Mystery ~ MV1

023. Dont get Soft on Me Now

[Agent A]

Consciousness returns like a tide—gradual, inexorable, bringing with it fragments of memory that wash against the shores of my mind.

The pain arrives first, a throbbing pulse emanating from my side in waves of crimson heat that spread through my body like wildfire through drought-stricken fields. Its fury rages even as I stay still, the steady rise and fall of my chest feeling as if it's doing more harm than good when it only feeds the painful burn in my side.

The darkness behind my eyelids is a sanctuary I'm reluctant to abandon, but awareness drags me forward into the waking world with cruel insistence.

The pain will be there for a while, so I have to push through.

My mouth tastes of copper and regret, tongue moving against teeth that feel too sharp in a mouth gone desert-dry. The pillow beneath my head cradles me with familiar contours—my pillow, my bed—though I have no memory of how I arrived here.

Last night exists as shattered fragments: the chase, the searing bloom of agony as the bullet found its mark, the terror in Max's eyes reflecting my own mortality back at me with devastating clarity.

Max.

His name echoes in the hollow spaces of my chest, stirring something that feels dangerously like attachment. I push the thought away, focusing instead on physical inventory—the language of survival I've spoken fluently since before I could drive.

The sheets whisper against my skin as I move my fingers, testing my mobility. My limbs respond sluggishly but obediently, muscles heavy with lingering sedation. With a searing effort, I peel back the covers to assess the damage hidden beneath the thin cotton of an unfamiliar t-shirt. A large bandage covers my side, pristine white against skin turned alabaster from blood loss, the edges of surgical tape catching light filtering through half-drawn curtains.

I'm alive, then. Despite everything.

I shift my weight, preparing to swing my legs over the edge of the bed—a necessary test of functionality, of how far the damage extends. But as my body tenses in preparation, pain flares with vicious intensity, stopping my movement as effectively as a physical restraint. My eyes squeeze shut as my entire body begins to feel on fire, the flame of pain spreading from my side to consume each of my muscles.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice materializes from the shadows before its owner, and instinct takes over before conscious thought can form. My hand slides beneath the pillow, finding the cold comfort of metal with practiced ease. And in one fluid motion born of years of training, the gun is free and aimed at the darkened corner of my bedroom, safety disengaged with the soft click that has preceded death more times than I care to remember.

The quick movement makes my head spin and my eyes go a bit blurry, but the gun is still aimed at the dark mass lurking in the corner.

Then my vision sharpens, adrenaline cutting through lingering fog to reveal Raymond sitting in the chair beside my window, his expression as impassive as stone weathered by centuries of indifferent rain.

"Jesus Christ-," I exhale in one breath, thumb sliding the safety back into place with perhaps more force than necessary. The gun lowers to rest against my thigh, its weight suddenly excessive. "I almost shot you."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Raymond observes, posture unchanged, voice carrying the dry amusement of someone who has danced too many times with mortality to fear its shadow. "Your reflexes are intact, at least."