I was sent to capture the CIA's most wanted fugitive.
But things took a tragic turn,
My entire team was murdered before my eyes, and I was kidnapped by said fugitive.
It seemed like my government had forgotten me and I became a puppet for the fugi...
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It's dark in here, almost familiar.
I can't even tell how many days it's been.
During training days with Agent Lombardi, one crucial part of the process was being left alone in the darkness, with no way out. He did it to break us, as little as we were. And he did. He broke all of us.
But this darkness is different; scarier, eerie, quiet. My shoulder throbs, and my mind flashes through the events that led to this moment. *Code Hidalgo.* The mission. The dead agents and Navy SEALs. Agent Wright... stuffed in a casket and left to suffocate. And me-overpowered, now here, against my will.
No thanks to my training, I'm never completely unconscious. I felt everything. Heard everything. Knew everything that happened around me. It's like being trapped, watching the way out but unable to move, unable to get there.
His hands, the way they felt when they cleaned and bandaged my wounds. The subtle brush of his fingers, too gentle for someone capable of so much violence. The way he cradled me like a broken doll, lifting me without struggle, taking me to this place. Helpless, with every will to fight but no strength to do so.
And now, here in the dark. The air is damp, thick, and it reeks of blood. Not knowing what day or time it is, not knowing what use I serve. A bargaining chip? Ransom? Andreas Hidalgo is notorious for robbing reserve banks and escaping without a trace-money isn't his problem.
Something wet drips down my arm, and my skin sticks to the cold concrete beneath me. It's blood. My blood. I'm barely patched up; the bandages do little to stop the slow, steady flow. My breathing is shallow, each inhale painful, each exhale more labored.
The audacity, the power, the nerve of the man.
Suddenly, the metallic creak of a door. Faint light floods in, casting long shadows across the room. Heavy footsteps approach, the sound echoing against the walls. I can taste the fear rising in my throat as I brace for what comes next.
Two distinct sets of footsteps echo through the darkness. As the door opens wider, more light floods in, revealing two figures. Andreas and his right-hand man, Enrico. It's easy to forget sometimes that they were originally Spanish. Their accents are barely there now, smoothed over by years of a generation blending into different worlds.
"Are. You. Mad?" Andreas' voice is a low, lethal growl. His focus is razor-sharp on Enrico, like he's one wrong move away from killing him right here and now.
"Just doing my job." Enrico replies, standing tall, unmoved. He must be used to this-dancing along the edge of Andreas' temper.
Andreas chuckles, the sound cold, dark. Menacing.
"What job, Enrico?"
"Protecting you, like I always have."
Andreas takes a slow, deliberate step toward him. "Enrico-"
