For two days straight, I couldn't reach Richard. Not a single text, call, or even a ghost of his presence online. It felt like my veins carried ice instead of blood.
The worry had built until it was no longer a dull ache in my chest but a constant, stabbing pulse. I had no choice. I booked the earliest flight to City X.
By the time I arrived and checked into a small, anonymous hotel, exhaustion should have claimed me, but my mind wouldn't stop racing.
Then, a knock.
A soft, deliberate sound against the door.
My first thought was food delivery. But my name hadn't left my lips since I landed. I hadn't ordered anything. No one should know I was here.
A chill skated down my spine.
Do I really have a stalker?
I refused the tray of food the hotel staff tried to hand over. My smile was polite, but my pulse thundered in my ears. When the door clicked shut, I immediately stuffed my passport, cash, and every important document I had into my bag. I wouldn't stay here long.
I needed answers.
I called an old friend, a ghost of my college days. He wasn't part of any official system but thrived in the shadows of it, black market tech, tracking devices, counter-surveillance. He owed me favors.
When he arrived, his expression was grim but efficient. He scanned my bag, my phone, my clothes, and even the soles of my shoes for trackers. He found nothing.
No bugs. No hidden chips. Not even a single suspicious signal coming from my phone.
"You're clean," he said finally, though his brow furrowed. "Too clean. If someone's watching you, they're not using amateur tools."
I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or even more exposed.
Then came my next request. "Hack into Richard's phone and accounts. Check his messages. If someone's feeding him information about me…"
He raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. Within minutes, he had access. The screen filled with rows of mundane texts, unread notifications from school group chats, and bank statements. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous.
"Boyfriend's clean," my friend confirmed, sliding the laptop back to me. "No leaks, no outside communications, no secret trackers. Whoever's watching you isn't moving through him."
My heart clenched. That left only one other possibility.
My ex.
We dug into his accounts next, scrolling through photos and messages until I almost felt sick. His life was a carousel of different women, none of them remotely connected to me. His patterns were messy, predictable, but harmless.
"Nothing," my friend muttered again, though the edge in his voice mirrored my own unease.
So if it wasn't Richard, and it wasn't my ex, then who?
I sat back in the chair, fingers tightening around my phone. The sense of being watched hadn't disappeared. It had only deepened.
"Ahce, putting your life in danger is not a good idea." Gian's voice was low but sharp, like a knife slicing through the chatter of the small café. "Go back to the team. They need you there. Vivian said your 'vacation' is taking too long."
I stirred my coffee slowly, the dark liquid swirling in circles like the memories I kept locked away. "Gian, you know I've retired."
His eyes flickered with something between frustration and pity.
"Retired?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "No one ever retires. Not from us. Everyone knows that. Everyone except you, apparently. The organization can protect you, Ahce. And everyone around you. It's worth the risk."
I set my spoon down. The soft clink against the porcelain felt louder than it should have. "I don't want them involved. Not again. I've built a quiet life for myself."
"You think they're going to let you walk away?" Gian asked, his tone darkening. "Do you think your enemies care about your 'quiet life'? Every day you're out there alone, you're exposed. So are the people you care about. You know how this works."
My pulse quickened. He was right. I did know how this worked. No one knew when I joined the organization, how, or why, but I was one of their most efficient operatives, and the kind of skills they taught don't just fade away.
"I'll think about it," I muttered, standing and reaching for my bag.
But Gian's expression softened just a fraction, as if he could already read my decision.
"I already know the answer," he said. "The moment you walked through that door, you'd already decided. Welcome back."
I paused, my fingers tightening on the strap of my bag. I didn't answer.
The bell above the café door chimed softly as I stepped outside into the noise of the street. People passed me without looking, each of them wrapped in their own little worlds. For a moment, I envied them.
I walked until I reached the mall, blending into the crowd, pretending to be just another shopper. The smell of perfume, fried food, and new clothes masked the scent of danger that had become too familiar.
Then my phone vibrated in my hand. The screen flickered once, then went black.
I froze.
Seconds later, an icon bloomed across the dark display... a crimson rose, sharp petals glinting like blades.
My breath caught.
Still the same.
The organization.
The rose was their symbol. No words, no greetings, just a mark to say they're watching, they're calling. And just like that, the quiet life I'd built began to crumble.
All of my gadgets had been marked by the organization. My phone, my tablet, even my personal laptop, their digital fingerprints crawled across every corner of my life. My accounts were locked, my access revoked. It was their way of saying, "You belong to us. You always will."
The control of the organization was absolute. It wasn't just strict, it was suffocating. No one held secrets from them. Not even death could grant you freedom. Information lived longer than bodies, and they knew how to dig it up, even from a grave.
I sat on one of the benches in the mall's resting area, letting the noise of the crowd blur into meaningless static. Mothers herded children past me, couples held hands, and friends shared drinks and laughter. Normalcy. A world I'd fought to escape to, but one that always felt like a borrowed costume.
A shadow stopped in front of me.