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—𝟎𝟎𝟐.- ʜᴏᴡ ɪ ᴍᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ—

𝓗𝓪𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻 ☾☼

      I can't breathe.

The air in the Mishkin dining room is too thick, suffocating. I feel it pressing against my chest, heavy like the velvet curtains that line the walls. This whole place looks ridiculous. Or maybe it's just that I hate this whole city. 

The low hum of conversation echoes around the room, punctuated by the clinking of crystal glasses and polished silverware. Every face at this table wears the same mask—detached, controlled, as if they aren't the heirs to empires built on blood and betrayal.

I'm one of them, technically. 

I'm 18 years old and I still haven't quite figured out the world I belong to. That can't be good. 

The room is a sea of cold, calculating eyes—the sons and daughters of the world's most powerful men and women, gathered together like a pack of wolves dressed in designer suits. I know their names. I know their stories. We've all been bred for this, raised with the same expectations to take over the reigns of power when the time comes. And yet, I feel like a stranger here, suffocating in the pretense, the lies, the weight of what we're supposed to become. 

Why can't it be easy? Why does it feel so difficult to just be like them? Careless. Perfect. 

It's not just the people in here. It's everything—the chandeliers overhead that flicker like dying stars, the polished table that seems to stretch on for eternity, the endless supply of wine that no one dares to indulge in too heavily. The Mishkins have curated every detail, crafted every moment to radiate control. Perfection. 

I can't breathe.

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white as I fight the urge to stand up and leave. To escape. My mind is buzzing, a cloud of restless, uninvited thoughts that swirl around, darkening with every passing second. It's like a storm inside my skull, flashes of memories I try to push back—the training, the relentless drilling, the missions I can't speak of, and the weight that comes with knowing what I've done, what I've been forced to become. I can feel Nazeera's eyes on me, but I can't give out any explanations right now. 

I glance around the table. To my left, Lena leans in close to Warner's ear, whispering something that makes her laugh in a weird and secretive way, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. Warner seems unfazed, as always. But he still tries to keep the politeness. Everyone here does, everyone's playing their part. Everyone but me. I'm barely holding it together.

I need to get out. I can't be here.

I push my chair back quietly, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor while all the eyes move curiously to me. I murmur something about needing air under their gazes. My voice sounds distant, like it doesn't belong to me, but no one seems to care. They're used to me excusing myself, disappearing into the night when I can't handle it anymore. 

I'm too weak. 

But as I stand, I make the mistake of glancing across the table.

My father.

He's watching me. His face is unreadable, as it always is, but there's something in his eyes that makes my skin crawl. That familiar look—disappointment. He doesn't say a word, doesn't even move, but the weight of his gaze feels like a chain around my neck, dragging me down.

I look away quickly, my chest tightening as I turn on my heel and head for the door. I tell myself not to care. Not to let it get to me. But the knot in my stomach twists painfully as I make my way out of the dining room, through the endless corridors of the Mishkin estate, each step heavier than the last. His look is burned into my mind, like it always is.

I push open the door that leads to the garden, and the cold night air hits me like a slap to the face. But it doesn't help. The suffocation follows me out here, too. It's inside me. I take out the pills. I don't know how many I take, I don't know if I take three or five, but I know I can't wait a second longer for them to work.

Everything here is too perfect. Every flower, every hedge, arranged with precision, like it's all part of some sick game of control. I walk deeper into the garden, my feet moving of their own accord, needing to get as far away as possible from the weight of that room. The further I go, the more the thoughts swirl, dark and chaotic, clawing at my mind. It's always worse when I'm alone.

The endless hours of training, the missions that took more than just my time. They took pieces of me. Each one chipped away at something I didn't even know I had left until I looked in the mirror one day and didn't recognize the person staring back. Every bruise, every scar, every nightmare feels like a permanent stain on my soul, and no matter how far I run, they always catch up with me.

It's been months since I've slept through the night. Since I've woken up without feeling like I'm drowning in my own skin. The nightmares are always the same—dark rooms, faceless men, orders whispered through radio static, and the sharp crack of gunfire that always echoes long after I've woken up. I try to forget, to shove it all into the corners of my mind, but it never stays there. It creeps out when I least expect it, like now, in this perfect, pristine garden, far away from the blood and dirt, but somehow, I feel it all over me.

I stop by a statue of some forgotten figure, cold marble staring down at me like it has all the answers, and I lean against it, trying to catch my breath. But my chest is tight, like there's a vice around my ribs, and my pulse hammers in my ears. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. 

God, I'm so tired. 

I can't keep doing this.

And then I hear it.

A sound, soft and broken, cutting through the suffocating silence around me. Crying. It's a girl—her voice fragile and trembling.

I stop, the sound pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. For a moment, I just stand there, frozen, listening. The sobs are quiet, almost swallowed by the garden, but they're unmistakable. And there's something else—words, whispered between the tears. I know the language. French.

