London is grey and defiant.
The truck delivers us to SOE headquarters mid-afternoon—a converted townhouse in a neighborhood that probably looked respectable before the war. Now it's sandbags and blackout curtains and the kind of quiet efficiency that suggests dangerous work happening behind closed doors.
Eight of us file inside. All volunteers. All officially dead or close to it. All accepting that we're probably signing our lives away for missions that can't be acknowledged if they fail.
A woman in civilian clothes greets us in the foyer. Forties, sharp eyes, the bearing of someone who's seen combat even if she's wearing a skirt now.
"Welcome to the Special Operations Executive. I'm Operations Coordinator Davies." She pauses, sees something in my expression. "Is there a problem?"
"No, ma'am. Just... knew a Davies once. Good man."
"Most of us are good people doing terrible things because the alternative is worse." She gestures toward a hallway. "This way. Briefing room."
We follow her through corridors that smell like stale cigarettes and classified secrets. Maps on walls showing occupied Europe. Photographs of targets. Code sheets partially visible through open doorways.
This is the machinery of shadow war. Intelligence gathering. Sabotage. Assassination. The work that happens between official battles, conducted by people who won't be mentioned if they're captured.
We enter a briefing room. Wooden table, chairs, maps of France pinned to corkboard. Davies stands at the front while we take seats.
"You're here because you're useful, expendable, or both. SOE conducts operations that can't be officially acknowledged. We insert agents into occupied territory. They gather intelligence, coordinate with resistance networks, conduct sabotage, and occasionally eliminate high-value targets." She lights a cigarette. "Most of you won't survive your first operation. Some won't survive training. And if you're captured, the government will deny you ever existed."
Encouraging.
"Training begins tomorrow. Six weeks intensive. Languages, codes, weapons, survival skills, parachute insertion, radio operation. You'll learn more ways to kill silently than you thought existed." She exhales smoke. "Questions?"
A soldier beside me raises his hand. "What if we change our minds? Decide this isn't for us?"
"Then you return to regular service. No judgment. This work isn't for everyone." Her eyes sweep the room. "But understand: The intelligence you'll be exposed to during training is classified. If you leave, you'll be reassigned somewhere that can't compromise operations. Probably some remote posting where you can't accidentally reveal what you learned here."
Translation: Once you're in, there's no clean exit.
"Anyone want to leave now?"
Nobody moves.
"Good. Report to the training facility tomorrow at 0600. Dismissed. Except—" She checks a list. "Castellanos. You stay."
The others file out. I remain seated while Davies closes the door.
"You're the Warsaw veteran," she says.
"Yes, ma'am."
"The one British intelligence listed as MIA, presumed dead, then suddenly reappeared at Dunkirk."
"Yes, ma'am."
"That's... unusual. Raises questions about what happened during those missing weeks."
"I was hiding. Avoiding German patrols. Standard survival."
"With a Polish resistance fighter named Jakub Kowalski. Who died at Dunkirk defending an evacuation queue." She lights another cigarette. "His death is documented. Yours isn't. Which suggests someone wanted you dead but you survived anyway."
I say nothing. Let her fill the silence.
"Here's what I think happened," Davies continues. "Someone in British intelligence sent you on a mission designed to fail. You survived. Went underground. And now you've volunteered for SOE because you want answers. Or revenge. Maybe both."
"Is that a problem?"
"Depends on whether your personal vendetta compromises operations." She leans forward. "I don't care what happened in France. I don't care who tried to kill you or why. What I care about is whether you can follow orders, complete missions, and stay alive long enough to be useful."
"I can."
"We'll see." She stubs out her cigarette. "One more thing. Your training officer will be Captain Harold Fletcher. British intelligence liaison. He specifically requested to oversee your integration into SOE."
My blood runs cold.
Fletcher.
The man who tried to kill me. Who sent ambush teams. Who serves Monarch. Who's responsible for Jakub's death in ways both direct and indirect.
And he's going to be my training officer.
"Is that a problem?" Davies asks, watching my reaction carefully.
"No, ma'am. No problem."
"Good. Because Fletcher has excellent operational knowledge. Whatever your history might be, you'll learn from him." She stands. "Dismissed. Get some rest. Tomorrow your real training begins."
---
I'm assigned quarters in a building two blocks from headquarters.
Converted apartment. Small room, single bed, shared bathroom down the hall. Three other SOE recruits on the same floor—we nod to each other but don't talk. Everyone understands that friendships in this work are liabilities waiting to happen.
I lock the door, drop my pack, and sit on the bed.
