Mystery ~ MV1

024. Skeletons Finally See the Light

[Agent A]

The silence that follows Raymond's departure settles around me like twilight descending upon a battlefield—heavy with the weight of words spoken and truths yet to be unveiled.

With his commanding presence absent, I'm left with the burning pain in my side- forcing me to remember everything from yesterday, up until I blacked out. I've been shot with a gun before, and yet this time feels completely different to me.

Because I'd take the hit again.

If I redid the whole night I remember, I wouldn't change what I did one bit- in fear that the change would lead to someone else feeling chained to a bed without wearing anything but the burning pain in their side holding them back.

Each thought I conjure makes my head spin, so I do what I do best. I keep moving, the wiring inside my mind forcing me to drag my hands over my face to try and wipe the sleep from my eyes.

A sharp breath fills the silence as it falls from past my clenched teeth, teeth that are clenched together so tightly I almost think I'll shatter them, as I forcibly move my legs off the side of the bed.

Pain,

red,

hot, and

angry.

It flares up like an uncontainable bush fire. Reaching for more oxygen to keep the flames spitting. A wince escapes my lips, a small sound that carries the weight of mountains, and I understand with crystalline clarity that the geography of pain has fundamentally altered the architecture of movement.

My eyes squeeze shut as I try to tell my muscle to move, but I'm only left with two legs screaming at me to lay back down.

But I can't. I won't.

I have to move, I have to prove to myself that it's not that bad.

I'm staring at my knees, concentrating on the feeling of the rug beneath my toes so that I can't focus on the pain that seems permanent at the moment; each movement a careful negotiation between will and the rebellion of wounded flesh.

But that's when the front door opens quietly. Hesitant footsteps echo into my room and make my gut twist

My fingertips itch as they wrap around the handle of the gun. The trigger becomes my beacon of power as I strain my ears to hear anything that can prepare me.

I hear a small clatter followed by a grunted 'fucking shit'. It's sharp and quick and makes my hand fully wrap around the gun.

But then the distinctive cadence registers—those Dutch vowels that have become as familiar as the rhythm of my own heartbeat, musical and precise as water over stone. The quick sound washes through me like relief finding its way to drought-stricken earth, and a sigh escapes my lips, carrying with it tension I hadn't realized was mapping itself across my shoulders at the thought of a stranger in my house.

My gaze drifts downward, cataloging the strange archaeology of my current state. The Nike compression shorts cling to my legs like shadows reluctant to let go of their host, while the unforgiving architecture of an underwire bra—chosen for its ability to remain invisible beneath silk rather than its capacity for comfort—presses against ribs that feel bruised by more than just physical impact. Over it all hangs a shirt too large, too foreign, its cotton soft against skin that remembers violence with tactile clarity.