I stood there for a solid five seconds, still holding the stupid carrot like it was going to explain anything.
People were still chuckling as they passed. I heard someone mutter “smooth” under their breath.
Fantastic. New record for public humiliation.
I dropped the carrot in the nearest bin, abandoned the rest of my groceries like they’d betrayed me, and speed-walked to my car parked around the corner. My ears were still burning.
"I am never showing my face on this street again," I muttered, jabbing the ignition.
The drive was short—just a few blocks. My building loomed ahead, quiet and familiar. Comforting.
I pulled into the parking lot, shut off the engine, and stepped out, mentally rewinding the entire elevator-worthy cringe fest.
Sera freaking Valeska.
Why here? Of all places? What is she doing here in the first place?
Inside the lobby, I noticed the elevator doors just beginning to close. A flash of black hair caught my eye—no. No way.
I lunged forward.
"Hold it!"
The doors paused just enough for me to slip in. And there she was.
Again.
Sera turned her head slightly but didn’t say anything at first. She stood there all calm and collected, like she hadn’t just yeeted a full-grown man like a decorative pillow. Her vibe was exactly as cold and razor-sharp as I remembered from the last five minutes.
Great. She looked like she already regretted not slamming the button harder.
"What are you doing here? Weren’t you living in Ashgrove?" I asked, genuinely confused.
She didn’t even look at me fully.
"It’s none of your business."
Oof. Classic Valeska. Ice queen in full form.
I snorted under my breath and jabbed the button for the third floor.
Third. That meant she was on four. Perfect. Just my luck.
"I get to live right under the storm cloud," I muttered.
She glanced sideways, expression unreadable.
"And I get to live just above the circus."
Elevator silence was already awkward. Now it was radioactive.
The bell dinged.
I stepped out, not bothering to hide the glare.
Her smile was a little too sweet to be nice.
"Stairs are faster if you’re running again."
The doors slid shut in my face.
I stared for a second.
This is going to be hell.
I barely stepped into my apartment when I tossed the key card onto the counter and pulled out my phone.
Mae picked up after two rings.
"Zane?"
"You’ll never believe who just moved into my building," I said, still half in disbelief.
"Who?"
"Sera Valeska."
A pause. Then:
"Wait—Miss Valeska?"
"Yup," I said, slumping onto the couch.
"Teacher. Tall. Terrifying. Sarcasm on legs."
"No way. Where?"
"Technically?" I sighed.
"On top of my head. She lives right above me. Fourth floor."
Mae laughed.
"Wow. You two are basically neighbors."
I rubbed my temple.
"What’s she doing here anyway? I thought she was at Ashgrove."
"Not anymore," Mae said.
"She’s transferring. It happened really fast."
"Why? What happened?"
Mae’s voice dropped a bit.
"I think it had something to do with Mrs. Bram."
I sat up slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"Well… I heard Miss Valeska actually filed a complaint about Mrs. Bram. You know how she is—calm but sharp. She actually stood up to her. I guess Mrs. Bram pulled some strings to get her out."
I blinked.
"So she didn’t leave by choice?"
"Not exactly. But I mean, it’s Eastbridge. Big-name school. She’s insanely good at what she does—everyone knows that. And now she finally gets a position that suits her level. So maybe it’s a win in disguise?"
I didn’t answer.
Because for a second, guilt twisted low in my stomach. If it hadn’t been for that whole parent-teacher mess… would this have played out differently?
Mae continued,
"She always seemed too smart for Ashgrove anyway. I think she’s where she belongs now."
"Yeah," I said softly.
"Maybe."
We hung up. But that twist of guilt didn’t leave.
Because whatever kind of person Sera Valeska was… she clearly didn’t back down. And somehow, I might’ve helped push her out of a place she cared about.
And now?
I stared up at the ceiling.
Right above me.
Perfect.
I stood with a sigh, made my way to the fridge, and yanked it open. Grabbed one of those little yogurt drinks—the kind mom always nagged me to stop living off of—and downed it in one breath.
God, I was starving.
I kicked the fridge door shut, about to drag myself toward the shower when my phone buzzed sharply on the counter.
Dr. Voss.
I picked it up immediately.
"Hello?"
"Zane," her voice came quick, sharp.
"Can you come to the lab right now?"
I straightened, heart picking up pace.
"What’s going on?"
There was a pause. Then her voice dropped low, heavy with urgency.
"I think we might have a lead on Grey Circle."
A jolt hit me.
Days. I’d been digging, chasing shadows, trying so hard to find anything—any crack in their walls. But Grey Circle was a ghost. No files. No records. Nothing but silence.
To hear those words—it felt like a lifeline tossed into the dark.
"I’ll be there in ten," I said, already grabbing the coat I’d tossed on the floor earlier.
