N/A N/A Mission: N/A N/A

  This was the closest I'd ever come to melting into a puddle, my body dissolving into something liquid and formless. The floor beneath me was slick and damp in places, a clammy residue that clung to my skin, while other spots had dried into crusty, uncomfortable patches that tugged at me like forgotten regrets. My bones didn't feel like the sturdy framework they were meant to be; instead, they ached like crushed ice, splintered and numb, protesting every faint shift.

  Waking up was no sudden jolt—it crept in slowly, a gradual unfurling from the depths of unconsciousness. Even opening my eyes felt impossible, as if heavy, rough fabric pressed them shut, lulling my eyelids back into reluctant slumber. My mouth hung slack, though, parched and crusted at the corners, the taste of copper and salt lingering on my tongue. My hands and legs refused to respond, heavy as lead weights. At first, I chalked it up to the brutal fight with Mari, the echoes of her wand's strikes still throbbing in my muscles. But no—it was the bindings. Thick cords wrapped around my wrists and ankles, specialized ones at that, humming faintly with some enchanted restraint that promised no easy escape.

  My mind, sluggish as an embryo's first flicker of awareness, registered the subtle pulse of magic woven into the ropes. They weren't just knots; they were wards, likely laced with suppressors to keep my Perk dormant. And if that wasn't enough, I imagined sensors embedded somewhere, ready to blare an alarm at the slightest spark of power. Best not to test it. Not yet.

  Time blurred into irrelevance—how long had I been out? Hours? Days? The low rumble vibrating through the vehicle provided the only clue, a steady thrum that resonated in my chest like a distant earthquake. We were moving, that much was clear, but the where and why eluded me. Until the voices filtered in, sharp and insistent, as my ears finally roused themselves to the world.

  God only knew the hour, but the rumble persisted, syncing with the hum of tires on asphalt. Whatever this was—a trunk, a cargo hold— it wasn't sealed off completely. Faint drafts whispered through, carrying the scent of leather and exhaust, and the space felt oddly accessible, like a folded-down seat in a spacious SUV rather than a coffin-tight enclosure. That explained the muffled fuzziness around me: upholstery, not bare metal.

  "Smooth operator..." one voice crooned, off-key and drawn out, like a cat stretching in sunlight.

  "Oh, come on, would you? You're butchering the tune," another grumbled, laced with exasperation.

  "I was the one who picked it in the first place."

  "And I'm the one stuck playing it on loop. Turn it down before I do."

  "Quiet, both of you," a third voice cut in—deep and raspy, like gravel under boots. "This road trip's been nothing short of endless. Sometimes I envy the kid back there."

  "Hope he's still with us," the driver—presumably the one fiddling with the music—muttered, his tone shifting to something almost concerned.

  "Being out cold? Not so bad. No worries weighing you down..." the singer mused, his voice trailing into a lazy hum.

  "I'm not talking to you. Castro needs him breathing. If he's gone, what's the point of all this?" The raspy one snapped back, a edge creeping in.

  "The point of what, exactly?" A fourth voice rumbled—burly, like it belonged to someone built like a linebacker, all broad shoulders and blunt edges.

  The raspy man let out a hiss of frustration. "Do you even look your briefings? Or do you just stare at the pictures?"

  "I skim 'em. Focus on the goal, not the backstory. Keeps things simple."

  "Look at it again—if you can read that far. Bottom line: we keep him alive. No room for errors."

  "But not too alive," the driver added quickly. "We don't want him stirring. Someone check his breathing—make sure he's steady."

  "Smooth operatorrrrrrr..."

  "For the sake of sanity, stop," the driver growled, the volume on the radio dipping abruptly.

  "It's the best part! And I called dibs on the playlist."

  "I'll boil you both. Anyway," the raspy voice interjected, steering them back, "we patched him up lightly—those wounds were... vivid. No sense in letting him fade on us."

  "Yeah, nearly turned my stomach."

  "That's why you're on wheels, not triage," the singer quipped, a smirk audible in his drawl.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Don't sweat it. Simple fix." The burly one leaned closer—I could feel the shift in the air, the creak of upholstery. "Hey, kid! You in there? Say something."

  I held my breath, going statue-still. Silence was my only armor. I couldn’t even fathom what they’d do if I said a single word. Probably nothing, but I’m also in the back of the trunk, which I think is the type that is accessible from merely being in the back and not blocked by a wall. Explained the fuzziness—it was a seat.

  "Nothing. Kid's not budging," the burly man concluded, his voice retreating slightly.

  "Of course not. He's a teenager who took a beating—lost blood, probably concussed on top of the trauma. Give him a break," the horrid singer reasoned.

  "For once, you're making sense," the raspy one conceded, almost grudgingly.

  "He's spot on. Pain test it is—quick prod, see if he flinches."

  I swallowed.

  What followed was a nightmare in staccato: muffled cries of alarm from the front, then the sharp thwack of something solid—a baton, maybe, or a pipe—crashing against my side. Agony exploded, white-hot shockwaves radiating from ribs that screamed in protest. I bit down on nothing, tasting fresh blood, but the second strike landed harder, then a third, each one a thunderclap through my battered frame.

