The name on the paper was Michael Trask. A mid-level logistics officer under Rourke's reconstruction program, the kind of man who signed documents he didn't read, moved shipments he didn't question, and cashed checks he didn't deserve. His signature appeared beside every falsified death certificate Rourke had filed.
And now, according to Talon, he was the last loose end. For three nights I didn't sleep. The rain came and went, and every drop against the glass felt like a reminder that I was about to step over a line I couldn't step back from.
Kill him, they'd said. Prove your loyalty.
I told myself I wouldn't kill. It was out of the question. But then Talon would come for me, realize that my team was my weakness and come for them. I could fake the guy's death, but that came with its own risks. I knew full well that there were sleeper agents within Overwatch, so if they found out the target was still alive somewhere, I would be at risk of their revenge.
No, what I thought of those three days, was the best choice. Although, it wasn't the moral one.
I found Trask easily. Men like him rarely hide well; they assume paperwork will protect them. He was still in London, tucked away in a rented apartment paid for by government hush money. When the warrant hit, I made sure it came from an anonymous source inside the Ministry, accusing him of collaboration with Rourke.
By dusk, he was in custody, terrified and alone, a single candle in a storm he couldn't see coming. When they marched him into the cell, I followed later under the pretense of medical evaluation. Guards nodded, not questioning the Overwatch insignia on my coat. Most of them remembered me from the tribunal and didn't think to ask why a field medic needed access to a prisoner at midnight.
It wouldn't be a good idea leaving a paper trail for Adawe to link me to this, but it was fine as she didn't know my connection to him in the first place. To her, it would seem like I'm suddenly following up on Rourke's downfall.
Inside, Trask sat on the edge of the cot, hands shaking. His eyes darted up when he saw me. "R-Rose," he stammered. "You're...you're the Overwatch one. You have to help me. They're saying..."
"I know what they're saying." I closed the door behind me. "And most of it's true."
He paled. "You don't understand. I didn't know what Rourke was doing..."
"You signed off on transports marked 'reconstruction aid.'"
I stepped closer. "They were people, Michael. Men, women, children. You stamped their deaths with ink and slept just fine."
His mouth opened, but nothing came. Just breath that was shallow, panicked.
I reached into my coat. "They wanted me to kill you."
His eyes widened. "Please..."
"Relax, I'm not going to." I set the surgical case on the cot beside him. "But I can't let you talk either. They wanted silence. I'll give it to them."
He screamed when he saw the tools. The kind of sound that makes walls hold their breath.
I didn't rush. Each motion was deliberate, mechanical, the precision of a surgeon, not an executioner. When it was done, he was still breathing, though he'd never speak or sign another document again. I left him alive in the cell, blood slick across the floor, and walked out into the rain.
Adawe's summons came before dawn. Her office was dim, sunlight just beginning to break through the smog outside. She stood behind her desk, coat unbuttoned, a datapad glowing faintly in her hand.
"Michael Trask was found in his cell," she said without preamble. "Alive, but… mutilated."
By now I was used to her little interrogations. I knew that there was no evidence that linked me to him. I kept my face still. "Mutilated?"
She nodded. "Tongue removed. Both hands severed cleanly at the wrist. Surgical precision. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Talon contacted him before the trial, didn't they?"
"I wouldn't know."
Adawe studied me. "They're trying to send a message. Silence through fear. I think they found out he was cooperating with our investigation."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I was hoping we could protect him, but it seems Talon beat us to it."
I let the silence hang not giving her any information that she was reaching for, waiting for her to draw her own conclusion.
"You were there when he was processed, weren't you?" she asked finally. "The guards said they saw you speak with him before his transfer."
"For evaluation," I said. "Standard check. He was panicking."
She frowned, searching my face for something. "Talon's offer. Did they ask for anything from you?"
I shook my head. "They were looking for knowledge, not obedience. Whatever they think I know, I didn't give it to them."
Adawe's gaze lingered, heavy and uncertain. For a long moment, I thought she'd press further.
Then she exhaled and leaned back in her chair. "I believe you. Whatever was done to Trask, I don't believe that you are capable of doing something like this. Just… be careful, Rose. Talon thrives on half-truths. You're valuable to them for reasons we don't fully understand."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Dismissed."
I left her office with my heartbeat steady, each step echoing down the corridor like punctuation in a lie that had already become habit.
Bishop's Gate was quieter than before. No rain, just the steady hum of faraway traffic. The man from Talon was waiting where he'd promised, mask glinting faintly under the streetlamp.
He turned as I approached. "You didn't follow instructions."
I stopped a few paces away. "You mean how he's alive."
"Yes." The modulator twisted his voice into something between amusement and irritation. "Which means you failed."
I tilted my head. "Failed? I did exactly what you wanted. You asked me to silence him."
"Silence meant death, don't play coy." he replied.
"No," I said quietly. "Silence means silence. He'll never talk again. Ever. You wanted the branch cut, I burned the roots."
The man's posture shifted, unsure whether to be impressed or insulted. "You think that kind of creativity earns you points?"
I shrugged. "I don't even follow all of Adawe's orders. What makes you think you're different?"
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of wind between us. Then he laughed. A slow, genuine laugh that carried a strange warmth beneath the distortion.
"Maybe you are one of us after all."
He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope, black wax seal pressed with the Talon spiral.
"Inside are coordinates. Your first task," he said, handing it over. "You'll find it… enlightening."
I took it without hesitation.
He stepped back, fading into the dark. "Welcome to the family, Sergeant Rose. It'll be an honor working alongside you."
I waited until his footsteps were gone before opening the envelope under the streetlight.
Inside, a single phrase written in red ink:
We build where others bury.
And beneath it, coordinates, somewhere deep under Geneva. I folded the paper, slid it into my coat, and looked up at the pale city lights bleeding into the fog. This was how it began. Not with a kill.
But with silence.