbled, lost his balance.

This was it.

I stepped in, all weight behind my punch, aiming dead for the soft ridge beneath his mask.

I almost had him. For a second I thought—

Bang.

Pain detonated in my gut.

Bang.

The second shot hit lower. I gasped, the breath punched out of me.

Bang.

My thigh exploded with fire as the third round shredded muscle.

I dropped hard. The ground rose up to meet me in a blur of dirt and light.

Blood spread fast—hot and soaking through my shirt.

The masked man stepped closer, his finger still on the trigger.

"You're lucky we have a use for you," he said coldly. "Otherwise, I'd have aimed for the head."

I groaned, forcing myself to stay conscious.

The man crouched beside me.

"We know everything, Anderson. Why you joined NBM. Why you protect that boy. Why you still wear that bracelet. Sarah."

My eyes sharpened.

"So what?" I spat. "You know all about me—but don't think for a second that you know me."

A long pause.

Then the man said, "Work for us. Prove your worth. And we'll bring Sarah back."

The silence was loud, and it broke with the sound of my laughter, hoarse, bitter.

"That's impossible."

"In this age," the man replied, standing, "nothing is impossible. Would you rather live chasing revenge—or bet everything on a small hope?"

He turned to leave, voice echoing behind him.

"We'll contact you with your first assignment by Wednesday morning."

Thoughts ran through my head like cars on a racetrack. Then suddenly everything came to a halt, as the realisation dawned on me.

"Vanessa," I muttered. The name dropped like ice into my bloodstream.

I should've known. Should've seen the pattern.

I reached for my phone—ruined. A bullet had gone clean through it.

I lay there bleeding, staring up at the dull sky, and wondering if she was even still alive.