The hard drive was old. Not just dusty or outdated — it had that haunted feeling, like it had survived a fire no one ever reported.
Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Zurich safehouse, the drive pulsing faintly beside her laptop. She stared at it like it might bite.
Dominic worked in silence, connecting the terminal and booting up a cloned operating system. Whatever was hidden inside, they had to assume it was dangerous — encrypted, tracked, or possibly rigged to explode everything they knew.
He slipped on gloves before touching the keys. A flicker of light ran through the screen.
"It's asking for biometric verification," he said.
Amelia didn't hesitate. She pressed her palm against the scanner, her breath catching.
The screen blinked.
Verified: Subject 12 – Clearance Level Omega.
Dominic swore under his breath. "Omega clearance? That's beyond black ops. Your father wasn't just experimenting—he was building a program to override national sovereignty."
Lines of data began scrolling. Names. Codes.
Footage.
Amelia's hand trembled, but her voice remained calm. "This… this is the Ghost Protocol list."
Dominic turned to her sharply. "You remember?"
"Not all of it. Just flashes." Her fingers brushed the edge of the screen. "Project Nocturne wasn't just a brain experiment. It was a ghost creation project—turning people into operatives with no past, no trace, no origin."
He nodded grimly. "Human weapons."
Her voice lowered. "I wasn't the only one."
She clicked a folder labeled Resurrected.
Dozens of profiles appeared.
Young. Male. Female. All listed as missing. All presumed dead.
Until now.
Dominic's jaw clenched. "Some of these names are active. They're working in governments, private security firms, some are even in tech."
"And that one," Amelia pointed at a name — Elias Cade. "He used to be my handler."
Dominic paled.
"What?"
He leaned in. "He was my partner. We ran three ops together in Warsaw and Tel Aviv. He died in a helicopter crash five years ago."
Amelia's voice was ice. "No, Dominic. He didn't die. He was reassigned."
The room darkened as a storm rolled across the Zurich hills. Thunder cracked overhead. Rain swept against the window like a warning.
Dominic closed the laptop, pacing.
"If Cade is alive, that means they've activated more than just you. They've flipped the whole network."
"Which means we're not just running," Amelia said. "We're being hunted."
She stood and crossed to a hidden compartment in the fireplace. Inside, sealed in plastic, was a black leather file.
She opened it slowly. Inside was a picture — her — age sixteen, sitting at a piano. A man stood beside her.
It wasn't her father.
It was Zahir.
And on the back, scrawled in red ink:
Control is never about chains. It's about choices. You chose to stay, Amelia.
Now choose again.
She recoiled like it burned her. Dominic took it from her, his brow darkening.
"He's trying to gaslight you. Make you think you were part of this willingly."
Her eyes were distant. "What if I was?"
Dominic stepped forward, grabbing her shoulders. "Then we find the truth. All of it.
And we expose them. Not as victims. Not as fugitives. But as fire they can't put out."
She stared at him, breath catching. "You still trust me?"
"Always."
And for a moment, despite the chaos, despite the past pressing in on all sides — she leaned in and kissed him.
Not just hunger.
Not just pain.
But survival.
That night, they slept in shifts.
Dominic cleaned the weapons cache hidden in the walls. Amelia mapped the locations of every operative listed on the hard drive. One name repeated in red.
Kestrel Moreau.
Unknown origin. Known assassin. And current location: Florence.
Amelia stared at the blinking red dot on the map.
"That's where my next memory leads."
Dominic raised a brow. "You sure?"
She nodded. "He was there the day the
Cyprus lab burned. I don't remember what he did. Only how I felt when I saw him."
Dominic approached. "How did you feel?"
She didn't flinch. "Like he wasn't human."
Two days later, they stood in Florence — city of lovers and liars.
Rain glistened on the cobblestones. Tourists flocked to the galleries, unaware of the war unfolding in the shadows.
They checked into a nondescript apartment overlooking the Arno River. Dominic handed her a silenced pistol.
"I don't want you to shoot unless you have to."
Amelia smirked. "I always have to."
Then her smile faded.
Because across the river, on the terrace of a café, a man in a grey coat sipped espresso.
Alone. Calm.
Kestrel Moreau.
He looked up suddenly, as if he felt her eyes on him.
And smiled.