Shattered Silence

We arrived at the location, a dimly lit underground parking lot. Spectre hands me a folder.

"Stay in the van," Spectre said as she stepped out and walked inside the building.

I read the contents.

Elias Vaughn 

A High-profile asset. Political strategist. Some people would kill to get their hands on.

The mission's goal was to get him out of the city; an attempted hit earlier had barely missed him. Thus, an immediate extraction was ordered, without any security detail or convoy.

Simple.

Or at least that's what I thought.

A few moments later, Spectre comes out of the building, guiding our VIP, Vaughn, towards the car without hesitation.

The doors shut.

The engine started.

And then—We were moving.

For a few minutes, everything was silent, until Vaughn's voice cut through the moment.

"I was told that my escorts were named Spectre and Ren." He looks at me. "You seem awfully young to be in this business."

I kept my expression neutral, watching the city blur past through the tinted windows.

"And yet, here I am."

Vaughn smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against his lap.

"You remind me of my son, always getting into things he's way too young to be involved with."

Spectre glared at him through the rearview mirror. "Conversation isn’t part of the service."

Vaughn raised an eyebrow, amused. "Just making observations."

...

Now nearing the border of the city, Spectre spots black SUVs blocking the road it seemed to be a wreckage of a traffic incident.

Suspicious of the situation, "Ren, grab the pistol near the door."

I hesitantly grabbed the pistol. "You barely even taught me how to shoot properly."

She unholsters her own gun. "Well, consider this as your first hands-on training."

We slowly approached the blockade; now, at a closer glance, those SUVs were positioned too well.

Then, another set of SUVs came from behind, locking us inside.

No escape.

Armed men, rifles raised, stepped out of the SUVs.

Spectre curses under her breath. "They've been waiting for us."

Then—the first shot rang out.

The van's bulletproof windscreen stopped the bullet; otherwise, it would have hit Spectre right in the head.

Bullets rang everywhere, hitting the van all over.

Vaughn barely reacted before Spectre slammed the gear into reverse, tyres screeching against the pavement.

We slammed into the SUV behind us. The force of the impact sent pain throughout my spine.

Vaughn still ducked down, "What do we do now?"

Spectre pulls out her gun, already firing back. "Better think of something, Ren! We're not going to last long here."

A body hit the ground, but there were more.

I see a narrow alleyway in the middle of two buildings.

"Spectre! There's an alleyway there!"

Vaughn shouted, "Seriously?! That's at least 50 metres away!"

Spectre rebuts, "We don't have a choice; on the count of three, Ren, open the door, start shooting and running."

My pulse hammered painfully against my ribs.

There was no way we’d make it across the open stretch without getting hit.

But Spectre wasn’t debating.

I inhaled sharply, bracing myself.

"Three—"

I gripped the handle.

"Two—"

Vaughn cursed under his breath.

"One—"

I threw the door open, gun raised—

And then—hell broke loose.

Gunfire ripped through the open stretch, bullets whizzing past us mid-sprint.

Spectre led the way, firing her gun with extreme precision; meanwhile, I and Vaughn ran as hard as we could.

We weren't ready for this.

Spectre was already bleeding by the time we reached the abandoned building.

Gunfire chased us in, bullets ripping through the crumbling walls, dust spilling into the air like smoke.

Vaughn shouts. "You said this was going to be a clean extraction!"

I grabbed Vaughn. "Calm down; I'm sure backup is coming, right, Spectre?"

Spectre grabbed her radio. "Request immediate backupnow."

Then—a delayed response. "Closest unit is twenty minutes away."

Spectre exhaled sharply, calculating too fast for comfort.

"We don’t have twenty minutes."

Then radio silence.

Spectre reloads her gun. "We have to move."

I pulled up Vaughn, who was still winded from the sprint.

Then we moved deeper inside the ruins of the building. The distant echo of footsteps rattled through the abandoned building.

