Veil of the forsaken.

"The call."

Veil walked the halls with her usual easy swagger, tossing a lazy wave to a few passing soldiers who acknowledged her with nods. To them, she was the same as ever—grinning, confident, carrying that untouchable air of mischief and control.

But when she reached her door, when the steel slid shut behind her, that grin faded.

Her shoulders dropped. The mask slipped.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her back against the door for just a second before pushing off and stepping into the dimly lit space. Her room wasn't much—barely personalized, aside from a few scattered belongings. It wasn't home. It never had been.

Her gaze shifted to the desk.

The radio sat there, untouched but impossible to ignore.

It didn't belong. Not here, not in Aldine, where everything was sleek, modern, efficient. But this thing? It was old—worn edges, scuffed dials, a relic of another time. Another place.

Something in Veil's eyes darkened as she stepped toward it. Her fingers hovered over the frequency dial before she finally turned it, her touch precise, practiced.

Static crackled. Then a faint, distorted tone.

She leaned forward, her voice quieter than usual. "This is Veil. You there?"

Silence stretched.

Then—

A low, distorted hum came through. Faint. Unclear.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"...You shouldn't be calling this line."

A voice. Familiar.

Veil's grip on the edge of the desk tightened. "Yeah, well. I did."

A beat of silence. Then the voice sighed. "...You're in deep, aren't you?"

Veil swallowed. Something unreadable flickered in her gaze. "Just tell me what I need to know."

The radio crackled again. The voice lowered.

"...Alright. But you're not gonna like it." The radio hissed, a warbled hum of static and something else—something just beneath the surface, like a whisper caught in a storm. Veil's fingers hovered over the dial, her knuckles tense, breath shallow.

"...I don't like most things," she muttered, forcing her voice into something light, something easy. But the weight pressing against her ribs said otherwise.

The voice on the other end exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Then this won't surprise you."

A pause.

Then—

"They're onto you."

Veil's jaw clenched.

"Who?"

A dry laugh crackled through the line. "Come on, don't play dumb. You know exactly who."

She did.

The 'Americans.' The ghosts that never really left, the ones who had trained her, used her, then tossed her aside the moment she became a liability. The ones who had sent her after ....

She let out a slow breath, pressing two fingers against her temple. "They think I'm gonna chicken out?"

"No." The voice was grim now. "They think you're gonna fail."

A chill coiled around her spine.

"...Fail what?"

A long pause. Too long.