Cager handed me the assignment without ceremony.
"Alone," she said. Her eyes never left mine. "Small. Surgical. Entirely your call."
I had expected a team. I had expected oversight. I had not expected to be trusted—or tested—in this way.
She didn't elaborate. She didn't have to.
The map she slid across the table was simple, but precise: a narrow corridor behind a warehouse, two guards, a single lock, and a package that had to disappear. No mistakes. No witnesses. No noise.
"Go," she said.
I left the lair with nothing but the tools I always carried and my own careful, measured awareness. The streets felt different when I was alone. Empty but not quiet, alive in a way that made every shadow twitch with possibility.
The warehouse was exactly as described. Corrugated metal walls, a single service door. A faint light leaked through the cracks, enough to reveal shapes but not faces. Two guards patrolled, chatting quietly, cigarettes glowing faintly in the dimness.
I observed. I counted. I watched the rhythm of their movements, the pause between sentences, the way one always shifted his weight before speaking.
I did not hesitate.
A single step into shadow. A single breath timed to their exhale. I slipped past the first, then the second. Hands steady, heart steady, mind entirely focused.
The lock was simple, the kind that gave in to pressure if you understood the mechanics. I worked quietly, feeling the metal respond to my fingers, the tumblers releasing one by one.
The package was in my hands before the first guard glanced away. No one noticed. No one challenged.
I left exactly as I came. Alone. Silent. Invisible.
And when I returned to the lair, I felt the weight of the unspoken acknowledgment in every step.
Cager was there. Standing near the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She had been waiting.
"Report," she said.
I spoke plainly, detailing the movements, the guards, the lock, the extraction. Every word measured, every pause calculated. I did not embellish. I did not underplay.
She listened. Not a single interruption. Not a single flicker of emotion crossed her features.
When I finished, she stepped forward. Close enough that I felt the faint heat of her presence, but not so close that I could interpret intent. She tilted her head, eyes scanning the empty space around me as if testing my honesty.
"Your timing," she said finally. "Precise. Controlled. Your senses—good. But…"
I waited.
Her gaze lingered on my hands. Not harsh, not critical. Observing. Measuring.
"…you need to understand that control is not just about knowing where to step," she said. "It's about anticipation. It's about predicting the unpredictable and holding still when everything wants to move."
I nodded. "I understand."
"Do you?" Her voice sharpened slightly, cutting through the air between us.
"Yes," I said again, calmly, deliberately.
She stepped closer. Her hand brushed my shoulder—not long enough to linger, but enough that I felt it. Enough that I knew she was testing me.
"Good," she said softly. Her eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable. "You'll need to do more than survive, Vale. You'll need to influence. Even when you can't see the pieces."
Her words left a mark. Not on my body, but inside me.
And I realized, standing there, that her tests were more than about skill. They were about trust. Her trust. And I didn't know how far I could stretch that before it broke, or before I broke myself trying.
Later, I replayed the task in my mind. Every movement, every breath, every subtle twitch I had noted in the guards. My pulse was steady, but my awareness thrummed like a live wire.
I hadn't just completed an assignment. I had stepped into a role. One that carried visibility, responsibility, and—though I refused to name it yet—something dangerously close to acknowledgment.
When Cager finally left me to my thoughts, the room felt quieter. Empty, but filled with consequence.
And in that quiet, I realized that the first step into independence was always the heaviest.
Because someone was always watching.
And sometimes, that someone was closer than you thought.