Frank hadn't slept a minute.

He sat in the corner of the dimly lit apartment, gun on the table, coffee gone cold. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting in slivers of dull morning light. Everything around him — the half-opened boxes, Zoey's mug, her jacket on the chair — felt off, staged, like a crime scene that hadn't been cleaned right.

His mind kept looping the scrambled Vertex feed from last night. The distorted image of Zoey's face, duplicated, flickering between human and static.

Was it a simulation? A clone? Or just manipulation?

Every possibility made his stomach twist tighter.

When Zoey finally emerged from her room, stretching in her loose tee, Frank straightened up — hiding the tension under a calm mask.

"Morning," she said, rubbing her eyes. "You look like you didn't sleep."

"Didn't need to."

She smirked faintly. "You always say that when you're lying."

He met her gaze, steady, unreadable. "And you always smile when you're hiding something."

That wiped the humor off her face. A few beats of silence stretched between them. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

She poured herself coffee, her hand trembling just slightly. "You're jumpy," she muttered. "Paranoid maybe?"

"Paranoia keeps people alive," Frank replied, voice low. "Especially in this city."

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and turned away. "You should take a walk. You're suffocating yourself in here."

He didn't move, didn't answer. Just watched her — calculating every tone, every breath.

Later that morning, Frank made his way to the underground communication hub beneath Northvale's public transport terminal — a hidden drop point Colonel Ricky had set up years ago.

He typed a coded report under the secure channel:

"Subject possibly compromised. Vertex running ECHO replications. Possible subject: Zoey Parker. Confirm immediately."

He hit SEND and waited. The response came thirty minutes later — short, cold, and unsettling:

"Stay calm. Do not confront. Observe only. Retrieval team en route."

Frank frowned. "Retrieval team?" he muttered. "That's not protocol."

He slipped the communicator into his pocket and exited through the rear alley.

As he walked back toward the apartment, a black Vertex sedan appeared in the side mirror of a parked truck. Same distance. Same speed.

Frank crossed the street suddenly. The sedan mirrored.

Tail.

He cut through a market lane, circled behind an old delivery truck, and ducked into an abandoned lot. When the sedan rolled past the corner, Frank emerged from the shadows, gun raised, watching it fade into traffic.

"Somebody's watching both of us now," he whispered. "Good."

Back at the apartment, Zoey was pacing.

She stopped by the window, rubbing her temples. Her reflection looked pale, tired — no, disoriented.

Her phone buzzed. A text appeared in encrypted script.

"Phase Two. Deliver the key."

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

"Target is suspicious. He found something. Need guidance."

She typed it, stared at the glowing words, then deleted it. Her breath came shallow.

A flashback hit her — her handler's cold voice from the last meeting.

"You just have to keep him distracted long enough for us to finish the transfer."

Zoey's chest tightened. "He doesn't deserve this…" she whispered. "Not him."

Then she looked toward Frank's duffel bag under the table — the one he never let out of his sight.

She bit her lip, knelt down, and slid it toward her.

Using a copied keycard she'd made days ago, she unlocked the first latch.

Inside were weapons, gear, fake documents. Layer after layer. She peeled through until her fingers brushed against a small metallic case.

Inside it — a Vertex Access ID, silver and gleaming, marked with the company insignia.

As soon as she touched it, a faint LED light blinked twice.

She froze. "What the hell—"

Across the city, inside a parked car, Frank's wrist tracker pulsed red.

He exhaled slowly. "Hooked."

He had never gone to Vertex that morning.

He sat in his car across the block, eyes on the apartment window through binoculars.

A drone feed flickered on his tablet — showing Zoey opening the duffel, her hands trembling as she picked up the access key.

His jaw locked tight. "I didn't want to believe it," he whispered.

Ricky's words echoed in his head:

"Trust is your biggest blind spot, Miller. Don't let it cost you the mission."

Frank hit record. "Operation log 7A — subject compromised. Evidence confirmed."

But even as he spoke, his tone cracked — not with anger, but disappointment.

He watched Zoey pull out her phone again, whispering a voice message:

"Package secured. Confirming handoff location."

A deep voice replied through the encrypted line:

"Old industrial yard, Sector Nine. Twenty minutes."

Frank slammed the steering wheel once, hard, then started the engine.

The industrial yard was dead silent — an empty skeleton of rusted cranes and crumbling containers. Fog clung low, curling around the metal beams.

Zoey stood there clutching her purse, eyes scanning the darkness.

A black sedan rolled in, headlights cutting through the mist. Two men stepped out — cartel operatives, silent and armed.

Zoey approached cautiously. "You got the transfer code?"

One man nodded. "Do you have the access key?"

She opened her bag slightly — then froze at the sound of a voice behind her.

"Looking for this?"

Frank stepped out of the shadows, holding an identical Vertex access card between his fingers.

Zoey spun around, shock written across her face. "Frank—how did you—"

He cut her off. "You talk in your sleep, Zoey. Not words. Guilt."

The cartel men drew their guns. Frank didn't hesitate — two sharp cracks echoed, bullets slamming into the ground inches from their boots.

"Next shots won't be warnings," he said coldly.

The men backed off, slipping into the fog.

Zoey stood frozen. Her bag hung loosely in her hand.

"You sold us out," Frank said quietly.

"It wasn't like that!" she blurted, her voice breaking. "I didn't mean for this to happen—"

"Then tell me what it was like."

"They offered me an out, Frank! After Brackmoor, after everything. I just… I thought I could control it."

He laughed bitterly. "Control? You let them use you like a pawn."

"They threatened me!" she cried. "You think you'd do any better, standing where I was?"

He stared at her for a long moment. "The difference is, Zoey… I wouldn't have stood there."

She flinched like he'd struck her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," he said flatly. "Sorry doesn't fix betrayal."

She took a shaky step forward. "Please, Frank—believe me. I never wanted to hurt you."

He shook his head slowly. "You didn't hurt me, Zoey. You just reminded me why I stopped trusting anyone."

He turned, walking away through the fog.

"Frank, wait!"

He didn't.

Halfway back to the car, his comms beeped faintly. A scrambled message from HQ.

He tapped the receiver. "Ricky, come in."

The line crackled, then a familiar voice came through — prerecorded, static-ridden.

"Miller, Intel update. Vertex breach confirmed. Someone higher up is pulling the strings. Don't trust anyone. Especially not—"

The message cut out.

Frank froze. "Especially not who?" he whispered.

He turned around. Zoey was gone.

Only the fog remained, swirling gently where she'd been standing moments ago.

He scanned the ground — saw the decoy ID blinking red near the fence.

He picked it up, thumb brushed against the cold metal. "This isn't over," he muttered.

Somewhere in the distance, an engine roared to life — then faded into the night.

Frank stood alone in the industrial yard, the echo of betrayal ringing louder than gunfire.

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