Chapter 1
The Simulation
Wind howled across the rooftop, sharp and dry like the breath of some invisible beast. Brett pressed his back against the concrete wall, gun drawn, chest heaving with short, panicked breaths. Sweat slipped down the side of his temple, stinging his eye.
A blast rang out—
POW. POW.
Bullets punched the air beside his head, shattering a pipe just inches from his skull.
He flinched, instinctively ducking lower. Fingers trembling, he dared a glance around the edge of the structure. The helicopter on the rooftop’s far end was starting to lift off, its blades slicing the sky in a deafening whir.
Inside—strapped, gagged, wide-eyed—was Reagan. Her wrists were tied with industrial cable. She kicked against the floor of the chopper as if it would matter.
The man beside her didn’t even glance down. His attention was all on Brett, a cocky grin curling under a thin black mustache.
“You’re too late,” he called out over the roar. His English accent was thick and theatrical—like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “I have everything I need to destroy the world.”
Then he laughed. A long, drawn-out cackle that didn’t belong anywhere but in a comic book.
Brett’s jaw clenched.
He lined up the shot.
No more running. No more screwing up. This was it.
He pulled in a breath. Time slowed. The wind stopped. His finger tightened—
BOOM.
The shot rang out like a firework.
Reagan’s head snapped back.
Her body slumped forward.
The chopper door yawed open, and her lifeless form tumbled out, limbs slack. Her skull hit the pavement five stories below with a sickening crack.
Blood spread like spilled paint.
The world froze.
Even the villain stared, eyes wide. “What the bloody hell?!”
Brett’s arms dropped.
“I—” His voice caught in his throat. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean—”
The scene began to shimmer. Buildings flickered. The rooftop pixelated. The sound of the helicopter glitched and stuttered like a broken game cartridge.
“Cut!” a voice barked from above. “Turn it off. Now.”
The whole city dissolved into blackness.
Brett stood alone on a metal platform. Only the cold air remained.
A door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh. Footsteps clapped across the steel floor.
Rand Ridley entered the simulator room holding a tablet, his face unreadable.
He stopped three feet from Brett and tilted his head.
“You shot my daughter in the head.”
Brett swallowed.
“Well… yeah, but I’d like to think I was doing pretty good up until that part, don’t you think?”
Rand’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s a human pancake.”
He turned the tablet toward Brett. On the screen was a frozen frame of Reagan’s crumpled body, twisted in a pool of blood.
“I wouldn’t call that pretty good,” Rand said flatly. “I’d call that fail number three.”
He turned toward the exit, the door sliding open again with a hiss. “You’re not ready for a solo mission. Better luck next year, kid.”
Brett stood there, still clutching the useless prop gun, heart thudding like a war drum in his ears.