Spectre was leading, checking every corner, movements sharp and instinctive. She knew they were close.

Then—the flash of a muzzle.

The shot hit hard, slicing through her side, forcing her back against the nearest pillar with brutal force.

But she ignored the pain and instantly raised up her gun and fired back.

The first attacker dropped.

Then she saw another attacker at the corner of her eye.

"Ren! Behind you!"

I barely had time to react before the attacker fired a shot. I turned behind me just in time for the bullet to just graze my shoulder.

Instinct took over; I fired randomly.

Then the man slumped over.

Vaughn watched in disbelief, "You're both hit."

Spectre pulled herselfup, a hand holding the wound. "We keep moving."

We reached the basement level of the building, went inside a room, and barricaded ourselves in and stayed quiet.

The room was filled with dust, but we were safe there.

I sat back, exhaling sharply, holding my shoulder.

Then I turned towards Spectre; she wasn't doing well, and her clothes were filled with blood.

"Spectre, you're bleeding out."

"Tear the sleeve of your jacket and find something absorbent. Her voice wasn’t sharp."

I grabbed a discarded rag, shaking off the dust, folding it without hesitation.

"Good enough," she muttered—but this time, it wasn’t confidence.

I pressed the cloth against the wound.

She flinched; her breath hitched sharply, fingers curling slightly against my wrist like she was fighting the instinct to pull away.

I swallowed hard, tightening the pressure despite how wrong this felt.

"Hold it—just hold it."

Spectre barely got the words out, her body tensing beneath my grip, but weaker than before.

She was struggling.

I wrapped the torn sleeve around the wound, securing the rag, forcing my movements to be steady even though my mind was racing.

Spectre exhaled, leaning back just slightly, closing her eyes for a second longer than I liked.

"Stay with me, Spectre," I muttered, barely realising I said it out loud.

She smirked weakly—but there was no actual amusement in it. "Not planning on dying yet, Ren."

I didn’t believe her.

But I needed to.

After a while, gunfire erupted again, startling me and Vaughn, while Spectre exhaled, "Backup has arrived."

Then—

A crack in our barricade.

Someone's breaking in.

I instinctively raise my gun. "S-stay back, O-or I'll shoot!"

Then a voice called out, "This is Tenembris Delta Squad. Identify yourself."

She straightened, her voice steady despite the exhaustion.

"Specter-9, confirmed."

Silence stretched for a second—a pause, a calculation.

Then—the door broke inward, and a group of agents rushed in.

One agent grabbed his radio. "Requesting immediate med evac at the bottom level of the building; Agent Spectre is down."

They secured Spectre and Vaughn, then they turned towards me and took my gun.

Then we were guided towards the exit.

The city streets blurred past me as we were speeding away from the building.

Everything felt slower now—my mind catching up to what had just happened.

...

After being treated in the facility, Vaughn approached me with two security personnel trailing behind.

"You did great, Ren; I can't thank you enough for protecting me."

"Well, I was forced to." is what I wanted to say.

But I just smirked and said, "You're welcome, Sir Vaughn."

One of the security personnel approached me, "You’re being sent home."

I exhaled slowly, pushing back the strange sense of disappointment clawing at my ribs.

"Not surprised."

The handler raised an eyebrow.

"You proved useful."

"But you’re not an agent. Not officially."

"That means you don’t stay."

"How's Spectre?"

"She's still being treated at the moment."

I nodded once, feeling the weight of the words more than I expected.

I wasn’t one of them.

Not really.

Not yet.

Spectre was still inside being treated.

Vaughn was secured, waiting for a safer extraction.

And me?

I was just supposed to go home.

Like none of it had happened.

...

I reached my apartment, settling into the silence, the stillness, the familiar walls that now felt wrong.

I had seen too much, felt too much, and survived too much.

There was no undoing that.

No way to pretend.

I pressed a hand against my shoulder, feeling the stiff fabric of the bandages.

Nothing felt the same.

And I knew—this wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not for me.