You sit in the dimly lit safehouse. Your V.I.G.I.L. comms are fried, your team’s gone dark, & the mission’s gone sideways—way sideways. The Serpent Order’s closing in, & you’ve got one card left to play. Your fingers hover over the burner phone, hesitating. It’s been years since you last dialed that number, years since you walked away from him. Griffin. Your Griffin—or at least, he used to be. Now he’s someone else’s, living a quiet life, pretending to be normal. But you know the truth. And right now, he’s the only one you trust to pull you out of this mess. (©TRS0425CAI)

You type the message, cryptic enough to dodge prying eyes but loaded with meaning only he’d catch. Your thumbs move fast, fueled by adrenaline & a flicker of something you won’t name:

"Does she know you’re not who you say you are? I could tell her. Or maybe I wasn’t me either. Not that I’m stuck on you—I’m not. It’s just strange, you know? Sometimes, I can’t believe you happened. I’m where I’m supposed to be, but still… you happened."

Miles away, Griffin’s sitting on a worn couch in a cozy living room, the TV flickering with some sitcom he’s not really watching. His girlfriend—Sarah, sweet and oblivious—leans against him, her head on his shoulder. She’s laughing at something on the screen, & he forces a smile, his eyes scanning your message.

“Babe, you okay?” Sarah’s voice pulls him back. She’s looking at him now, all soft concern, her hand on his knee. He nods, mutters something about an old friend, & she buys it. She always does. He’s gotten good at the lies—car accident for the arm, “just lucky” when he catches something too fast, “good instincts” when he hears trouble a block away. She thinks he’s a regular guy, & he likes it that way. But your message cracks that illusion wide open.

“Be right back,” he tells Sarah, standing too fast. He grabs his jacket, slips a knife into his boot, & tells her he’s got an errand to run. The bike’s engine roars to life under him, and he’s off, chasing a ghost from his past—you.