Chapter 3: Ice Cream, Arcades and Secrets.

The sky above Parkline Square was a canvas of soft gold and cotton-like clouds, the kind that made the city feel almost honest again. Kids ran between benches, dogs barked at pigeons, and couples strolled lazily under the mid-afternoon sun.

Liam Thompson walked among them like a ghost wrapped in skin and worry.

His hands were deep in his jacket pockets, his footsteps slow and deliberate. On most Saturdays, his mind would've been empty—numbed by rest or the hum of his regular podcasts, maybe some grading to catch up on. But this one was different.

Past had a way of sneaking up when you least wanted it to. Especially when it wore his brother's voice.

He turned a corner near the playground and stopped.

Standing by a brightly colored ice cream cart was Millie Roberts, head tilted under the cart canopy, eyes half-closed in that half-annoyed, half-charmed expression she always gave people trying too hard. She wore a faded jean jacket over a yellow sundress, her long black curls swaying slightly in the breeze. She was laughing. Actually laughing. And it tugged something loose in Liam's chest.

He hadn't seen her outside school in a while.

Without overthinking it, he walked over and gently placed both hands on her shoulders from behind.

"Stealing ice cream in broad daylight, Ms. Roberts?" he murmured. "Shame on you."

She spun around, surprised—but not startled. Her smile bloomed wide and unfiltered, like she'd been hoping for this exact moment.

"I knew that was you," she said, holding up two cones. "I bought two just in case the universe decided to behave today."

Liam blinked. "You planned for me?"

She shrugged, pretending to study the flavor. "Well, you're predictable in your mystery. Saturdays in the park. It's your thing."

He accepted the ice cream—vanilla with chocolate drizzle, just the way he liked it—and gestured toward the open path.

"Walk with me?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

---

They walked in silence at first, just enjoying the soft chaos of the world around them. Liam licked his cone absentmindedly while Millie carried most of the conversation—talking about grading hell, an overly dramatic student named Kenny who thought Shakespeare was "too emo," and how the school coffee machine was definitely conspiring against her.

Liam chuckled where necessary, nodded in the right places, but even then, his focus felt… scattered.

Millie noticed. She always notices.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was too still. His smiles came a half-second too late. His eyes kept drifting—not around, but inward. Somewhere far away. Far inside of himself.

"Okay," she said suddenly, "you're being weird."

Liam blinked. "Weird?"

"Yeah. You're quiet. And you usually only get this broody when you're pretending not to be brooding."

"I'm not—"

"Liam," she interrupted, "your cone is melting and you haven't even touched the chocolate part."

He looked down. She was right.

A drop hit his shoe.

Millie stopped walking. "Emergency measures it is."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "Emergency?"

"Yup. You're coming with me. We're going to the arcade."

He frowned. "Millie, I'm not—"

"Uh-uh." She wagged a finger in his face. "No protesting. This is for your mental health. Plus, I need to maintain my air hockey dominance."

"You think you can beat me?"

"Oh, I know I can. Now come on, sad boy."

---

The Midtown Arcade wasn't exactly Liam's scene—too many lights, too much noise—but for the first time on this Saturday, he found himself actually laughing.

Millie was a beast.

She demolished him in Dance Revolution, held her own in Mario Kart, and even managed a narrow victory in Air Hockey, which she celebrated like she'd just saved the world.

"Rematch," Liam demanded, cheeks slightly flushed.

"You'll have to earn that rematch," she teased, tossing him a bottle of water.

They spent nearly two hours like that—bouncing from game to game, talking trash, exchanging glances that lingered just a second too long.

At one point, Liam shot down three straight zombies while Millie reloaded, and she clutched her chest dramatically.

"My hero..." she gasped. "Save me, Thompson."

"You're ridiculous," he said, but he was grinning now. For real this time.

They shared a basket of fries in a corner of the arcade afterwards, the air thick with unsaid things.

Liam looked at her. "You're good at this."

"At what?"

"Making people forget things."

Millie shrugged. "Sometimes... forgetting is survival."

---

Later, as they stepped out of the arcade, the city had shifted. Dusk had crept in, brushing the skyline with deep purples and soft oranges. The buzz of traffic sounded farther away somehow.

Millie glanced at her phone—and her face stiffened.

"I've gotta run," she said quickly, already sliding her keys out of her purse.

"Something urgent?"

"Just... family thing," she lied smoothly. "I'll see you Monday?"

Liam nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

She turned to leave, and as she did, her fingers brushed against his while dropping her keys.

They froze.

Neither of them moved for a moment or two.

Her breath caught just slightly.

"Bye, Liam," she whispered, stepping back.

"Millie."

She paused. Looked over her shoulder.

"Thanks. For today."

She smiled. "Don't mention it."

And then she was gone.

---

Ten minutes later, she was in another world entirely.

An expensive restaurant was tucked deep in the city—no sign, no menu, no traceable name. It was the kind of place designed for secrets and shadows. Every booth held a story that could never be repeated.

Millie entered through the side door. No hesitation. No doubts.

Inside, she scanned the booths until she spotted a man holding an old newspaper, dated two days prior.

She sat without a word.

The man folded the paper neatly and laid it on the table. He wore a navy suit with a red lapel pin—elegant but not showy. His face was lined, but his eyes were sharp. Military sharp.

"Rachel Roberts," he said.

"Sir."

To the world, Millicent Rachel Roberts was a high school English teacher.

To those in the know… she was something else entirely.

An undercover operative embedded by the CID (Covert Investigations Division)—a classified task force buried somewhere between local intelligence and federal oversight. Her mission? Observe and report. And now… hunt.

The man across from her—Captain Doran Ridge—slid a folder across the table.

"Victor Vex. You're aware of him."

She opened the file. Her expression didn't change. Mugshot. Crime sheet. Forensics report.

"Dead?"

"Two days ago. Shot clean. No signs of struggle. Someone with skill."

"And?"

"We believe the killer is off-grid. Operated with surgical precision. Possibly personal."

Millie raised a brow. "You want me to find them."

"That is if it's a 'them'," Ridge said. "We want you to watch your surroundings. The neighborhood. The people at the school."

She nodded once.

"Find the killer, Roberts," Ridge said. "Quietly. Discreetly. And bring him in alive."

Millie closed the file, eyes steely.

"Understood."