Prologue

  I wished no one knew I existed.

  I wished no one knew I was the centre of this story—not even you.

  From the moment I was born, chaos surrounded me. When I first opened my eyes, I couldn't understand why everything felt so loud, so slow, so unbearably disorienting. The world moved as if it were constantly late to itself. Why did the nurse who first held me look shocked instead of gentle? Why did my parents avoid windows and parks, and crowded places? Why were there always eyes above the sky? No one ever answered. No one except two people.

  One was dead.

  The other was on the run.

  Now, as I drift in this rare, fragile silence, a question follows me—heavier than any future I have been warned about. If connection demands such absolute sacrifice, what is left when the storm finally passes, and the light finds us?

  Chapter 1

  The Ghost in the Window

  Have you ever looked through the window of a stranger?

  It feels almost like a kind of intimate moment that was never meant for you. I became that hidden observer, yet again, today. My window was not made of glass, but of sunlight and open air. The park was a beautiful, decaying diorama of autumn. The air itself was a slow, cold syrup, thick with the sweet-rot smell of dying leaves and the distant, drowsy drone of a lawnmower, while somewhere, a blackbird sliced the stillness with a worried cry. My window framed a small boy on a playground slide: his world, in that moment, was a three-foot ladder to the sky. His hands, tiny fists of determination, were wrapped white-knuckled around the thigh-high bannister. He wore a blue dinosaur sweater that looked far too big for him, as if it was trying to engulf him no matter how hard he tried to fight it off.

  “I can do it,” his body seemed to scream to the woman near him.

  I knew she was not his mother. Just a nanny. He twisted and turned away from her steadying hands while trying to climb the ladder on his own. I saw his eyes, locking onto the other children, who were flowing effortlessly to the top, and from my unseen perch, I explored the entirety of his struggle, his pride, and the sudden hesitation that gripped him when the victory turned to fear. He searched for the very hands he’d refused, and when the woman’s smile bloomed, so did mine. For a heartbeat, the window between our worlds blended, and it almost felt like I was there.

  Next to him.

  There were benches worn smooth by generations. I sat on one of them, book in hand, acting as a woman busy reading, at peace.

  But that was a lie.

  The book in my hand was a prop. My whole fractured universe was fifty feet away, balanced on that slide. His hair, summer wheat, his laughter, happy shrill, I knew by heart, but could never touch. I had memorised his face the way others memorise scripture because this was my reward: to be the archivist of a life I was forbidden to live. Just long for.

  My gaze swept the park. A man walked his retriever, and a couple shared headphones on a dry patch of the park. Nothing to worry about. An older woman on a nearby bench caught my eye. She had a book in her hand, yet her eyes were not on the pages; they were following him. My pulse spiked, growing suspicious by the minute.

  Why are you watching him? My thoughts drafted as my eyes did back and forth between the two, until…

  “Sharp?” An icy voice called out my name, cutting off my focus.

  Lira.

  I stayed completely still and didn’t react. My smile stayed fixed on the unread pages, and only my lips barely breathed the words. “Yes?”

  “We have the signal.” She was brief.

  I unconsciously stopped breathing. Of all moments, did it have to be now?

  I couldn’t answer my boss; it was too sudden. I glanced again at the boy. He waved at...the old lady. She waved and smiled back—a grandmother’s smile, gentle and ordinary. My breath escaped, and with it came shame. After years of waiting, the signal was here—at the worst possible time. That meant I couldn’t stay longer. Sigh.

  “Sharp?” Lira enquired.

  “How sure?” The words barely escaped my clenched jaw.

  “One hundred per cent.” She said more assured than ever. I hid a snarky half-laugh behind a cough.

  “The location is confirmed. You have a limited window to reach it.” Lira’s voice was devoid of annoyance. What she said was simply a fact, an incoming tide. “Success is imperative this time.” She added, and I knew there was no fighting the tide.

  I stood.

