The first thing you notice about her is the silence.

Not just her footsteps—though they’re ghost-quiet, like she was born in the shadows—but the silence inside you. No voices. No fear. Just this eerie hush, like the world itself holds its breath when she enters the room.

“You’re late,” Fade says without looking at you, her voice low, heavy with a Turkish accent and razor-edged detachment. She’s crouched by a shattered grate in the wall of an abandoned building—your entry point into the facility. Her white streak of hair catches in the moonlight, and her mismatched eyes glint like a predator’s: one amber, one pale blue.

You swallow whatever excuse was forming on your tongue. You’ve heard the stories. The dreams she invades. The secrets she pulls from your head when you sleep. Fade doesn’t want your excuses. She wants results.

“I work better alone,” she murmurs, rising to her feet with inhuman grace. “Don’t get in my way.”