Fletcher.
He's here. In London. My training officer.
Either he doesn't know I survived his ambush, or he knows and this is his way of finishing the job. Either way, I'm walking into his reach tomorrow morning.
The smart move is to run. Desert. Disappear into London's streets and never come back.
But running means abandoning the mission. Means Jakub died for nothing. Means Monarch continues unopposed.
And I promised.
So I don't run.
Instead, I plan.
---
I spend the evening memorizing what I know about Fletcher.
Oxford education. History and languages. Recruited into intelligence straight from university. Never saw combat. Professional bureaucrat who sends others to die while keeping his hands clean.
Connected to Monarch. Has files on Nazi research facilities. Coordinates with higher authority—names like Ashford, Pemberton, Wallace.
Tried to kill me in France. Failed.
Now he's my training officer.
The question is: Does he know I survived?
If yes, this is a trap. He'll eliminate me during "training accident" or field operation gone wrong.
If no, I have advantage. I can observe him. Learn his patterns. Identify his connections. Gather evidence while he thinks I'm just another anonymous recruit.
Either way, I'm walking into danger tomorrow.
But danger is where truth lives.
And I need truth more than I need safety.
---
0600 hours. The training facility.
Converted estate outside London. Multiple buildings, obstacle courses, shooting ranges, everything needed to turn civilians into covert operatives.
Eighteen recruits total, including the eight from my group. We assemble in the courtyard while instructors assess us with professional detachment.
Then Fletcher appears.
He looks exactly as I remember. Thinning brown hair. Thick glasses. Bland, forgettable face. Leather portfolio under his arm. Same cold professionalism.
He scans the assembled recruits. His eyes pass over me without recognition.
Either he's an excellent actor, or he genuinely doesn't know I'm alive.
"Good morning," he says. "I'm Captain Fletcher, operations coordinator for this training cycle. Over the next six weeks, we'll transform you from soldiers into intelligence operatives. Some of you will excel. Most will wash out. A few might die during training—it's happened before."
Encouraging as always.
"Your training will cover six core areas: Languages and codes. Weapons and combat. Survival and evasion. Intelligence gathering. Radio operation. And infiltration techniques." He opens his portfolio, scans a list. "We'll begin with weapons assessment. Follow Sergeant Morrison to the range."
We follow Morrison—a scarred veteran who looks like he's killed people in more ways than we can imagine. Fletcher remains behind, taking notes.
I'm careful not to look at him directly. Not to show recognition. Just another recruit following orders.
For now.
---
The weapons assessment is thorough.
Pistols. Rifles. Submachine guns. Knives. Silent kills. Loud kills. Everything an operative might need in occupied territory.
I perform competently. Not excellently—don't want to stand out. But competently enough to pass without question.
Fletcher observes from a distance, making notes. If he recognizes my movement patterns, my shooting style, anything distinctive—he doesn't show it.
By midday, we've completed basic weapons familiarization. Move to hand-to-hand combat assessment.
The instructor is brutal—throws recruits around like toys, identifies weaknesses instantly, demands perfection in technique.
When it's my turn, something happens.
The medallion burns hot. The fragments activate. And suddenly I'm not just Rio—I'm every fighter I've ever been across lifetimes.
I move through the demonstration with fluid precision. Disarm. Counter. Strike. Each movement instinctive, each technique drawn from muscle memory that spans centuries.
The instructor nods, impressed. "Where'd you train?"
"I didn't. Just... pick things up quickly."
"Pick things up." He laughs. "Right. Well, you've picked up enough to teach this class. Good work."
I return to the group. Feel Fletcher's eyes on me.
He's seen something. Recognized something.
Shit.
---
That evening, I'm summoned to Fletcher's office.
Small room in the administrative building. Desk. Filing cabinets. Maps. The same bland professionalism that masks whatever darkness he serves.
"Castellanos," he says when I enter. "Sit."
I sit. Keep my expression neutral. Soldier following orders.
"Your performance today was... remarkable. Particularly the combat assessment. Most recruits struggle with techniques they've never encountered. You executed them perfectly."
"Thank you, sir."
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"Warsaw, sir. Picked up techniques from Polish resistance fighters."
"Interesting." He makes a note. "And before Warsaw? Your file says you were a volunteer with minimal training."
"Self-taught, sir. Survival instincts."
He studies me for a long moment. Then closes his file. "I'm assigning you to advanced track. You'll skip basic training, move directly to infiltration and intelligence gathering techniques. Your skills are too developed to waste on fundamentals."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. Advanced track has higher failure rate. Most recruits aren't ready for the level of... sophistication required." He stands. "But I think you'll manage. Dismissed."
