The question had been sitting at the back of her mind for months. It didn't press or scream, but it whispered—softly, persistently—like the pull of a thread she couldn't leave alone.
It happened during one of the rare moments of stillness in the facility. She had just finished a long training session with Vance, her muscles aching but her mind sharper. The facility was unusually quiet, with most agents either on missions or taking well-earned breaks.
She found herself walking toward Mr. B's office without consciously deciding to. By the time she reached the door, she realized her palms were sweaty. She wiped them on her uniform and knocked.
"Come in," came the familiar voice.
She stepped inside, the room's dim lighting casting long shadows over the cluttered desk. Mr. B—Patchy, as she had nicknamed him—looked up from his stack of reports, his one good eye narrowing slightly in curiosity.
"Didn't expect you," he said, setting his pen down. "What's on your mind?"
She hesitated, suddenly unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve.
"Out with it," Patchy said, leaning back in his chair. "I don't have all day."
She took a deep breath. "Is there any chance to communicate with... families? Of agents, I mean."
Patchy's demeanor shifted, his casual tone replaced with something more serious. He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Depends," he said after a pause. "Why are you asking?"
She looked down at the floor, then back up at him. "I just... I need to know if they're safe."
Patchy exhaled slowly, his expression softening. "Your family's safe. That's the whole point of the anonymity. No one can trace you back to them. No one knows who you were before you joined, and that's not an accident. Also, as I had told you earlier, we gave security to all of the people in your green list. It's going to be there for a long time."
She nodded, but the knot in her chest didn't loosen. "So they're okay? Really okay?"
"They're fine," Patchy said firmly. "But you have to understand—reaching out to them, even thinking too much about them, is a risk. Not just for you, but for them."
She bit her lip, unsure if she wanted to push further. Finally, she asked, "Do they know I'm alive?"
Patchy hesitated, his eye searching hers. "They know enough. They already know you're off the grid, you told them yourself. That was the cost of choosing to live alone instead of dying from cancer surrounded by your family."
She sat down, her legs suddenly feeling unsteady. "Do you ever tell agents anything more? If something happens to their families?"
Patchy shook his head. "Only in rare cases. It's not worth the risk most of the time. Besides, you chose this life, didn't you?"
"I didn't have a choice," she muttered.
Patchy leaned forward, his voice softening. "None of us did. But if it helps, know this: the best thing you can do for them is stay focused. Do your job. Keep them safe by staying away."
She didn't respond, her mind swirling with thoughts of her parents, her sister. She hadn't even thought about what to say to them if she ever got the chance. What could she say? That she was out there fighting people they'd never meet, doing things they'd never understand?
"Why now?" Patchy asked, breaking the silence.
She shrugged, the movement feeling heavier than it should. "I guess I just... miss them."
Patchy's expression softened further, the sternness giving way to something almost fatherly. "That's normal. Missing them means you're still human. Don't lose that, even if you have to bury it deep."
She nodded, though it felt like a hollow gesture.
"Anything else?" he asked.
She stood, shaking her head. "No. Thanks."
Patchy watched her as she left, his expression unreadable.
As she walked back to her quarters, her thoughts drifted to a life she had almost forgotten—a life behind numbers and spreadsheets. She had been good at it, her finance job. It was steady, predictable.
She remembered the sterile office lights, the hum of the air conditioning, the click of her keyboard as she balanced accounts and forecasted trends. It felt like someone else's life now, a distant echo of normalcy she could barely touch.
Her manager had always praised her efficiency, her ability to find solutions where others saw dead ends. It wasn't glamorous, but it was safe. Secure.
And yet, even as she clung to that sense of nostalgia, she couldn't ignore the truth: she had been suffocating back then. The monotony, the lack of purpose. Every day had felt like a copy of the one before, the weight of an unspoken "is this it?" pressing down on her.
But now? Her days were unpredictable, dangerous, filled with adrenaline and purpose. She was saving lives—or at least trying to. Yet, in her quieter moments, when the weight of her missions settled on her shoulders, she wondered if the trade-off had been worth it.
Was it better to feel alive and terrified, or to feel safe and empty?
She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. This wasn't a choice she could undo. There was no going back to the quiet office life, to lunch breaks and casual Fridays. That version of her was gone, erased the moment she'd stepped into this world.
And yet, she still thought about her manager, her colleagues, the girl in the next cubicle who always complained about her boyfriend but brought him lunch every day. Did they ever wonder what had happened to her? Did they even notice she was gone?
The irony wasn't lost on her: she'd escaped a life she couldn't stand, only to find herself missing its simplicity.
By the time she reached her room, her mind was a tangled mess of then and now. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the blank wall in front of her.
She had traded balance sheets for blades, interest rates for insurgents. She had chosen a life of chaos over one of quiet desperation.
But as she sat there, she realized she couldn't decide which version of her had been freer.