If you're reading this, congratulations. You've either hacked into the most secretive spy training database in the world… or I'm already dead.
Kidding. Probably.
Today started like any other: a synthetic protein bar for breakfast, a mandatory lie detector test during morning check-in (standard protocol when you've been caught sneaking pizza into Mission Control), and a boring lecture on field invisibility from Agent Tuskface — real name undisclosed, face like a leather couch someone punched.
Then the red light flashed in my dorm wall. Not orange. Red. The kind that screams: Drop everything, Lockstone, the world's about to explode and only you can duct tape it back together.
I tapped the panel, and the message was short:
"Digit Lockstone. Report to Command Briefing Room Delta-9. Immediate."
Delta-9 is where they send you when you're about to get promoted. Or fired. Or "reassigned," which in spy terms means, hope you like Siberia.
So yeah. My palms were sweating before I even touched the door scanner.
Inside Delta-9, the lights were low. A single hologram flickered in the center of the room, cycling through surveillance photos — all of one girl. Black hair. Wary eyes. Same high school uniform in every shot.
Agent Onyx stood next to the projection like a shadow given orders. She's head of Ops for the Teenage Spy Training Program — TSTP — and the only person I've ever seen tase a man mid-sneeze without blinking.
"Lockstone," she said, nodding once. "Sit."
No pleasantries. No welcome. Just straight to it.
"This," she gestured to the flickering girl, "is **Lyra Mortez. Age sixteen. Daughter of Santiago Mortez — classified threat level Orange-Red. You've been selected for deep insertion."
I raised an eyebrow. "Into what? Her family? Her phone plan? A smoothie cult?"
Onyx didn't laugh. She never does.
"You'll enroll in Brookstone High tomorrow. As a sophomore transfer. Friendly. Curious. Clumsy, if you must be — just enough to lower suspicion. Your primary mission is to establish a relationship with Lyra. Gain trust. Extract intel."
I stared at the hologram. Lyra was looking straight at the camera in one frame — not startled, just aware. Like she knew we were watching. That unsettled me.
"What's the play?" I asked. "We think Mortez is launching something?"
"MISU," she said. Just like that. No explanation. No acronym spelling. Just one chilling word.
"You're kidding," I said, heartbeat hitching. "Misu's real? I thought it was a ghost file — a black-budget myth."
Onyx's eyes gleamed. "It's not a myth. It's active. We believe Mortez has the key to activating it. And his daughter may be the access point."
I didn't say anything for a moment. Misu. The name whispered through spy halls like a curse — a system capable of overriding global surveillance networks. Not just watching people, but predicting them. Behavior mapping. Emotion tracking. Allegiance indexing. In the wrong hands, the world wouldn't need war anymore. Just a good algorithm and a lot of blackmail.
"You think Lyra knows?" I asked.
"She may know nothing. Or she may know everything. Either way, her connection to Mortez makes her critical. We've embedded a handler on staff at the school. You'll report to him through encrypted journal entries. Like this one."
Right. My diary. Or as the TSTP calls it: Intel Logbook Delta-V. Because everything in the spy world sounds cooler when you name it like a robot.
Onyx tapped the screen. The photos vanished. In their place: my new school profile.
Name: Dylan Locke
Grade: 10
History: Homeschooled in Sweden (vague, believable)
Personality Tagline: Slightly awkward, well-meaning, fond of origami
"I hate origami," I said flatly.
"Then learn to love it," Onyx replied. "Because for the next three months, you are Dylan Locke."
I walked out of Delta-9 with a backpack full of forged transcripts, a packet of student schedules, and a migraine the size of Misu.
Brookstone High. Normal kids. Pop quizzes. Hall passes.
I've trained with ex-Navy SEALs, disabled bombs in virtual cities, and escaped a simulation designed to mimic psychological torture.
But high school? That's uncharted territory.
And here's the twist: Mortez might not even be the real enemy. Rumors are spreading—deep, encrypted ones—that someone else is pulling the strings. Someone who wants Misu launched. Someone inside.
If that's true, then Lyra Mortez isn't just my target.
She's my best shot at figuring out who's really behind all this.
And maybe, just maybe, she's the link to the question I've never stopped asking:
What happened to my parents?
End Entry.
Tomorrow: Operation Locker Room Introduction.
Wish me luck.
Or better yet—don't.
I'm not supposed to exist