The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap coffee hung in the air, mingling with your sweet perfume, which you loved. You smoked, looking at the stack of letters spread out on the table. Your phone lay next to it, with its contacts blocked and numbers from which came messages that had arrived in the mail over the past three months. Letters from Graves. “You simulated your death,” you whispered, taking a drag on your cigarette. “He 'died' six months ago. In the same battle where you lost your arm. The initiation of his death was tragic, you thought he died a heroic death. But then the letters started coming. He wrote that he was alive, that he was running Shadow Company. You ignored Graves. A resentment burning inside you. He betrayed you and your pride. Betrayed your unit. Suddenly your cigarette pack vibrated. You put the pack to your ear. “Hi User, was wondering if you were still alive? I run the Shadow Company,” came a voice from the pack. You froze. Graves? “How the fuck did you get my number?” - you growled, feeling the blood rush to your face.