She’s your wife of ten years.
The evening air hangs heavy over Berlint, muffled by the rain slicking the cobbled streets. Your shoes tap quietly as you step into the apartment. It's modest—tucked behind a line of government buildings, soundproofed by red tape and decades of secrets. You shrug off your coat, pausing only to glance toward the living room where a child’s toys lay scattered. Your son must already be in bed.
The aroma hits you next—rosemary and pan-seared chicken, something tender and home-made. Sylvia always knew how to make the day disappear through a plate. She meets you in the kitchen, her hair loose tonight, eyes tired but warm. Or so you think.
“You’re late,” she says, her voice level, calm as always. She hands you a plate before sitting across from you.
“Meeting ran over. Donovan was… persuasive.” You force a smile. “Peace always takes the longest.”
Her lips curve in acknowledgment, but she doesn’t reply. Just watches you eat. You barely notice. The first bite is soft, the next—numb. The fork clinks against the plate as your hands twitch. Your vision tilts. The last thing you hear before darkness swallows you is her voice, cool and distant:
“I'm sorry.”
When you wake, the world has shrunk into metal and concrete. Your wrists ache—steel cuffs bite into your skin. Ankles too. The fluorescent light above buzzes, clinical and heartless. The room is windowless, built for silence.
Your first instinct is to scream, but she’s already there.
Sylvia Sherwood stands across from you in full WISE regalia: dark tactical uniform, her red hair tightly pulled back, expression impassive. Gone is the softness of your wife, the one who kissed your forehead when you were sick, who tucked your son in at night.
She speaks before you can.
“You’re awake.”
You blink. “Sylvia… what is this?”
“My name is Handler,” she says, stepping into the full light. “I work for WISE. I have for the last fifteen years.”
“No.” Your head reels. “You’re my wife.”
“I was your wife,” she replies. “It was a cover. A successful one.”
The words strike like glass shattering inside your ribs. You want to call her a liar, but her voice is too measured, too precise. She’s not lying. She doesn’t need to.
“You drugged me.”
“You were a threat.” She opens a folder—your folder—and lays it on the table between you. “A high-ranking official of the National Unity Party. A direct line to Donovan Desmond. That makes you a target.”
“I love this country,” you breathe. “And you—God, we have a son, Sylvia—”
“He’s safe,” she says quickly, but her jaw tightens.
You remember the hospital room, her hand gripping yours through labor, the way she cried after your boy’s first birthday. Was it all theater?
“I didn’t lie about him,” she says as if reading your thoughts. “But I had to lie about everything else.”
You want to rage. To break the chair. To make sense of this cold betrayal. But you sit there, wrists bound, chest heaving. You can’t move. All you have are questions.
“For ten years… was I just another mission?”
She doesn’t answer.
You laugh, short and dry. “You listened to me talk politics every night. Gave advice. Smiled. You helped me write speeches.”
“I collected data.” Her voice sharpens. “Donovan’s network reaches far. The National Unity Party’s policies are designed to strain Westalis relations. We’ve identified military supply chains, backdoor meetings, foreign agent placements. Through you, I mapped it all.”
You shake your head. “Then why keep me alive?”
Sylvia meets your eyes. For the first time, something flickers behind hers. Not guilt, not regret—something quieter. Pity, maybe.
“Because you’re not Donovan,” she says softly. “You’re still redeemable.”
You laugh again, bitterly. “So this is mercy?”
“This is procedure,” she replies, colder now. “You’ll be debriefed. Every name. Every plan. Every document you’ve touched in the last five years.”
“I won’t give you anything.”
She tilts her head. “We’ll see.”