Covert Affairs

Good night, asshole.

"Operative White," Mr. Solomon declared, his smug expression never faltering as his voice reverberated through the cavernous darkness of the planetarium. The sound bounced off the curved walls like a judgment, mixing with the rhythmic percussion of rain against the domed ceiling above us. Each droplet seemed to mock me as I stood before him, chest heaving, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts that created small puffs of vapor in the cool night air.

The planetarium felt suffocating, the artificial stars overhead seeming to dim with my shame. My sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as I shifted my weight, water still dripping from my rain-soaked clothes onto the pristine surface.

"You failed the mission."

"What?" The word erupted from my throat before I could stop it, my voice cracking embarrassingly. "No I didn't. I did NOT run across this entire museum complex in the pouring rain just to fail. No. No!" I could hear my voice getting higher, more desperate, but I couldn't seem to control it. "I'm here, I'm on time, and I'm alone. That was the mission parameters. I executed the mission."

Mr. Solomon's smirk widened, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face. He stood there in his perfectly pressed suit, not a hair out of place, looking like he was enjoying every second of my confusion and mounting panic.

"You did not execute the mission." His tone was matter-of-fact, almost bored, which somehow made it worse.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't know what you are talking about." The statement came out as more of an accusation, frustration bleeding through every syllable. My mind raced through every detail of the evening, analyzing each moment for where I could have gone wrong. But I'd followed protocol. I'd been careful. I'd been—

"Think about it." His voice carried that infuriating tone adults use when they know something you don't, that condescending lilt that makes you feel like a child playing dress-up in grown-up clothes.

That's when Jess's warning echoed in my memory like a ghost: Don't trust him! The words reverberated through my skull with new meaning. Don't trust who? Jason. My heart didn't just sink; it plummeted into my stomach like a stone thrown into deep water.

The realization washed over me in waves. First came the understanding, then the humiliation, followed quickly by a rage so pure it made my vision blur at the edges.

"I wasn't alone in the museum," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, "but I'm definitely alone now. And that boy?" I stammered, "I assessed him. I ran through every protocol we've learned. I checked for micro-expressions, body language inconsistencies, story discrepancies. I followed all the threat assessment procedures." My voice was getting smaller with each word as the magnitude of my failure became clear. "He's just a normal kid. He—"

"On the contrary," Mr. Solomon interrupted, his voice cutting through my desperate justifications like a knife through silk. "He is anything but a normal kid. He is at the top of his class at Blackthorne Academy."

The words fell over me like ice water. Fuck fuck fuck. Blackthorne Academy. The elite boys' school for spies. The one that made Gallagher Academy look like a summer camp. The place where they started training operatives when they were barely out of diapers.

My mouth went dry. He'd said he went to an all-boys boarding school. Technically true, I realized with growing horror. I'd dismissed every red flag, rationalized away every warning sign because... because what? Because he was cute? Because he made me feel normal for five minutes?

The sinking feeling in my stomach transformed into something heavier, something that felt like lead settling in my bones. This wasn't just a failure; this was complete and utter humiliation.