The higher-ups sent her to a private event in a bougie high-rise, glass walls, miles of city views. You could even see all the way into the Overgrown. The place was magnificent. 

Her job was simple:

Confirm whether a rumored alliance was real, nothing more, in and out. 

Amnesia moved through the room like she always did. She wore silver dress that night and a pixie wig. She looked like the kind of woman men explain things to.

From the get-go, something felt wrong and she didn’t know why.

The host greeted her by name, not her alias. It was like he’d known her name forever.

She didn’t react, but inside, something dropped. Amnesia remained calm but inside she was freaking out. She made the decision to leave.

As she made her way to the front door, she passed through a hallway near the terrace and saw something she had never seen before. A small camera hidden in the corner of a mirror. It moved along with her. She watched as it watched her. The camera lens shifted, tracking her as she walked away.

She managed to stay professional until her phone vibrated in the elevator.

Unknown number.

She answered, not saying a word.

Then the voice.

“You handled that well.” Not praise, it was an observation.

“Next time, don’t improvise,” and with that, the voice hung up.

When she got home, she showered, burned the dress, and wiped her devices down. Then she checked her secure drop. There was a file waiting. It had a timestamp from that night. She opened it. It was footage of her from inside the party, but it wasn’t surveillance. There were angles she had never seen. Then a second video, her apartment earlier that week. Her stomach dropped. They weren’t protecting her.

She thought of only one thing. She needed to get out of there, fast. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel powerful.