Chapter 1
The night didn’t start with a knife at my throat. It started with the sound of shattering glass.
It was 2:00 AM. The world was supposed to be asleep, but in the Monroe household, the sun never set on a grudge. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, watching my parents roar at each other like lions over a fresh kill. Except the "prey" in this scenario was me.
A glass ornament smashed against the floor near my boots, sending jagged shards dancing across the hardwood. Real anger management, Mom.
"What are you guys doing?" I asked, my voice flat, intentionally draining it of the adrenaline spiking in my chest.
My father turned. The purple vein on his forehead was throbbing—a telltale sign that he was at his breaking point. "Jaz, go to your room."
"I’d love to," I shot back, gesturing to the glittering mess on the floor, "if Mom hadn’t just turned the hallway into a minefield."
"Lower your tone, Jasmine," my mother warned, her eyes flashing with a cold, professional fire.
"Lower *yours*! I’m sick of the screaming. What is it this time? Is AEGIS on 'burn' mode again?"
The silence that followed was heavier than the shouting. My mother’s shoulders slumped, a rare crack appearing in her porcelain mask. "Yes," she whispered, then found her voice again. "Yes. We’re shutting down every black site. Twenty-four agents gone in one night, Jaz. And that’s not counting their families."
The air left my lungs. Twenty-four. I regretted my snark instantly.
"I have a solution," my mom interjected, her voice low and desperate. "But—"
"No! She is too young!" my father cut her off.
"She’s been training since she could walk, Arthur! It’s the only way to stop Veleno."
Veleno. That name was a ghost from my childhood. I was six when I first heard it, right before they handed me my first wooden training blade. For the rest of the world, AEGIS didn't exist. We were the shadow behind the FBI, the weapon the USA kept under its pillow at night. Your mailman? Could be an agent. The clown at your fifth birthday? Probably checking the perimeter for wiretaps.
And Veleno was our nightmare. A multi-billion dollar "medical supply" front that actually dealt in blood, lead, narcotics, and weaponized secrets. If they had compromised our agents, we weren't just losing a war. We were being erased.
"A new team?" I broke in, a dry, hysterical laugh escaping my throat. "College students? Led by *me*? You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking."
My mom stepped forward, her eyes burning with a messianic fervor. "A new generation, Jaz. No digital footprint. No files for Veleno to hack. Think of it, Arthur... a single candle that can light up the whole city."
"But she’s our daughter. It’s dangerous out there. I can’t go through all of this again," my dad said, his voice hollow. "You can find another candle, but my daughter will not become another pawn in your sick chess game," he said, his voice surprisingly stable.
”But she’s the last candle I have, Arthur!” mom shouted.
"And that candle is blowing itself out," I snapped. "I’m nineteen. I’m just trying to survive my sophomore year at NYU. I am not leading a suicide squad."
"This could save everyone, Jasmine! We could erase Veleno—"
"Forget it, Mom! It’s your war, not mine."
I turned and bolted upstairs before they could see my hands shaking. I didn't pack a bag. I just grabbed my leather jacket and my keys. Five minutes later, I was back downstairs, dressed for the night.
"Where do you think you're going?" my mother hissed.
"Out."
"It’s two in the morning!"
"Then consider this my first undercover mission: Operation Get Away From You." I slammed the heavy oak door behind me, ignoring her screams of "Jasmine Monroe!" that echoed down the driveway.
I kicked my motorcycle into gear, the engine’s roar drowning out my thoughts. I headed for the only place that felt real: a 24/7 karaoke bar in the grungiest part of town.
Call it a cliché, but screaming Conan Gray lyrics into a cheap microphone is the only thing that keeps me from becoming the killing machine my mother wants me to be. I’ve lived a double life since I was a kid. Nobody else could ever understand the specialized kind of torture this is. Having to double-check my rearview mirror on the way to my pre-law classes just to shake potential tails isn't exactly the typical college experience.
I was halfway through a song when I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck.
A figure was leaning against the far wall, shrouded in black. Total cliché. A normal girl would have called the cops. I tried to do the "normal" thing, but my phone chose that exact moment to die.
Fine. If there’s no way out, you pull the "dumbest-cleverest" move in the book. I paid my tab and walked straight into the dark alley next to the bar.
Idiotic? Maybe. But I was one step ahead. I ducked behind a dumpster, pulled my Glock from my waistband—don't ask—and waited.
I expected him to come from the street. Instead, a hand clamped over my mouth from the shadows behind me.
No smell of chemicals. Just a heavy, expensive cologne that made my stomach flip. I thrashed, but he was like iron. He spun me around, pinning me against the brick wall. I couldn't see his face—he was wearing a tight balaclava that concealed everything except his eyes and the slight hint of bronzed skin around them.
But those eyes... they haunted me instantly.
One was a deep, earthy brown. The other was a piercing, icy blue.
He leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. "Bold move, *cara*," he whispered, his voice sending a strange shiver down my spine.
Then, he shoved me. Hard.
My head hit the pavement with a sickening crack. Colors swirled. My vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of gray and black. By the time I managed to push myself up, clutching my throbbing skull, he was gone. No footsteps. No trace. Just the lingering scent of his perfume.
I checked for blood. Dry. But the internal damage was already done. I considered the hospital, but they’d call my parents, and I’d rather have a brain bleed than see my mother’s "I told you so" face.
In the best-case scenario, I’d just die. It would certainly save me a lot of paperwork.