  The movement reverberated throughout my body. I closed the book with a soft thud, all the while forcing my eyes to ignore the man sitting next to the old lady. He represented a life that could have been, and a ghost that would have haunted me if I dared look him in the eyes. The boy glanced up. The sun caught his grey, stormy eyes, the same as my own, and for a timeless second, he saw me. But I was nobody. Just a woman leaving a park. A ghost in the window of his distant world. Still, something flickered in his gaze. Not recognition, but a question. My well-built defences trembled, and I feared he recognised me underneath the disguise. I hurriedly offered a ghost smile and left.

  I walked away from him and the pain as fast as I could.

  “Acknowledged,” I said, refocusing on the mission. “Send me the parameters.”

  “Sending.”

  The air no longer smelled of leaves; it smelled of exhaust fumes and cold, imminent rain. That was my life now.

  “Sharp, change course. Now!” She suddenly warned me. “North on Guilford Street. A black sedan parked on the second pass perimeter.”

  They are here.

  I needed to find a hiding spot. My stride never broke, but my mind exploded outward, absorbing every detail, searching for a lonely shed or a dark alley.

  “Head for Brunswick Centre. You can hide in the disabled toilet.” She gave me a way out of sight. “They’re pulling the CCTV from the park.” She informed me.

  I blended in with the crowd crossing the road and headed straight to the centre. The lock of the toilet’s door clicked behind me, and my hands moved with speed. A bag with my next props sat behind the toilet’s waste pipe. I pulled it up and opened it. There was a plain, long black wig, transparent glasses, and a cheap jacket. Props that would help become the next stranger, the kind CCTV lose track of. My hands worked with a mechanical efficiency that betrayed none of the tremor in my soul. I pulled the dark wig over my scalp and settled a gritty, prosthetic tooth onto my tongue, and it clicked while placing it in between the space of my wisdom tooth and the first molar tooth.

  Outside, the sound of footsteps forced me to pause.

  A beep rang next. Shadows cut off the light under the door. I stayed still. The device scanned once again.

  Beep. Twice. Beep. Beep.

  “...Negative on this level. Sweep Warwick Street.” A deep voice ordered. The shadows moved on, but I did not relax until Lira told me it was safe to.

  “They are off the perimeter. Proceed.” She let me know, and fortunately, I could continue with the disguising process. “Second stop: Russell Square lockers. Number 42. Code 17-34-90. You’ve got 90 seconds.” I shoved the used disguise in the same bag, placed it back behind the waste pipe and embraced my new identity. “You are Maeve: shift supervisor with aching feet and a sister named Evie. You don’t like train delays, and you vape 4 times per day.” Lira fed me the details.

  “Got it,” I murmured, feeling the form of the vape in my left pocket.

  I wasn’t a smoker, and I really did not want to start now, but…My hands were already moving, and a puff of smoke enveloped my face before dissolving through me. I repeated the details silently, etching them into my mind.

  Maeve. Slough. Sarah. Hurting feet. Delays.

  I practised a sigh, letting my shoulders slump with a weary frustration that was entirely manufactured. I joined the flow of people descending the underground, leaning into the wave of bodies, and in the corner of my eye, I noticed, on the escalator, a Transport for London employee glancing my way. I sighed loudly, rolling my eyes.

  “Absolute nightmare, love, Piccadilly line’s packed again.” I used the most annoying tone of voice that would push him away.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  His gaze slid past me in a matter of seconds after hearing my fake York accent. Locker 42 held a backpack. Inside was another identity. A smarter coat, straight-fit black trousers, a tablet computer, and a new name: Eleanor. There was no need for a surname.

  Lira fed me the new character info.

  “You are Evelyn, a medical researcher at UCL. You are reviewing patient data for Dr Evans. No small talk.” She communicated through my ear comms.

  I memorised the info as I began extracting the props from the backpack. There was a honey medium blonde hair wig, a dark blue blazer, black formal pants, and a pair of high heels. Evelyn wouldn’t sigh; she would tap her foot.