"Pourquoi est-ce que je fais toujours ça... pourquoi..." (Why do I always do this... why...)

Something in me shifts. It's like her voice pulls me from the abyss, grounding me in a way I wasn't expecting. I don't know why, but I feel like I know her. Or like I should know her. It's an absurd feeling, but it won't go away. I take a step forward, moving through the perfectly arranged garden, drawn toward the sound of her voice.

She's sitting by the fountain, her body curled in on itself, shoulders shaking as she cries. The moonlight spills over her blonde hair, turning it silver, almost ethereal. She's small, crumpled like a broken doll, her voice quieter now but still filled with a sadness that cuts through me like a knife.

"Pourquoi est-ce que je finis toujours comme ça ? Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait pour mériter ça?"  (Why do I always end up like this? What did I do to deserve this?)

I stand there, hidden in the shadows, watching her. I should leave. I shouldn't be here. But I can't move. There's something about her, something that pulls at me, and all I want to do is get closer. To know more. Who is she? Why is she crying? And why do I feel this... this strange thing I don't even know what to call it. 

I feel dizzy. I think I've taken too many pills. Great.

I take another step forward, the gravel crunching softly beneath my feet, and she freezes. For a second, I think she's going to turn around, and a part of me wants her to. I want to see her face. To know who she is.

But before she can move, I hear another voice. Sharp, cold, cutting through the night.

"Where the hell are you?!"

Lena.

"I've been calling you for over 5 minutes. For hell's sake, can you come out of hiding?" 

Her voice is harsh, commanding, and the girl jumps to her feet, wiping her face with quick, shaky hands. I still can't see her face, only her back as she stands there, stiff and tense like she's bracing for a blow.

Lena finally sees her. But she can't see me from here. I should really leave. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to it. I'm still waiting, waiting for something. Her name, anything. My vision starts to blur. I don't understand what's happening. 

Lena's voice warps, twisting like it's coming from underwater, hollow and stretched. I can barely make sense of her words, but they echo, bouncing around the garden in strange, fragmented loops. The moonlight flickers, casting everything in uneven, shifting shadows.

I try to focus on the girl, desperate to hold onto her, but she's blurring, slipping from view. I reach for her, my hand stretching out, but it's like she's already fading, slipping into the darkness. I clench at the air, fingers curling around nothing.

The garden twists, bending in on itself, and I feel myself being yanked out, pulled away by something I can't fight.

"S—"

I wake up. 

Too soon, perhaps.

Suddenly. Heavily. Just like every goddamn time. 

I wake up before I can hear her name. Before I discover her name. 

The room is dark, my sheets tangled around me like they're trying to suffocate me. I'm drenched in sweat, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to break free from my chest. My breathing is ragged, like I've been running for miles, and it takes me a few seconds to realize where I am.

It was just a dream. That dream.

Again.

Frustration surges through me. I clench my fists, feeling the weight of my pulse in every fiber of me. Her name—her name—it's always just so out of reach. The dream keeps coming back, tormenting me with pieces of a memory I can't fully hold. And with each time, I feel myself slipping further, like I'm losing my grip on something vital.

What the hell is happening to me?

I sit up in bed, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream. But it clings to me, vivid and sharp, like a memory more than a dream. A memory I shouldn't have.

It's been haunting me for weeks now—this same scene, playing out over and over in my head. I always find myself in that garden, hearing her cries, feeling that strange pull toward her. But I never see her face. I don't even know if I want to.

Because it wasn't just a dream. It was real.

I remember it—pieces of it, at least. I didn't know who she was then, and I still don't. But for some reason, my mind keeps dragging me back to that moment, making me relive it in excruciating detail.

It's been haunting me for weeks. The same scene, replaying over and over. And each time, it feels more real. More... important.

But why?

I don't even know this girl. Yet, it's starting to feel like an obsession. And that terrifies me.

And now, in the dream, there are things I didn't remember before. Lena's voice. The girl's name. God, I don't even know her name. I didn't even see her face. Who is she? 

And now suddenly all I know is that her name starts with an "S". And still, I'm not completely sure of that. Maybe I'm just making things up out of desperation. Wait, no. I'm not desperate about her name. Or her. Or anything that has to do with that night. 

Right. It's just my subconscious playing a trick on me. 

I don't even know her.

Or do I?

     "𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐋-𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓?" Nazeera's voice echoes through the breakfast room, the sound of her laughter sharp and clear, it could easily be heard even in the North Pole. 

I've never seen her laugh like this. She's been at it since sunrise, practically folding in half every time she manages to get the words out. Every time I think she's about to stop, she catches her breath, looks at me, and starts all over again. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, my patience wearing thin. "I blame myself for telling you," I mutter, not bothering to hide my annoyance. I know Nazeera well enough to understand that once she's latched onto something, she'll run with it until there's no breath left in her lungs.

