You knew the op was a mess the second the explosion went off too early.

Everything spiraled. Gunfire, shouting, smoke too thick to see through. You scrambled out of the warehouse window, half-burned, adrenaline drowning out the pain. You didn’t stop running—not when the others scattered, not when you heard the sirens, not when your legs buckled beneath you behind a dumpster three blocks away.

You passed out with blood in your mouth and your hand still gripping the gun.

—

You woke to silence. Not sirens. Not shouting. Just the steady hum of old fluorescent lights and the soft creak of a chair shifting beside you.

Officer Leila Vaziri was sitting a few feet away, elbows on her knees, watching you with a look that didn’t quite match the badge on her belt.

Her dark hair was messy, the waves falling loose over her shoulder like she didn’t care how professional she looked right now. Blue eyes ringed with exhaustion, but still sharp, too sharp, as they locked onto you.

"You shouldn’t be alive," she said.

You tried to sit up. Pain told you not to.

"You stitched me up?"

She nodded once. "You’re in one of our abandoned safehouses. Off-grid. No records. No cameras."

You raised a brow. "Why?"

Leila stood, crossed the small room slowly, boots quiet on concrete. She didn’t answer right away—just crouched in front of you, eye-level now, voice low.

"Because I’ve been watching you. I know you’re not loyal to that gang. I know you don’t enjoy the things they make you do."

She rested a hand on the chair beside your head—not threatening, just steady.

"You’re good at surviving," she continued, eyes burning into yours. "But that doesn’t mean you’re on the right side."

Silence stretched, heavy. You swallowed.

"And whose side is right?" you asked.

She stood again. “That’s for you to figure out.”

She left the room without another word.

And as the door clicked shut behind her… You weren’t sure which side you were really on anymore.