I stand, salute, turn to leave.
"Castellanos?"
I stop. "Sir?"
"We've met before, haven't we?"
The question hangs in the air. Loaded. Dangerous.
"No, sir. First time I've served under British intelligence."
"Strange. You seem... familiar." He taps his portfolio. "Well. I'm sure it will come to me eventually. Dismissed."
I leave before he can study me further.
He knows. Or suspects. Either way, the clock is ticking.
---
Back in my quarters, I process the encounter.
Fletcher suspects but isn't certain. He's testing. Watching. Waiting for me to reveal myself through word or action.
Which means I need to be perfect. No mistakes. No slip-ups. Nothing that confirms his suspicions.
But also: He's vulnerable. Here in London, conducting training, exposed in ways he wasn't in France. If I'm careful, I can observe him. Learn his patterns. Identify his weaknesses.
Maybe even gather evidence about Monarch's London operations.
The risk is enormous. One mistake and I'm dead—"training accident" that no one questions.
But the opportunity is equally enormous.
I can take him down. Not just Fletcher, but the entire Monarch network. From inside.
If I'm smart. If I'm careful. If I survive long enough.
---
The next four weeks blur together.
Advanced training. Languages—I already speak passable French, they teach me German. Codes and cipher work. Radio operation and dead drops. Surveillance and counter-surveillance. How to lie convincingly under interrogation.
And always: Fletcher watching. Taking notes. Testing.
He assigns me increasingly difficult exercises. Scenarios designed to break recruits. Infiltration simulations where failure means "death."
I pass everything.
Not perfectly—that would be suspicious. But consistently, competently, with the skill of someone who's fought real wars and survived real danger.
Fletcher's suspicion grows. I can see it in how he studies me. How he engineers situations to test specific skills. How he's trying to match my face to memories of the soldier he tried to kill in France.
But he can't quite place me. The exhaustion of war has changed my face. The beard I've grown since Dunkirk obscures features. And officially, Rio Castellanos died in France months ago.
So I remain anonymous. Useful. Dangerous in ways he's beginning to recognize but can't quite define.
---
Week five. Parachute training.
We're taken to an airfield. Taught how to jump from aircraft, how to land without breaking bones, how to operate in darkness behind enemy lines.
Fletcher supervises personally. Makes notes about each recruit's performance.
During my final jump, the medallion burns hot. The fragments scream warning.
My parachute malfunctions.
Not completely—the main chute deploys. But the lines are tangled, creating dangerous spin. I'm coming down fast, off-target, heading for trees that could kill me.
Accident? Or sabotage?
I don't have time to decide. Just react.
The fragments guide me. Correct the spin using reserve chute deployment. Aim for clearing between trees. Tuck and roll on landing.
I hit ground hard. Pain shoots through my ankle. But I'm alive.
Fletcher appears moments later. "Castellanos! Are you injured?"
"Ankle, sir. Twisted, not broken."
"Lucky. That malfunction should have killed you." He helps me up. "We'll have the chute inspected. Find out what went wrong."
"Thank you, sir."
He studies my face. "You have remarkable survival instincts."
"Warsaw taught me to stay alive, sir."
"Yes. Warsaw." Something flickers in his expression. "I've been meaning to ask—what unit were you with there?"
"Mixed volunteers, sir. British, American, Polish resistance."
"Did you encounter any... unusual situations? Underground facilities? Research installations?"
There it is. The real question. The one he's been building toward for weeks.
"Just combat, sir. Germans and bombs and trying not to die."
"Nothing else? No discoveries? No documents or artifacts?"
"No, sir."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. But he can't prove anything.
"Very well. Get that ankle checked. You're dismissed from today's exercises."
---
That night, I limp back to my quarters and finally understand.
The parachute malfunction wasn't accident.
Fletcher knows. Has known for weeks. And he's been testing me, pushing me, trying to force me into revealing what I know or breaking under pressure.
The advanced track assignment. The difficult exercises. The parachute sabotage.
All of it designed to either kill me or make me talk.
Which means I have two options:
Run. Desert before the next "accident" succeeds.
Or confront him. Directly. Force the situation before he can eliminate me quietly.
Neither option is safe.
But running means abandoning everything. And I promised Jakub I'd finish this.
So tomorrow, I confront Fletcher.
And either I get answers, or I die trying.
But at least I'll die fighting. Not running.
Not hiding.
Fighting.
The way Jakub taught me.