  The air in the tube carriage was a thick, greasy soup of stale breath and smelly socks. I let Evelyn’s disgust filter it for me; a clinical, intellectual annoyance at the unhealthiness of it all. While minding my business on the train, among the quiet passengers, an unapologetic, loud, sloppy man erupted into the carriage at Camden Town. I kept my eyes locked on my tablet screen, letting Evelyn’s indifference form an invisible shield around me.

  “You alright, love?” He asked, slurring, his breath sour with alcohol, brushing over my face. I felt my skin prickle somewhere deep beneath Evelyn’s tailored coat, but Evelyn ignored him. Tap. Tap. Tap

  “I said,” he leaned forward, his knee invading the space between my legs, “You alright, love? You look proper, serious.” The heat of his attention burned on my skin. A woman across the aisle glanced over, and I caught her look—a flicker of sympathy that felt like a condemnation. See? A woman alone. The drunkard started to push himself up close, his movements clumsy and deliberate, intended to cross the final few inches of space. “Aren’t you being a little bit rude now, love?” He commented.

  Now I could smell chicken nuggets besides the alcohol. Great. How the heck do I get out of this situation without knocking out cold? A clean strike was the only real course of action that would have stopped him from pushing me to the edge. But that would attract even more attention to us.

  Another man, in a charcoal coat, "stumbled" towards the drunk, pinning him with an apologetic smile. The threat was diverted. I could breathe again.

  “Oh, sorry! I’m so sorry, mate.” His voice was familiar, but I couldn’t say for sure who it was as I was impersonating Evelyn. Still staring at her tablet. “I lost my balance there for a moment.”

  The drunk’s fragile focus shattered. He shifted his boastful attitude and set his sights on the new target. “Watch it! Bloody hell.”

  “You’re right, mate.” The man apologised again, yet subtly pushing him further away from me.

  His body was now a solid, immovable barrier between the nuisance and me. He began telling a pointless tale involving the District Line and unpleasant weather conditions. The tension in my shoulder dissipated slowly, unnoticed by our mini-audience, as their attention had fully shifted to the new protagonist, only known to me. Evelyn rose to her feet, while I got off at Euston, straightening her blazer with my gaze fixed forward, prepared to greet Dr Evans.

  “Final transition,” Lira’s voice snapped in. British Museum, cloakroom C-19. 9 mins.”

  “Got it.”

  This time, there were two bags. One held scrubs, inserts, a lanyard, and a limp built into a shoe. The second one had fake hips, silicone bra inserts to enhance my breast size by two, spirit gum and last, a fake tan spray can.

  “You are Alice Baker.” She begun. This one had a surname because hospitals kept records of visitors for days. “A nurse from ‘Flex Care.’ You’re covering for Samira's shift in the postnatal care unit. You are eager to impress because you want a permanent contract.”

  I smiled back at the mirror as Alice, softly and hopefully, even though beneath her skin was a woman hollowed out, carrying ghosts.

  “Location: St. Thomas’s maternity wing. Room 412. The window opens in five minutes.” Lira added urgently now.

  I breathed once, twice, then marched towards the reception. Alice’s limp settled into my stride. My ghosts stayed behind in autumn sunlight. Ahead waited a child not my own, whom I had sworn to extract and bring to the base safely.

  The antiseptic smell of St. Thomas Hospital’s hit me unceremoniously, a clean, brutal scent that scrubbed away the memory of the tube’s grime and the park’s rotten leaves. It was the smell of life beginning on a schedule. Alice would find it reassuring; I found it suffocating. I adopted the limp as I approached the maternity ward’s reception, a subtle hitch in my step that made me seem younger.

  “Hi there,” I said with a slightly higher-pitched tone of voice than Evelyn’s clipped tone. “I’m Alice, from Flex Care. I’m the cover for Samira on the postnatal shift.” The ward clerk, a woman with tired eyes and a harried expression, barely looked up from her computer while I introduced myself.

