Chapter 2

I pulled my Aventador Lp 780-4 Ultimae to a stop in front of the N.S.A headquarters. The engine whispered to a hush, but my thoughts roared louder than ever. It had been years since I'd stood on this sacred, storm-touched ground—this place that shaped me and scarred me.

The main building loomed like a forgotten palace, tall and proud, cloaked in its old glory. Behind it, the dorms rose with ancient columns and watchful statues, like silent sentinels still guarding memories left behind. Around it all, vast gyms, fields, and training centers spread out like war camps built to sharpen both body and soul.

It was breathtaking—the land of my making, and sometimes, my undoing. A battlefield and a sanctuary. A place I once ran from but never truly left behind.

Now that I’m here again, every corner whispers stories I thought I’d buried. I didn’t expect to feel it, but I do—I missed this place. And more than that, I missed him—my grandfather. 

As I walked towards the main building's door, my footsteps felt heavy as I strolled along the familiar hallway. I try to escape the stares that other agents give me. They are taken aback by my sudden appearance. I should have gone to the back door to avoid drawing attention to myself. I made every effort to walk quicker in order to reach the stairs. I don't want to take the elevator since it would divert too much attention away from others. I turn to the left side of the corridor and climb the absurdly long set of stairs that leads to the Chief's office.

My first impression of the office when I walked in was that it was precisely as I remembered it: elegant and well-designed. Several leather chairs were arranged in front of the enormous Vendome cherry oak office desk. When someone moved into my line of sight, I froze, and my lips parted when I knew who it was. I hadn't seen him in a long time. My gaze couldn't leave him; he reminded me of Grandpa...They even had the same look.

“Anastasia.”

His voice cut through the silence like the low roll of thunder across still waters—deep, refined, and impossible to ignore. It yanked me out of my thoughts and back into the room thick with old ghosts and newer power.

There he was—Davidson Grey. Now seated where my grandfather once ruled, behind the helm of N.S.A a man carved from the same stone, only colder. My father’s brother. My uncle.

“Good morning, old man,” I greeted him with a half-smile, trying to cover the ache in my chest with a veil of calm.

“Sit down,” he said, nodding toward the chair across from his. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He lowered himself into his seat like a man placing the crown on his own head—measured, controlled, already carrying the weight of a kingdom. Then he folded his hands, locking his fingers together like gates before a storm, and stared straight into me.

We had never been close. Uncle was always more statue than family—polished, distant, unmoved. Yet in the set of his shoulders and the quiet command of his stare, I saw pieces of Grandpa—the same storm beneath still waters.

Growing up, we trained side by side, spoke little, and followed orders like clockwork. Missions blurred with muscle memory, and any warmth between us was frozen before it could grow. Grandfather made sure of that.

“Feelings slow your reflexes,” he used to say. “Better to have a steel heart than one made of glass.”

And so we became soldiers first. Family second. If at all

“How are you?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. Not even a twitch of my lips. That question had chased me like a shadow for the past month—empty, echoing, like a church bell tolling through ruins. Every time someone asked it, it stirred that ache I couldn’t name. Desiderium—a longing for something that once was, or perhaps never was at all.

Davidson’s voice dropped colder. “I know you’ve been doing your own investigation, Anastasia.”

His eyes met mine—ice against ice. I tilted my head, keeping my voice calm.

“You wouldn’t have called me in if you didn’t already know,” I replied. His face didn’t move. Not even a blink.

You know you’re not supposed to do that, right?”

I shrugged, small and careless. Of course I knew. I gave them back my badge, my title, my right to dig. But there’s no rulebook for grieving a legend. And Grandfather wasn’t just anyone—he was the storm that raised me.

“You’ve been Head of N.S.A since he died,” I said, more steel sliding into my words. “It’s been a year. And still, his killer walks free.”

That struck something. His eyes flicked away, his breath caught, and he cleared his throat.

“We’re doing everything we can,” he said stiffly. “We have leads. No one’s stopped searching.”

Then he leaned forward, voice lower.

“But you must stop.”

I looked him dead in the eye, letting my silence speak louder than any scream.