  I couldn't hold it. A raw scream tore from my throat, echoing in the confined space.

  "Whoa, easy!"

  "What in the world are you doing?!"

  "Hand it over, now!"

  "He's gonna die if you keep that up..."

  After what felt like an eternity,fifteen strikes, by my fractured count—the blows ceased. The raspy voice barked over the chaos: "Are you slow? You tryna kill him?"

  "He's reacting, screamed like he meant it. Wailed like a goldfish."

  "How would you even—"

  "Smooth operatorrrrr..."

  "Would you shut—"

  "Dispatch, this is transport lead. Raising alert: possible compromise in progress," a new voice crackled from the radio, calm and procedural, slicing through the bickering.

  "Confirm nature of compromise," a woman's voice replied, efficient and remote.

  "Persistent tail, one vehicle, black Toyota Camry. Locked on our route for the last twenty-five minutes."

  "I figured they were cleared," the driver muttered, tension threading his words.

  "That's the play, make us think so. They're bound to push back. What gets me is how light they're going. Just one car? Barely a nudge."

  Tires screeched outside, a banshee wail that set my teeth on edge. Then—crash—metal kissed metal in a jarring crunch, the whole vehicle lurching like a beast kicked awake.

  "What was that?" The burly man fumbled for the radio. "Report—status!"

  "Under fire—taking hits!"

  "From a single car? You've got to be—"

  No answer. Just the world tilting wildly as another impact slammed us sideways, the SUV fishtailing in a symphony of grinding gears and panicked shouts. My body tumbled, bindings be damned, slamming against unyielding surfaces.

  "What's that thing packing?"

  "Doesn't matter. Vander, clear it out. Give 'em a warning shot."

  A window whirred down, followed by the staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire. But only ricochets answered—pings of futility off armored glass or enchanted plating.

  "Blast... switching loadout."

  A heavier whoomp followed, blasts of raw energy—spy-mage tech, no doubt, the kind that warped air with azure flares. Smart call; mundane bullets wouldn't dent whatever was hunting us.

  The Camry's engine roared in response, a guttural snarl fading into the distance—or so it seemed. Tires howled again, circling like a shark, before the final strike: a bone-rattling boom that launched us airborne. Time stretched, my bound form hurtling through the chaos, skull cracking against a headrest with a starburst of pain. I landed in a heap atop something warm and yielding—a body, from the strangled yelp that erupted beneath me.

  It was the raspy one, his cry twisting into something mechanical, like a stalled motor gasping its last.

  I rolled free, momentum spilling me onto the floor amid shattered glass that bit into my skin like tiny accusations. Hyperventilation clawed at my chest, each breath a sharper stab, ribs protesting the frenzy. Footsteps approached—crunch of gravel, deliberate and unhurried. Tap-tap-tap. They echoed like a countdown, each one winding the coil in my gut tighter.

  Who was out there? YMPA reinforcements, swooping in like avenging shadows? Federal agents, crisp suits and cooler heads? Or something rougher—a lone mercenary, cutting through for a payout? The unknowns swirled, fear rooting me in place even as escape screamed in my veins.

  The steps paused, then erupted into motion: a scuffle, a lunge from the wreckage, followed by the soft thwip-thwip of silenced rounds. I stifled a shriek, clamping my lips shut against the tide.

  Silence blanketed the scene, thick and watchful. Then two more shots—precise, final. Groans bubbled up from the spies, wet and fading, like punctured tires hissing out air. The attacker shuffled low, beneath the undercarriage, my heart slamming against my ribs in terror. Then—hands. Firm but careful, gripping my legs and midsection, hauling me free into the cool night air.

  "Wait—no, please... don't..." I whimpered, voice cracking, terror flooding my words. "Just... don't hurt me."

  "Easy there—no one's laying a finger on you," came the reply, warm and achingly familiar, cutting through the fog like sunlight.

  I froze, the fear in my chest inverting in an instant, blooming into a wild, buoyant joy that lifted me like helium. Soft hands—damp with sweat or blood, I couldn't tell—worked at my bindings, untying the rag across my face with gentle efficiency. As it fell away, there she was: September.

  She stood in a sleek black one-piece suit, tactical and form-fitting, her hair wrestled into a haphazard bun that spoke of haste and grit. Flecks of blood dotted her face—not hers, thank goodness—streaking her cheeks like war paint from a battle she'd already won. In that moment, amid the twisted metal and acrid smoke, I'd never felt such unfiltered relief. It swelled in my chest, hot and bright, chasing shadows from the edges of my vision.

  "I'd ask if you're holding up," she said, her tone light but laced with that dry edge she wielded so well, "but... well, you're a walking disaster right now."

  A weak laugh bubbled up from me, cut short by the effort of stretching—every limb igniting in a fresh wave of fire. I curled inward, breath hitching. "If you did? I'd say it hurts everywhere. Like I got run over by a parade of regrets."

  "Yeah... you're in rough shape, no denying that." She scanned me with a healer's eye, quick and assessing, then extended a hand—steady, inviting. "Come on. Let's get you back to YMPA."