  “Badge is in the top drawer on your left.” She replied in a monotone voice. “Samira’s patients are on the board. Just started a feed in 412, so maybe check there first.” She gestured absently towards it.

  I offered a grateful, slightly flustered smile—Alice’s smile—and fumbled with the lanyard, my fingers feeling thick and alien. The door to 412 was closed, so delicately I pushed it open, the practised, gentle smile already fixed on my face.

  “Hello? I’m Alice, the agency nurse. Just checking in,” I murmured when noting a woman resting in the hospital bed. She looked exhausted, radiant, and utterly oblivious.

  “Thank you.” She said, smiling sleepily. “We’re just having a little doze, aren’t we?” she whispered, gazing at the baby inside the bassinet.

  The baby’s face was a peaceful rosebud.

  "Such a perfect little one," Alice remarked in the same tone. I moved to the window, the critical objective. “Bit of a draft in here, let me just close this for you.”

  She nodded absently. My hand on the window latch was steady. Outside, five stories down, the world continued, unaware. I pulled it shut, locking it with a quiet click that felt like a tomb sealing.

  “Let me just check your observations, darling, then I’ll let you get back to rest,” I said.

  I reached for the chart hanging at the foot of the bed—the first, legitimate step in the process of extraction. I flipped open the pale green folder. Baby Boy Elijah Miller. Weight: 3.5kg. APGARs: 9, 10. Mother: Sarah Miller. The details scrolled past my eyes, my brain automatically filing them away. And then I saw it. Scrawled in a hurry in the notes section from just an hour ago was a single line that accelerated my heartbeat.

  12:45 - Mild tachycardia noted. Attending surgeon, Dr Evans, reviewed and administered 0.1mg propranolol IV. Monitor for bradycardia.

  My vision blurred as my eyes crossed, fixed on the doctor's name. Dr Evans. Not a coincidence. Propranolol. IV is a beta-blocker. As a newborn, a minuscule dose could slow a tiny, healthy heart to a fatal stop. It was a clean, medical murder with no possibility of marks or tracks left to connect to the perpetrator. The baby was both the target and a warning against our desperate attempt at saving a precious life. Please…Please don’t tell me I’m late again? The cheerful hum of the ward vanished, replaced by a high-pitched whine in my ears; I could refocus into my operational mode as a field agent. My thoughts began racing, trying to find the person responsible. Dr. Evans.

  Where are you hiding motherfucker? Who else is in this room?

  The mother was completely oblivious to the situation. I mean, how could anyone have foreseen this would happen? No one expect for us. The clock ticked as if pressuring me to find a solution to this. I had none. And because of that, the kind, anxious expression on Alice’s face froze solid and then began to slowly melt to reveal my own tormented expression. I was staring at a baby who was already poisoned, and a mother who had no idea she would have to bury her baby soon. My hands were still while holding the chart, but I was panicking on the inside.

  “Can I help you?”

  An authoritative voice stopped my internal rambling, and the gates from temporarily breaking out. I looked over the door. A senior nurse stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, and eyes missing nothing. It looked like she’d been there watching me for a good minute. I pushed back the tears by taking a shallow, controlled breath.

  “I…I was just checking the observations,” I stammered, Alice’s nervousness surging to my throat, a perfect cover for the dread beneath.

  “I’ll take that,” she said, walking over me while stretching her right hand out.

  She plucked the chart from my hands, and as she did, her fingers deftly folded over mine, pressing a small, crumpled piece of paper into my palm. The movement was so swift and seamless that it was invisible.

  “There’s been a reassignment,” she said, raising her voice high enough for the mother to hear her. “We’re short-staffed in the Howard Wing, so I've placed you there. You’re needed to assist a patient in room 12. Come on, off you go.” She hurried me with a movement of her chin.

  She held my gaze, her eyes like flint, and I knew this was not a request but a command. A correction from the base, or so I thought, so I just followed.

