The third-floor conference room bathes in morning light. Alva’s resignation, announced just yesterday, hangs like a shadow over the assembled group. Around the long mahogany table, faces remain tense, gazes averted. No one dares occupy his usual place.
Falconi rises, his weathered face graver than usual. He surveys the room before speaking.
“I know Alva’s resignation comes as a shock to many of us,” he begins, his voice measured. “But remember, he isn’t dead. He chose to leave while saying proper goodbyes, giving us the chance to do the same.” His voice wavers slightly on these last words. “In our line of work, losing a comrade often takes far more painful forms. Some wounds never fully heal.”
He pauses, letting his words settle.
“The missions ahead don’t afford us the luxury of nostalgia. That’s why I’ve decided to restructure the team. Cina and Gata Salvaje will take on expanded roles within Alpha Team. Their experience with Angel Team will prove invaluable in strengthening our collaboration.”
A few approving nods ripple through the assembly. Cina’s reputation in close combat and Gata Salvaje’s psychological expertise need no introduction.
“Now,” Falconi concludes, “Al Primero will present our new security measures.”
Al Primero rises, nervously manipulating his tablet. His hand trembles slightly as he scrolls through his security analyses. Alva’s absence disturbs him more than he cares to admit – they had developed a reassuring routine during their briefings.
Cina observes the scene in silence, her face betraying nothing. Beside her, Gata Salvaje takes meticulous notes. The presence of Angel Team members at this briefing isn’t unusual – collaboration between teams has become commonplace over recent months.
Silence descends when Urd enters. She settles in the back, her pale face barely visible in the shadows. Al Primero feels his throat constrict. A familiar sensation, as it always is when she’s present.
“The surveillance systems have been updated according to new protocols,” he begins, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “The thermal cameras on the third floor…”
“There’s an error in your calculations.”
Urd’s voice, soft yet cutting, halts his momentum. Al Primero freezes, his gaze drawn inexorably to the young woman’s dark eyes.
“Your numbers,” she continues, fixing on the screen. “They’re dead.”
A shiver runs down Al Primero’s spine. The way she pronounced that last word… He notices then that the time displayed on his document reads 3:33.
“I… I’ll check again,” he stammers.
Urd’s gaze slides elsewhere, as if he’s ceased to exist. The shadows cast by her pendant on the wall seem to form strange, almost… meaningful patterns.
Red Lady speaks from the video conference screen. “Continue, Al. We need to discuss the new security measures following Alva’s departure.”
But Al Primero can’t tear his eyes from the wall shadows. He catches a movement in the room – Cina and Gata Salvaje exchange a glance whose meaning eludes him.
Later that day, when the third floor surveillance system mysteriously fails, Al Primero sits for a long time in his office, staring at the black screen. Years later, he would still wonder if everything began that day, in that room, or if the seeds of his curse had been planted earlier, during some forgotten encounter with Urd.
The shadows on the wall might have been just shadows.
Or perhaps not…
In the world of mercenaries and spies, even paranoia can be a form of lucidity.