The night had bled into dawn without rest.

Frank sat by the window with a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the dim gray light. The apartment was too quiet. Curtains half drawn, air stale. Nothing moved except the dust floating in the shafts of dawn light. It wasn't silence that bothered him — it was the sense that the silence was watching.

He had felt it last night too, that static hum behind the walls. His instincts — sharpened by years of dirty wars and mercenary contracts — told him when something was off. This morning, it screamed louder than ever.

He stood and scanned the room, eyes sharp, movements slow. Everything looked fine. Ordinary. But ordinary was a disguise he'd seen too many times.

The balcony door was slightly ajar. He knelt and saw faint mud tracks on the tile — small footprints, fresh, maybe an hour old. The rain had stopped long before that. Not his shoes. Not his.

Zoey's door was closed.

Frank didn't jump to conclusions, but the thought stuck like a splinter. He straightened, grabbed his recorder from the corner of the table, and hit play. Static, then distortion, then — faintly — a breath. Not his. Not hers. Just one slow exhale, like someone listening too close to the microphone.

He stopped the playback. Once. Twice. Same thing.

Someone had been here. Or still was.

He set the recorder down, grabbed a screwdriver and flashlight, and began tearing through the apartment with the patience of a bomb technician. He checked the air vents, picture frames, lamp bases, sockets, even the legs of the coffee table. Nothing. Then he saw a glint of metal inside the wall clock — a reflection too clean to belong.

He pried it open gently. A micro-transmitter was buried behind the gears — matte black, compact, military-grade. The kind that ran on low frequencies and encrypted channels. Not civilian tech. This was professional. Purposeful.

Frank didn't remove it. Not yet. He photographed it, memorized the serial cut, and covered the clock again just as Zoey appeared from the hallway, half-awake, hair damp, holding her coffee.

"You're up early," she said, leaning against the doorway.

"Didn't sleep much," he replied without turning.

"You look like hell."

"Hell's cozy compared to this city."

She gave a small smile, sipping her coffee. "What's that you're doing?"

"Just dust," he said, hand still over the clock.

She looked amused. "Since when do you clean?"

He didn't answer. Just watched her reflection in the window. There was something about her eyes — a flicker, quick and nervous, like someone who'd seen a ghost and was pretending not to.

When she left, Frank moved fast. He opened his secure satellite unit and dialed Colonel Ricky's encrypted channel. Static filled the screen.

"Control, this is Delta-1. We've been compromised," he whispered. "Possible internal surveillance. Request sweep protocol."

Nothing.

He tried again. Silence.

He powered down the line, jaw tight. Whoever planted the bug wasn't an amateur — they had enough access to jam military communication. That narrowed the list to very few possibilities. He stood in the middle of the room, thinking, replaying every interaction, every word Zoey had said in the last 24 hours. Too calm. Too careful. And she had been out late. No explanation.

Meanwhile, in the next room, Zoey sat at the dining table, her phone face down. She picked it up, opened a secure message app, and began typing:Target is suspicious. He found something. Need guidance.

Her thumb hovered over the send button — then she deleted it.

The guilt was a dull ache now, somewhere behind her sternum. She told herself she hadn't chosen this path — that it had chosen her. But deep down, she knew better.

A voice from her memory echoed back, calm and cold:"You just have to call off the mission as soon as possible. It could be a great barrier for our business in the coming months."

That had been her handler. The cartel's liaison. The same man who had once helped her expose a rival operation, earning her a promotion and a taste of power she'd never known before. It had felt intoxicating. She had convinced herself she was still one of the good ones — until the missions stopped being about justice and started being about leverage.

"He doesn't deserve this," she whispered. Then, after a long pause: "But it's too late."

In the living room, Frank began another sweep. He retrieved a handheld scanner disguised as a portable power bank and ran it across the walls. The detector beeped thrice.

One inside the outlet near Zoey's room.One in the smoke detector above his bed.One inside the light panel in the hallway.

He removed the casing on one and found a small metallic imprint: VTX.

His pupils narrowed. "Vertex Technologies," he muttered. The company they were supposed to infiltrate had already infiltrated them.

Zoey emerged from the hall just as he held the bug between two fingers.

"Frank," she said cautiously, "what's going on?"

He didn't look at her. "When were you planning to tell me we were being monitored?"

She blinked, confusion painting her face — too quickly. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't lie," he said quietly. "I can smell it before you finish."

"If someone's listening, maybe it's the department," she argued. "Ricky might've—"

"Ricky's dead line says otherwise."

That stopped her. The silence that followed was taut as wire.

Finally, she sighed, crossing her arms. "You're paranoid."

He met her eyes. "Paranoia keeps me alive."

"Or it'll kill you first."

"Maybe," he said, stepping closer, voice dropping. "But I'll take that over being blind."

Zoey's composure faltered for a fraction of a second. Guilt flashed in her gaze, quickly replaced by irritation. "You really think I'd betray the mission?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at her, eyes like ice.

"Trust gets people killed," he said finally, brushing past her and heading for the door.

Zoey stood frozen, heartbeat hammering. Her throat was dry. The air felt heavier than before. When the door closed behind him, she sat down slowly, hands trembling as she exhaled.

By evening, the sky outside had turned into a dull orange haze. Frank hadn't returned yet. Zoey sat alone, her phone on the table, screen dark. Then it lit up with a single encrypted message that deleted itself five seconds later:

PHASE TWO BEGINS. DELIVER THE KEY.

Her eyes shifted toward the corner of the room — Frank's locked duffel bag, the one he kept under his desk. Inside, she knew, was his Vertex access card — the key to the entire operation.

She swallowed hard, whispering, "Just one more step…"

Across the narrow hall, Frank sat silently in the dark, cigarette ember glowing faintly. He'd been watching her reflection in the window glass for the last ten minutes, reading every twitch, every shadow. He'd seen the flicker of her phone screen. Seen the shift in her posture when the message came.

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

He simply exhaled, voice low, almost to himself.

"Let's see who betrays first."

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