Some people start their day with coffee. I start mine with a loaded pistol tucked inside my jacket and a dossier on a man I've never met, his name as shadowy as the city around me.
My name is Aria Cole. I'm twenty-six, trained in tactical reconnaissance, fluent in three languages, and currently embedded deep in the labyrinthine heart of Paris. They call me an agent, but honestly? I'm a problem-solver. When people vanish without a trace, when intelligence goes dark, when enemies inch too close for comfort—I'm the one they dispatch.
Today's mission is simple—or so they say. Blend in. Become just another ghost in the sea of commuters flooding the Métro during rush hour. My hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, dark sunglasses mask my eyes, and I'm plugged into nothing but silence through earbuds that don't play a single note. My focus is razor-sharp.
I'm tracking a courier—an unknown variable carrying a flash drive that has the entire agency on edge. They won't tell me what's on it. Just that it's dangerous. Encrypted. Stolen from somewhere no one wants it to be. And they want it back, whatever the cost.
That's when I see him.
A tall man in a worn leather jacket, walking with an almost arrogant confidence. He's not the courier, but I know he's after the same prize. Maybe civilian. Maybe ex-military. His gaze flicks sharply left and right, but never fully meets mine. Like a predator surveying prey.
Suddenly, the train shudders and screeches to a halt—too violently, too abruptly. The fluorescent lights above flicker and dim. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd.
Then—gunshots.
Chaos erupts. Screams pierce the heavy air. People scramble, pushing and shoving. The courier is hit, crumpling to the ground. The flash drive slips from his grasp, skittering across the grimy floor—and slides right toward me.
Without hesitation, I dive forward, snatching the device just as a rough hand clamps down on my wrist.
Our eyes meet—his eyes are a strange blend of hazel and steely gray, sharp and unyielding.
"Come with me if you want to live," he says—every bit the cliché line, but with an edge that leaves no room for argument.
Something inside me—a flicker of instinct, maybe a touch of madness—tells me to trust him.
So I run. Into the dark tunnels beneath Paris, clutching the stolen flash drive like a ticking bomb in my pocket, my mind racing with questions I don't yet have answers to.
Who is this man? What secrets does that drive hold? And how far am I willing to go to find out?