⟾ 3 | PLAY WITH FIRE

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Y/N 💥

Monday, 11:53pm

_

"YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT," Millie said, "you know your parents will kill you if they find out."

If anything was for certain, it was that I didn't care about my parents. Sure, they 'birthed' me—or my mom did, though I don't really feel like going into the specifics—but they didn't raise me. In fact, I'm not sure I was even supposed to be born.

They didn't bother telling me.

Not that I bothered, anyways.

The dark expanse of the Ash hideout was the darkest place in London, it seemed. I won't tell you the exact coordinates, obviously, because that would be a daft decision, but I can tell you it's somewhere you wouldn't expect. Some place where the wind always seemed to slip through the cracks and freeze my skin right off with how chilly it was every night.

Looking up from the blinding light of my computer, I noticed Millie's disappointed face illuminated like a beady-eyed ghoul in the quiet space. I hated that look—it reeked of 'you're dumb, and you know it'—but in her defense, she had a right to use it this time.

"Maybe my parents won't have to find out," I shrugged, leaning back into my chair, "they barely pay attention to anything but each other."

Millie frowned. "Someone knows you exist now."

"Clearly."

"A Secret-Intelligence Agent."

"With arrogance issues."

"But when it all boils down to it," she said sharply, rising onto her feet, "it doesn't matter who he is as a person, it matters that your stupid decision puts our organization in danger."

She was right. It was a stupid decision.

But I enjoyed it.

I was surprised the dimwits down at the Secret Intelligence Service didn't pick up on the suspicious 'anonymous' tip-leaver, because it was, indeed, the most suspicious thing ever. I suppose they got too excited getting the first lead on my family in months to care.

But it wasn't really a lead, obviously, it was a trap. I staged the whole thing—the hired guards, the meat factory, the slipping through the shadows just because I liked the look on that man's face when he thought he was hallucinating—for the sole reason of quenching my boredom.

Yes, of course I was bored.

I was living in some twisted version of Rapunzel, locked away by cruel adults for the sake of 'my protection'. I don't think I touched grass until I was five. The memory is vivid—got sick as soon as I stepped outside, because I wasn't used to bacteria in the outside world. I met Millie when I was sixteen, a new recruit to the Ash organization, and we'd been friends ever since. She was good with technology, I was good with fire.

In other words, she could take down a city with a hard drive and a flip phone, but I'd just burn the whole place down with a match. But we aren't going to do that. We may be criminals, but we aren't reckless. London was just as much as our home as it was to any poor soul living here.

"I can't believe you," Millie sighed, "you should have killed him when you had the chance."

Hearing those words made me stifle a laugh. "And miss all the fun?"

"What fun?"

"This fun," I grinned, pointing at my computer. It was opened to the email tab, displaying the previous messages with Louis Partridge from a few minutes earlier, "he's like a dog, Mills, I'm going to have him playing fetch for the rest of his life."

He was pathetic, honestly.

Louis 'best in my station' Partridge was an amateur in plain sight, because I had him in my trap the minute he stepped through those warehouse doors. In truth, maybe he wasn't lying—some heavy research told me he had an impressive history in the SIS, not that I cared, but still—maybe he just hadn't met someone like me.

Someone who could beat him.

And his flaws were decided the second he underestimated me. I could see it in his eyes, standing below me as I pointed a pistol straight at him. He wasn't scared, he was amused. A girl with a gun? The glint in his expression made it seem like he thought it was the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

Well, he's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. Him and his bloody brown hair, his sharp suit, and his posh accent. He was a privileged jerk who knew how to catch criminals, but I wasn't going to let him catch me.

"I don't see why you bother with a man," Millie frowned, distaste glowering over her eyes, "you could burn all of London down if you wanted to."

"He's an Agent, not a man."

"He's both."

"No, a man is human," I said, crossing my arms against my chest, "an Agent is nothing but a cardboard soldier made to serve a corrupt system."

The hypocrisy I was showing was evident, but that wasn't my argument. I get it—by being part of a criminal organization, I was serving a corrupt system of my own, but I never said I wasn't—and this Partridge man was too blind to see the truth for what it actually is.

But here's the truth: why am I doing all of this? Why am I going out of my way to make secret rendezvous, detailed plans, and interventions? It wasn't just because I was bored, it was because I was angry.

'The Ash Duo'—that's what the world knew my Parents to be.

But they never knew about me.

And I wanted to change that.

"Let's play a game, then," I smirked devilishly, beginning to pace around the dark room, "I'll give him twenty days to catch me, but if he doesn't, I'll kill him then."

Millie rolled her eyes. "Your parents won't like that."

"Your point being?"

"If they find out you're trying to toy with the other side, you'll never see sunlight for the rest of your life."

"I have a tendency to blow things up," I shrugged, "the rest of my life might not be long, darling."

Leaning over my computer, I snatched a thin card out of the pocket of my blazer, holding it up to the faint light. Louis Partridge—Agent 725, British, above average in height, arrogant, outlandishly attractive, embarrassing, definitely not the best in his station, jawline sharper than the knives I carry around in my pocket—but pathetic nonetheless. 

I took his card as a warning.

I was put on this earth for a reason, and that's to watch it burn. I've known since the moment I found a box of matches behind the kitchen counter, and I've known since I learned how to spell my own name—Ash, the aftermath of the fire. It was in my blood. It was in my mind. And it was a lighter in my hands.

Louis Partridge was just another stick in the haystack that I was about to set ablaze. He meant nothing to me, he meant nothing to anyone, but he was a useful step in my plan to show the world who I was.

Slipping a lighter out of my pocket, I flicked on the gas tick and held the burning flame up to the corner of the ID. I didn't care for men like him. I didn't care what they thought of me, or what they thought of the world. I set my own rules. I played my own cards. 

And in the darkness of my room, I watched as the badge of Louis Partridge burned, and burned, and burned until it was nothing but a black page of embers. He wanted to play with fire, but I was more interested in playing him. He was a step in my plan to freedom.

The Ash Duo will be no more.

And [y/n] Ash will soon prevail. 

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