“You have no power over me,” I said, my face a mask carved from old stone.

“Anastasia,” he began softly, “you must trust me.”

Trust?  The word rattled around in my head like a broken instrument, never finding the right note. I almost laughed. Almost.

“What do you really want, old man?” I asked, my voice flat but firm. I knew this wasn’t just a talk about trust. He didn’t bring me in just to scold me. No—there was more. A storm behind the curtain.

Davidson’s face hardened like stone left out in a winter storm. Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, until the muscle in his jaw twitched like a clock hand marking tension instead of time.

Without a word, he opened a worn file on his desk, the pages breathing out the scent of dust and history. Slowly, he laid one sheet before me, its lines neat and deliberate. I leaned forward, curious—until my eyes caught the name inked at the top.

“Santiago Grey’s Last Will and Testament,” I read aloud.

The words hit me like a thunderclap. My voice shrank into silence, and my fingers gave way, letting the paper slip through them like a ghost I could no longer hold. My hands trembled—whether from grief or rage, I couldn’t tell.

“One of Dad’s final wishes,” Davidson said, reclining in his chair like a king resting after battle, “was for you to return… as captain of the Alpha Team.”

My heart knocked once—hard—but I straightened my spine.

“I work better alone,” I answered, steady but clipped.

He didn’t blink, didn’t shift. Just lifted the paper again and smoothed it between his fingers like it was law carved in stone.

“I expected you to say that,” he murmured. “But as the new Head of N.S.A.…”

That title still felt like an iron nail driven into my chest. I flinched.

“…you need to trust me, Anastasia.”

Trust. He kept flinging the word like a key, as if it could unlock something in me. But all it did was clang against the walls I’d built.

“I’m not a child,” I snapped, the fire rising. “I’m twenty-six, for God’s sake.”

Every word I threw at him was a flare from the storm inside me—burning with grief, with confusion, with memories of a grandfather who taught us loyalty with silence and love through distance.

Davidson leaned forward, his voice steady but firm, like the edge of a blade hidden in velvet.

“It’s better if we work together,” he said. “We both want justice. And if we want it sooner, we need to help each other.”

But I shook my head before the words could even settle. I shoved the suggestion out of my mind like a door I wasn’t willing to open. Working with him wasn’t just inconvenient—it was unbearable. I had enough weight on my back without adding his shadow to it.

“You’re the best agent we’ve had, Anastasia. Dad trained you himself, gave you everything,” he continued, his voice softening just enough to sting. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that.”

My jaw clenched. Something broke loose in me—raw, hot, too big to contain.

“You don’t have to say that!” I snapped, cutting through his words like a flame to thread. “I’m doing my best, Uncle! I haven’t slept more than a few hours without seeing his face—without wondering if the person who killed him is just… walking free right now!”

My voice echoed, brittle with grief.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he stood in the silence like he’d been waiting for it. And then, slowly—coldly—he said the one thing I feared the most.

“I know it’s horrible for you. I know it hurts that he’s gone. But we both know… part of the reason he’s dead is because of you.”

It wasn’t a blow—it was a landslide. I didn’t need to hear him say it. I’d already seen it in his eyes, in everyone’s eyes. The silent verdict has been hanging in the air since the day it happened.

Davidson was one of many who blamed me. And because of that, I couldn’t bring myself to face them. Not at the funeral. Not even at the grave.

Grief clings like smoke—but blame? Blame sticks to your skin like ash, and no amount of tears can wash it away.

“Grandpa also wrote in his last will that you have no authority over me or my team, old man,” I said, locking eyes with him—firm, unflinching, like steel meeting frost.But I knew I lost in this battle. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with something between irritation and reluctant respect. But he nodded, the gesture stiff and silent, like the creak of a closing vault.

He opened a drawer from his heavy desk. The wood groaned like it had secrets of its own. From inside, he took out my badge—its edges worn but proud—and my service weapon, polished and ready. He handed them to me like offering back pieces of a life I wasn’t sure I still wanted.

I took them. Slowly. Reverently.