I was out the door before she even responded.
I practically sprinted down the hallway, heart still pounding from the call. My mind was racing—finally, a lead. No time to waste.
Bursting through the lobby doors, I didn’t slow until I hit the parking lot. The cold air hit my face, sharp and waking me up further.
That’s when I saw her.
Sera.
Leaning into the driver’s side of her car, keys in hand, like she was trying to blend into the shadows. Black leather jacket, cold eyes, and that “don’t mess with me” aura radiating off her like heat from a fire.
Our eyes met for a split second—long enough to register the awkwardness—but neither of us moved. Like two strangers who accidentally locked eyes on a subway, then immediately regretted it.
No nods. No hellos. Just mutual ignoring, the silent battle of “You don’t see me, I don’t see you.”
I smirked, shaking my head. Yeah, this was going to be interesting.
I jumped in my car and floored it out of the lot, pushing every red light like it was a dare.
Dr. Voss’s lab was exactly what I needed—cold, clinical, and full of answers I’d been starving for.
I parked, grabbed my coat, and headed inside, ready to face whatever new mess she’d dragged me into.
I pushed open the heavy door to Dr. Voss’s lab, the sterile scent hitting me immediately. She looked up from a cluttered desk, eyes sharp behind her glasses.
"Zane, thanks for coming on short notice," she began, motioning me closer.
"I’ve been digging through some records, and something’s off."
I folded my arms, waiting.
"There’s this patient who was admitted for genetic testing," she continued,
"but now… they’re missing. Not just physically—there’s no trace of their identity anywhere. No admission records, no official files. It’s like they never existed."
My interest piqued.
"What do you mean?"
"I started looking for any tests or data related to this case," she said, flipping through her tablet.
"There are some experimental results—genetic sequences, blood work, some scans. But here’s the weird part: these tests aren’t linked to any patient file. They’re filed under a name I’ve never come across—Dr. Aynes Rune."
I frowned.
"A doctor?"
Dr. Voss shook her head.
"Yes, Dr. Aynes Rune. I’ve never heard that name before, and no one else seems to know it either. But when I checked the system, there’s a geneticist registered under it. Fully licensed, fully authorized. It all looks clean… too clean."
"Sounds suspicious," I said.
She nodded slowly.
"Exactly. I’m starting to suspect Grey Circle might be involved. This erasure of records… it’s too perfect to be a coincidence. But I'm not sure about it."
Without thinking, I grabbed a pen from her desk and a scrap of paper. I wrote Aynes Rune carefully, then paused.
“Can you spell it again?” I asked.
She repeated it slowly.
I felt a chill.
"I’m certain it’s them."
She raised an eyebrow.
"How so sure?"
I jotted a second name beneath it, the letters forming slowly—Senya Roan.
Her eyes lingered on the paper, puzzled.
"Look closer," I urged.
"The first name is ‘Senya’—backwards it’s ‘Aynes’. The last name ‘Roan’ is just shifted slightly to ‘Rune’. It’s a deliberate disguise."
Dr. Voss stared at the paper like it had slapped her. Her lips barely moved as she whispered,
"That kind of trick… only someone who knows the real person could do that."
I leaned closer, heart thudding like it knew something I didn’t. But I did. Now. It was like all the haze suddenly cleared.
I took a step back, staring at the paper still in my hand. I tapped my fingers against it slowly.
"That’s not just a cover name," I said quietly.
"That’s her."
Dr. Voss blinked.
"Who?"
I looked up.
"Dr. Senya Roan. The lead geneticist from Project Nyros. She vanished after the lab went dark, right? Everyone thought she disappeared to avoid fallout, or maybe she was silenced."
Dr. Voss narrowed her eyes.
"You’re saying… she made a new identity?"
"Not just made," I said, holding the paper toward her, then flipping it over and writing it clean:
Senya Roan
Aynes Rune
"She rearranged her name. Just enough to pass as someone else. Registered a new ID, a new license, everything—but it’s still her. All the research done under 'Aynes Rune'… was her continuing her work for Grey Circle, right under everyone’s noses."
Dr. Voss looked pale, the weight of it landing hard.
"That’s why I couldn’t trace her. I kept thinking she was buried or off-grid. But she was here… hidden in plain sight."
"And now the patient’s gone," I added.
"Erased, like he never existed. Just like she erased herself."
There was silence. Thick, heavy silence.
Dr. Voss finally sat down, whispering like she was still trying to convince herself.
"She’s not a ghost. She’s still working. Still running this."
My mind was already moving three steps ahead. The trail wasn’t cold anymore—we had a spark.
"We need to go back to the beginning," I said, voice steady now.
"Start from that patient. Whoever he was… he’s the thread. If we find him—if he’s still out there—he’ll know what she did to him. What they did."
