Specter: Project Archangel

Chapter 0 | Last Call

It was a rainy day. The sound of packing tape ripping off a roll echoed in Mitchell's sparse apartment. Most of his belongings were already sealed in boxes, labeled: "Electronics", "Clothes", "Books". Fifteen years in the agency, and his life fit into six carboard boxes. The thought made him laugh derisively. Leaving this place should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like running away.

He was taping up the last box, when his phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Meet me at Café Noir. 20 minutes.

Mitchell stared at the text with thumb hovering over 'delete'. He'd gotten awfully good at saying no lately. His flight was in twelve hours – a one-way ticket to civilian life. Some cushy private security gig stateside, guarding tech billionaire who was paranoid about corporate espionage. No more missions, no more agency, no more-

His phone buzzed again.

Please. – A

He swore under his breath. Only one person in the agency signed texts that way.

The tape roll dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor. He glanced at the clock. Eighteen minutes now. He could ignore it, let it go, get on the plane, and forget he ever saw it. But something about the text tugged at him, like the loose thread on an old shirt you can't help but pull, even when you know it's going to unravel everything.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, grabbing his jacket off the couch.

***

Café Noir was exactly as Mitchell remembered it—warm, quiet, dimly lit, smoky, with the scent of old coffee beans hanging in the air. It was where the agency's people came to meet when they didn't want to be seen.

He stepped inside, scanning the scattered patrons. It didn't take long to spot her. Anna Sinclair sat in the far corner, dressed in the kind of nondescript black coat that made her blend into any crowd. She looked up as soon as he walked in, giving a small nod of acknowledgment but not rising from her seat.

Mitchell made his way through the café, threading between the tables until finally sitting across from her. He tried to guess why Anna Sinclair—A—wanted to meet now, of all times. She was always an enigma, one of the agency's quiet powerhouses, pulling strings from the shadows. If she was calling him now, it wasn't for idle conversation.

"I appreciate you coming, David." Anna's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "I knew you wouldn't walk away without at least hearing me out."

Mitchell leaned back, crossing his arms. "You've got ten minutes. I've got a plane to catch."

Anna nodded, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if assessing how much time she had to shift his thinking. "I won't waste your time, David. We need your expertise for one last mission. It's urgent, and it's not something we can hand over to just anyone. I know you're about to leave this life behind, but I wouldn't ask if it wasn't critical."

Mitchell exhaled sharply. He anticipated it would turn out this way – hell, it wouldn't be the first time. But now was different. He wouldn't go back. "I'm done. I told you before—I'm not in a business of chasing ghosts anymore." Despite the fact that he just sat down, he stood up again, grabbing his jacket. He had no intention of listening to an argument that would convince him to re-enter this bloody brothel.

Anna slid a slim black folder across the table. It was thinner than usual, only a few pages. "You may want to at least look inside." she said

Mitchell glanced at the folder, clenching his jaw in irritation. He had half a mind to shove it back across the table and walk out, but something in Anna's voice—something almost pleading—made him open it.