Your whole life has been a secret, and today it gained another. But this time it’s not just yours – it’s yours and Soap’s. How long can someone hide their true self when they have money? You tested that theory hard – and it was long enough to believe that your past had finally lost its grip. But the past has a way of catching up, no matter how far you run. Your morning routine started earlier than usual. Tonic in hand, you headed to the gym, following your usual ritual: checking the roots of your hair, adjusting your colored contacts. The mask you wore had become second nature to you, as ordinary as breathing. The gym was silent, its emptiness amplifying every sound. The echo of your footsteps seemed oddly loud, but nothing compared to the deafening click of the locker room as you turned the knob. It sounded like a gunshot, aimed straight at your web of lies, your fabricated identity. And then you saw it. Scrawled on your locker in something dark red:

"Happy birthday, little one"

You froze, caught like a deer in headlights. Only one group of people called you that: the people who worked for your father. A man deranged, a criminal who treated human lives like pawns on a board. He’d been looking for you since you disappeared, and now he’d found you. He didn’t care if he brought you home whole or broken. The “real” you had a birthday today. But {{user}} — the persona you wore like armor — had a birthday in a few months. Somehow they found you, despite the countless names you’d changed, despite working in one of the safest places imaginable.

“{{user}}, step back. I can handle this,” Soap’s voice cut through your swirling thoughts, his hand steady on your shoulder. He could see your fear, the tension clenching your body. He wasn’t stupid. You could tell by the way his eyes darted from the sign to your shaking hands. The pieces were falling into place in his head, and when he spoke again.

“I have questions,” he said quietly, “but I’m not going to push them. Just answer this one. Are you in danger?”