Dr. Voss looked up from the monitor, eyes meeting mine with something rare. Not just urgency—respect.
"This is why I needed you here," she said quietly.
"You’re sharper than most agents I’ve worked with, Zane."
I blinked, caught a little off guard by the compliment—but a faint smile tugged at my mouth anyway.
"Guess we better make that count, then," I said.
The zipper of my jacket whispered as I pulled it up halfway, the leather creaking softly over the white tank top beneath. Black jeans, boots laced tight. Everything sharp, clean, and uninviting. Just how I liked it.
I pulled my hair back with practiced ease, smoothing it into a high ponytail—tight, no strands out of place. A mirror glance confirmed what I needed: composed, distant, unreadable.
There was somewhere I had to go before tomorrow.
The elevator hummed low as it descended. I watched my own reflection in the brushed steel doors—still, cold, almost mannequin-like. By the time the doors opened, I had already erased the last remnants of expression from my face.
The parking lot was dipped in moon light, shadows stretching under the rows of vehicles. Mine sat in the far corner, silver-grey, quiet like a held breath. I walked toward it slowly, each step firm, clipped.
I paused by the driver’s side, fingers wrapping around the keys. I leaned into the car for a second—not tired, not hesitant—just still. Like I was letting the world go silent around me.
Then… motion.
Across the lot, Zane.
Our eyes locked for the briefest second. No words, no nod, just a mutual awkwardness laced with a strange kind of tension. Like we both knew we were seeing too much of each other, too often.
My expression didn’t shift. He looked away first. Got into his car, started it, peeled out.
I watched the empty space he left behind.
Then I got in, started my own engine, and pulled away. Calm. Mechanical. Like clockwork.
The highway unfurled like a ribbon of dust and asphalt. I drove in silence, the hum of the tires barely registering. Buildings turned to trees, trees to fields, until the world felt wide and empty again. Just the way I preferred it.
The cemetery sat beyond a low hill, old iron gates rusted at the hinges. Roselake Memorial Grounds—etched in iron curls above the entrance.
I parked outside. Walked through alone.
The gravel crunched underfoot as I moved between the headstones. I knew the path without thinking. I didn’t come often. But when I did, I never got lost.
There it was. The name carved in worn stone, rough around the edges like it had been there longer than it really had.
Agnes Valeska
I stared at it.
Nothing stirred in me.
Not grief. Not nostalgia. Not even bitterness.
Just facts.
"I had a transfer," I said softly. The wind barely moved around me.
"Eastbridge High. Starting tomorrow."
I let the silence sit before adding,
"It’s bigger. More elite. Political. I hate it already."
No warmth to the words. No fondness. Just information. Like a voicemail left for a number that never picks up.
"But I’ll manage," I added.
"That’s kind of my thing."
The wind swept a few dry leaves past the stone. I didn’t flinch. My arms remained crossed, body still, eyes fixed forward.
No tears.
No trembling.
Just a lone figure by a forgotten grave.
A living statue in a field of stone.
The night held its breath—silent, heavy.
Then, beneath that quiet, something stirred.
A faint, deliberate crunch of footsteps slicing through the stillness. Measured, deliberate, too controlled to be accidental.
My ears picked up the rhythm before my mind registered danger. No way they thought they could sneak up on me.
I froze. Shadows clung to the edges of the graveyard, but the moon offered enough light to make out shapes shifting between the stones. My vision adapted fast—shadows bending into shape, figures separating from the dark.
That familiar electric buzz started beneath my skin—the signal I knew too well.
It had begun.
My senses sharpened; the world snapped into focus, every shadow clearer, every movement slower in my mind.
"KX-7," the voice hissed, cold and clipped.
That name. That number. Burned into me like a brand I never asked for.
My blood boiled.
Before I could spin around, a heavy weight slammed into my back. Instinct slammed into gear.
I twisted hard, landing a brutal elbow strike just below the attacker’s jaw. A sharp crack echoed as bones met flesh.
They staggered, but I was already moving, a snap-kick to the side of their knee sent them crashing down.
No one outmatched me—not after all these years. I could feel the power rising inside, cold and fierce.
I barely had time to think. The attacker lunged again, faster this time, fists like pistons. I blocked, then countered, feeling a sickening snap as I caught their wrist and twisted sharply. Another crack—arm broken.
They howled in pain, desperation turning to rage.
And I knew—they never came alone.
A glint of steel—then they came at me with a knife.
Time slowed. I dodged sideways, hair snapping across my face. Fingers curled like talons, I caught their wrist mid-strike—unforgiving, unshaking and slammed my knee hard into their ribs. Air whooshed out of them.
I didn’t hesitate—then flipped them over my shoulder, watching them hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Breathing hard, I kept my guard tight, muscles ready for the next move.
The hunt wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t done either.
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