  “O-of course,” I murmured, my fist closing around the note.

  I offered the mother one last, wobbly smile and left the room. As I turned the corner, I leaned against the cool wall, my heart hammering. I brushed away a tear that escaped the gates unnoticed. It was not my first rodeo, but it still hurt how they killed infants without hesitation, care or regard for the people left behind that had to deal with the pain. The physical impact his death had on me was so strong that I would have punched a wall right then.

  Focus. You can’t afford to crumble now. I forced my heart to slow down and cleared my head at the same time. Another reason I needed to recompose myself was the eyes and ears waiting on me of the nurse and Lira listening through the ear comms. Waiting for Agent Sharp to continue her mission. So, gulping down my anger, I uncrumpled the paper in my hand. The message inside was typed, so it was impossible to trace it to a real person.

  ROOM 7. A GIRL. 5 YEARS OLD. PARENTS AT BEDSIDE. ENGAGE AND ASSESS.

  What does this mean? I was lost, and this was not the typical conclusion of my missions. It did not follow the regular exit protocol. Was the signal not for him but this 5-year-old girl?

  The aim was to assess this unknown five-year-old girl, apparently. This did not make sense because I have been instructed to extract a newborn, not a toddler, for a reason. Babies were more dependent on their saviours than toddlers. A child with her parents, unharmed. Who knew how to talk, walk, remember and most importantly, was alive, was way harder to convince to follow me to the base. The orders were to observe and look out for...markers. The hollow shell of Alice threatened to dissolve entirely under the weight of this new, grotesque puzzle. I pushed myself off the wall, the nervous limp now a genuine unsteadiness, and made my way over the private room of the Howard Wing for answers.

  Someone had to have them.

  As I arrived, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. I paused, my hand hovering near the wooden handle. I peered through the gap. The scene opened up with a Caucasian man and a woman of African descent sitting on either side of a hospital bed; their postures were slumped with exhaustion and worry. It was a tableau of quiet anxiety. In the bed lay an elderly black man, asleep or sedated, his breathing shallow. And sitting in a large armchair in the corner, tucked under a blanket, was the little girl. She was not sleeping, but she was not playing with any toy either.

  One moment she was blankly staring, the next moment…

  …her light brown eyes landed on me.

  Looking into her eyes, I didn't see an innocent child; instead, I saw someone who understood much more than she let on. She held my gaze, her expression one of infinite patience, intelligence vast and old. Then her lips parted, not in a smile, but to form a single, silent word. I couldn’t hear it, but I could read it on her lips as clearly as if she’d said it out loud.

  Iris.

  My name.

  She was the one. Now I was completely sure of it. I regained confidence, moving inside, ready to extract her, one way or another.

  I kept the act on, I was a nurse on schedule, there to check the man in the bed’s obs. Nothing weird about it. The man’s breathing rasped in shallow tides, and a cough rose from the bed as I was fully inside the room.

  “Who are you?” He asked.

  Here we go.

  “Hello, I’m Grace Baker from Flex Care.” I introduced myself for the third time that day. “I’m here to check your OBS, Mr Hayes.”

  With enough practice, I reached for the blood pressure cuff, but the man’s blind eyes turned toward the sound, frowning and lifting his chin in my direction.

  That did it.

  The atmosphere ruptured.

  For one heartbeat, time slowed down. The blood pressure cuff slid from my hand and hit the floor with a flat thud. Before I could pull out my gun, two dark shapes detached from each side of the doorway. They did not grab me, but the next sound I heard was scary enough for me to stop in my tracks.

  Shick–Shick.

  Metal echoed in the silence.

  Two twin barrels locked on my chest. My eyes flicked once — left, right. No options. I raised my hands, slowly, deliberately, to show myself defenceless. The room contracted around me until even the buzz of the fluorescent lights sounded like a siren.

  “Grace,” The man on the bed whispered again. “That’s not your name.”

  And somewhere in the corner, the child rose.