My fingers curled around the badge, and a sharp ache bloomed in my chest. It was more than metal—it was memory. I remembered the first time I held it with trembling hands, filled with hope and fire. And I remembered the day I gave it back to Grandpa, the weight of my decision heavier than the steel itself.

“I’ll start training with my team tomorrow,” I said, voice low and resolute, already halfway out the door.

I didn’t look back.

His office felt like a sealed chamber, a place where the air thinned and history pressed against your lungs. I exhaled sharply the moment I stepped into the corridor—like finally surfacing from deep water. The hallway was quiet, save for the soft echo of my boots. The dorms and buildings were split by purpose—trainees on the right, agents on the left. Because the trainees studied at Havvard too, their side buzzed with life and the scent of books and ambition. But my side—the agents’ wing—was mostly deserted. Missions kept them in motion like shadows slipping through the world.

I know it's best if I return to find the murderer, but staying here kills me as well.

It used to feel like home to me since Grandpa was here. I miss him a lot.

The decision to come back here is like holding onto a blade—necessary, but it cuts both ways. Deep down, I know I have to return if I want to uncover the truth about Grandfather’s killer. But being back on this ground… It feels like walking barefoot over ashes that haven’t gone cold. Every step stings.

This place once wrapped around me like a second skin, warm and familiar—because Grandpa was here. He was the heart of this place, and without him, the walls echo with emptiness. I miss him more than I let myself admit.

After wandering the silent corridor, I made my way to Alpha Team’s headquarters. Each unit had their own base: bunk rooms, a small kitchen, and a meeting area—everything a tight-knit force might need. As I neared the door, the sound of laughter crashed through from the other side. That sharp, chaotic joy confirmed they were there. 

But something inside me twisted—would they even want me back? I had been gone for so long. What if my presence stirred more questions than comfort?

I inhaled deeply and pushed open the door.

The room fell silent like someone had slammed on the brakes of time. Faces turned, eyes wide, as if a ghost had wandered in from the past. “Holy crop,” Sabina blurted, the first to break free from the silence. Her language hadn’t changed—rough around the edges, but honest.

I shook my head and gave a low chuckle. Same old Sabina.

“Where in the hell have you been?” Primo shouted as he bolted across the room. Before I could say a word, he scooped me into a crushing hug and spun me like we were kids again. At twenty-eight, he was still the heartbeat of the team—the unshakable Quatro who could light up a battlefield with his fire and his grin.

Fayre and Khalil didn’t speak at first. They stood frozen, their eyes locked onto mine, emotion swimming just beneath the surface. Then slowly—wordlessly—they crossed the room and embraced me. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just arms around me like warmth after a bitter winter.

And then they started to cry.

ayre’s voice cracked like glass under pressure.

"How could you abandon us like that?" she wailed.

Her words pierced deeper than any blade could’ve managed. My heart sank, heavy as stone dropped into still water. I felt it echo in the silence that followed.

I wanted to explain—so many reasons pressed against my ribs, aching to be heard. But my lips stayed sealed, as if guilt itself had stitched them shut. In the end, only two small, fragile words broke free:

"I'm sorry," I whispered, barely above a breath.

I wrapped my arms around her, gently pulling her into a hold—an embrace meant to calm the storm neither of us could name. She clung to me, trembling. We stood like that, suspended in the ache between grief and reunion.

After a moment, I pulled back and turned to face the others. Their eyes held flickers of doubt, pain, and something else… hope.

“We need to work,” I said with a half-grin, trying to steady the air between us.

Sabina smirked, Fayre wiped her cheeks, and Khalil raised an amused brow.

They exchanged glances—wounded wolves sniffing out the scent of trust again.

Then Primo—unapologetic and loud as always—broke the tension with a booming laugh and dove into a ridiculous story about a failed stealth mission involving a goat, a misfired tranquilizer, and a very angry farmer. We couldn’t help but laugh. The room lit up with the old rhythm—familiar, ragged, and beautiful. The sound of memories rising like embers. 

"Welcome back, Uno!" they shouted in chorus, their voices laced with affection and teasing pride.

I shook my head, laughing through the knot in my throat.

Indeed… welcome back to me.