"Haider, this—this is just—" she gasps, clutching her stomach like it physically pains her to laugh this hard. "Wallah, testahal tiziedha idam," (Honestly, she deserves a raise for that line alone) "If anyone else had the guts to talk to you like that, they'd be dead by now." She wipes a tear from her eye, trying to calm herself down, though the amusement still dances on her lips. "You have to admit," she says between her giggles, "she hit a nerve."

Ma sawaat shay." (She didn't do anything.) I shoot back, staring down at my coffee like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. "She was just... mistaken."

"Mistaken?" Nazeera raises an eyebrow, her grin widening. "So, you're saying you're not a towel-wrapped Casanova?"

I can't help the slight twitch of my lips, but I smother it quickly before she notices. "No, I'm not. And I'm regretting every second I thought you were capable of empathy."

She waves off the jab with a dramatic flick of her wrist, still far too pleased with herself. "Honestly, though," she says, more serious this time, though her eyes still gleam with amusement, "I'm glad this has distracted you a bit."

I glance up at her, seeing the shift in her expression. She's still laughing at my expense, sure, but there's something softer behind it, a hint of relief. She's worried about me. I can see it in the way her shoulders relax just slightly, in the way she keeps looking at me like she's waiting for some sign that I'm better, that I'm not on the edge of the abyss like I was last week.

I shrug, not really knowing what to say. The truth is, I do feel a little better. But not because of the girl or the ridiculous situation I found myself in. It's just... different. A small shift, like the weight I've been carrying has lightened, if only for a moment.

Before I can say anything, the sound of footsteps interrupts us.

Warner enters the room, his presence commanding as always, though he moves with the quiet precision of someone who's spent years making sure he never disturbs the space around him. He's been here for over a week now, ever since Nazeera called him. She never told me what she said to him, but whatever it was, he got on a plane and showed up without hesitation.

He's never said a word about it. About why he's here. About why he's staying. We don't talk about the reason I was bad enough for Nazeera to call him. He just... came. And for that, I'm grateful.

"Good morning, habibi."

"Apologies for the delay," he says, his voice smooth and composed. "I had to take some important calls."

I glance up briefly as he moves toward the empty chair across from me. "Important calls?" I ask, though I know better than to pry too deeply. Warner doesn't share anything unless it serves a purpose. Still, something in his tone piques my curiosity.

Nazeera leans forward. "Is something wrong?"

Warner sits down gracefully, taking his time as he pours himself a glass of...water. Yes, right, he doesn't drink coffee or tea or any other similar thing. "My father," he begins, and already I can hear the tension beneath the calm surface of his voice, "has suggested that I hire someone—a soldier—to assist me with my work. Someone prepared to handle classified information while I focus on the... upcoming mission. The problem is that it seems like there's no one prepared enough. And I don't have the time to waste on a search." By his tone, I know he's not happy with the idea of someone helping him with his work. In fact, he doesn't like anyone to help him with anything.

His words hang in the air for a moment. Maybe this is the reason he has been more distant lately, and here I thought it was so he wouldn't run into Lena. But I sometimes forget that he's always been like this. Too secretive for his own good. Even with his friends Warner keeps his walls impossibly high. It's always been like that with him—controlled, secretive, locked away in his own head.

I've never really tried to push past that. Because the truth is, Warner doesn't trust anyone. Not fully. I can count the number of people Warner cares about on one hand. The fact that he's here at all is... something. But maybe I'm just overthinking everything. Yes, that must be it. We have known each other since we were children, of course we're friends.

"You mean he forced you to accept, don't you?" Nazeera asks, her smirk widening as she leans back in her chair. "Your father doesn't exactly make suggestions."

Warner's lips twitch, but he remains composed. "It's not negotiable," he admits, his voice cool. "He believes it will make things... more efficient."

"What kind of 'efficiency' are we talking about?" I ask, my tone casual, though I can feel the tension building. Warner's work is always more dangerous, more secretive than ours given the fact that he's a CCR, and anything involving his father is never simple. Especially when it comes to sensitive documents.

Warner's gaze flicks toward me for a moment, then away. "I can't afford to be distracted by trivial matters. Not in the next months."

"And what's the problem?" Nazeera asks, her voice light but her gaze sharp. "I believe there are plenty of soldiers who would die to have that position."

Warner's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, his icy composure flickering. He looks away, just for a moment—quick, almost unnoticeable—before his gaze settles back on her. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's something in his eyes that betrays him. Unease. Maybe even frustration.

"It's not about finding someone prepared," he says quietly, his tone clipped. "It's about trust. And I can't trust anyone with my work—it's not the kind of thing I can just hand over to anyone."

Nazeera tilts her head, curious. "Trust? Aren't these soldiers