Sunday stands in a long, narrow hallway. It's dimly lit. The floor is cold under her bare feet. The walls are lined with identical metal doors, each unmarked, each humming faintly like they're alive. The lights above flicker.
She hears a voice behind one of the doors. It's her own.
Whispering.
Begging.
She reaches for the handle, but it burns her palm.
Then she heard footsteps behind her.
She turned around.
But the hallway stretches on and the doors are gone.
There's only one left at the end of the corridor. Painted black. She walks toward it even though her body doesn't want to. Each step feels like she's sinking.
From behind the door, a child's voice calls
"Why did you leave me?"
It's her voice. Crying.
Sunday reaches the door, hand trembling, and it swings open on its own.
Inside, a glass room filled with hospital beds. Every one of them holds a version of her. Burned, bleeding, strapped down, asleep, whispering. Their eyes snap open all at once.
They speak in unison:
"You're not supposed to feel."
"You promised."
"You said we'd never feel again."
Then the lights cut out. The door slams behind her.
And she's not alone anymore.
A tall figure stands in the dark. He's faceless, broad-shouldered, watching her.
She knows who it is.
Sunday jolted upright, breath sharp in her throat, heart pounding like she'd surfaced too fast from something deep.
Not the same dream.
Not the same static replay she'd been trapped in for years. It had changed. And it left a strange residue in her chest, like grief tangled with dejavu.
The room was cold, as always. Pale gray light seeped through the sealed window, indifferent and dim.
She sat there frozen for a long moment, trying to remember exactly what she saw or felt but the edges of her dream were already dissolving
She sat there, unmoving, for several long seconds.
"Wow," said a voice from the corner. "That one looked intense."
Ares was in the same chair, slouched like a cat with nowhere else to be, peeling back the wrapper on a protein bar.
"Morning, Little Ghost," he said around a bite. "You went full exorcist there for a sec. I almost called a priest."
She rubbed at her face. Her hands were cold.
Her pulse was still racing.
Ares crunched loudly, ruining the silence. "So... are we going to talk about that?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
Sunday sighed, already too exhausted for his usual brand of entertainment. "Do you even knock?"
"I did," he said. "You didn't answer. I took it as a 'please, come in and comment on my traumatic subconscious.'"
She shot him a flat look, then stood and crossed the room to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.
Behind her, he kept talking.
"You know, the usual tossing and turning I've gotten used to, but this time? You whimpered. Like... actual emotional vulnerability. I almost cried."
Sunday dried her face with the towel and didn't turn around. "You're not as funny as you think."
"That's not true. I think I'm exactly as funny as I think."
He grinned at her in the mirror. She stared at her own reflection. Her hair unusually smooth, as though someone had brushed it.
"You okay?" he asked, more softly this time.
She hesitated. "It felt... real."
Ares didn't joke at that. Not right away. He sat forward in the chair, elbows on knees. "You've never said that before."
"This never happened before." She finally turned to face him. "I didn't just dream it. I felt it like I was there."
He studied her. "Dmitri would have a field day with that."
"Yeah. That's why I'm not telling him."
"Smart."
Silence passed.
Sunday's gaze narrowed. "Why are you here again?"
Ares stood with a mock sigh, stretching like a cat. "To bask in your hospitality, obviously. But also—"
He reached for his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder.
"—to say goodbye."
Sunday blinked. "Goodbye?"
"I've got a mission. Low threat. Boring stuff."
She crossed her arms. "You didn't say anything about a mission yesterday."
"I didn't want you crying in the hallway." he smirked.
She didn't return the smile.
"What kind of mission?"
Ares waved a hand. "Classified."
Sunday's brow rose. "Since when do you care about classified?"
"Since now," he said, shrugging on his jacket. "Orders are orders"
She knows something's off.
"Don't cry when I'm gone" Ares grinned.
Sunday gave him a flat look. "I'm already planning the party."
"I'll only be gone three days," he said, stepping toward the door. "Try not to die of loneliness."
"Not possible," she said dryly.
Ares grinned. "See? That's the spirit."
He stopped by the door panel, then turned back as if he'd forgotten something.
"Oh," he said, snapping his fingers, "almost forgot."
He pointed toward her desk.
Sunday followed his gesture.
She frowned.
Sitting on the corner of the desk was a small, glowing lava lamp.
Blue and purple swirls bobbed lazily in its bulbous glass, casting gentle, pulsing light across the room. It looked completely out of place among the sterile metal and lifeless gray.
Sunday blinked.
"You didn't."
"I did," he said proudly. "Told you this room needed spiritual cleansing."
She stared at it.
"Where did you even find one?"
"Secret black market of contraband mood lighting. Very exclusive."
Sunday glanced at him. "You're an idiot."
"Maybe. But I'm an idiot you're going to miss."
He stepped backward into the hall.
"Don't break it," he said. "It's symbolic. Of hope. Or, you know... interior design."
The door hissed shut behind him before she could fire back.
Sunday stood in silence.
She looked at the lava lamp again.
Ares never shut up about his assignments. If he wasn't bragging, he was complaining.
Now he wouldn't even give her the basics?
Classified.
Ares had never cared about "classified."
But this time? Nothing. Just a shrug and a smirk.
Something was off.
She folded her arms.
If this mission were really low-threat and routine, he would've complained about the boredom already. He would've told her which sector. Which team. He would've made a joke about explosions.
Instead, he'd dodged. Labeled it classified.
And worse he'd left her a lava lamp.
Sunday stared at the lava lamp for another long moment. The blue-purple glow pulsed like a heartbeat.
Something wasn't right.
She turned on her heel and marched out of her quarters.
The door to Dmitri's office slid open with a soft hiss.
He didn't look up immediately, fingers dancing over a screen, eyes narrowed in concentration.
When he finally noticed her, his eyebrows lifted pleasantly surprised.
"Sunday," Dmitri said, standing slower than usual. "I wasn't expecting to see you this morning."
She didn't respond right away. Just stood there, arms folded, eyes sharper than usual.
"I need to ask you something," she said.
Dmitri's expression shifted. The smile faded into something more careful, almost wary. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"Of course. Sit."
She didn't.
He studied her a beat longer, then lowered himself back into his chair. .
"About last night—"
"Stop," she cut in. "I'm not here to talk about that"
Dmitri gave a small nod, folding his hands together. "Alright. What do you want to talk about?
"I want to know where Ares is going."
That wiped the smile off his face.
He leaned back in his chair slowly, studying her. "Ah."
"Don't 'ah' me."
"I'm not ah-ing you. I'm... contextually acknowledging."
"Don't do that either"
Dmitri sighed. "He didn't tell you?"
"He said it was classified. Low-threat. Boring." Her eyes narrowed. "So boring, in fact, that he wouldn't stop talking about it, except he did. Which means it's either a lie, or the apocalypse."
Dmitri opened a file on his console and turned the screen toward her. "Sorry to disappoint you, Kiddo. It's neither. Just surveillance. Passive observation. Probably nothing. Just monitoring movement and gathering intel."
Sunday stared at the summary.
MISSION TYPE: Passive Surveillance
TARGET LOCATION: Station 9-K — Sector Theta-7
Indefinite: Mission remains active until Command issues termination or extraction order.
Operation: Achilles Heel
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: Conduct covert observation of designated subject(s).
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES:
• Gather actionable intelligence
• Monitor for hostile activity or environmental threat
REPORTING PROTOCOL: Submit encrypted updates every 12 hours or upon detection of anomaly.
AGENT ASSIGNED: Ares (Field Handler – Tier 3 Clearance)
She blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"Observation?"
"Mm-hmm."
"No chaos? No explosions?No long-range weapons?"
Dmitri tilted his head. "It's possible he might have to use binoculars."
Sunday gave him a flat stare. "He's Division One. Surveillance isn't even his job. That's Eye territory. Why would he volunteer for this?"
Dmitri hesitated. "He didn't. I assigned him."
Sunday's eyes narrowed. "You assigned him?"
Dmitri nodded. "The mission's classified. Only a handful of people even know it exists. I needed someone I could trust. Someone who wouldn't ask too many questions, but who'd still do the job right."
Sunday folded her arms, shoulders stiff. "Did he agree to it?"
Dmitri met her eyes. "Eventually."
She scoffed. "Did he really understand, or did you just give him that look you use when you don't want someone to argue?
"I wouldn't have sent him if I didn't believe he could handle it." He smiled wryly. "Point is the mission's clean. Boring. Just watching someone."
Sunday frowned, unconvinced. "Who's this someone?"
Dmitri shrugged. "Civilian. It's probably nothing."
"Ares doesn't do 'probably nothing.'"
"That's why we sent him. Figured if there was something, he'd handle it. And if not, well he'd come back grumpy and complain to you for a week."
Sunday's jaw tensed.
She turned back toward the door.
"I'm going," she said.
Dmitri raised a brow. "Where?"
"Back to my room," she said without looking. "To stare at a lava lamp and worry about something that's probably nothing."
That made Dmitri laugh.
"You have a lava lamp now?"
She didn't answer.
He leaned back in his chair, grinning. "I leave you two alone for five minutes and he turns your quarters into a dorm room."
She gave him a dry look over her shoulder. "It's blue. And symbolic. Apparently."
"Oh, then you're definitely doomed."
She didn't answer him. She hurriedly stepped out.
Dmitri didn't move until the door hissed shut behind her.
Only then did he turn the console away, swipe the surveillance file closed, and tap a locked folder beneath it.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.
"Come on, Ares," he muttered. "Don't screw this up."