Project Atlas

23:00

"Alex, I'm a spy."

The 11pm bells from the church nearby reverberated through the chilly Dublin air as I made my way home, my heels clicking a lonely rhythm against the pavement. I had been working late, my clandestine efforts to access my boss's office thwarted at every turn.

"I'm a spy!" I thought again, longing to confess this truth to Alex, my handsome neighbour. I first met Alex when he moved into the apartment next door. Our initial encounter was serendipitous, sparked by a simple mix-up of mail. His easy laugh and sincere apology over the confusion had broken the ice, leading to a short, pleasant exchange in the dimly lit hallway. Since then, our interactions had been sporadic but friendly, often a brief exchange of pleasantries outside our doors or in the building's lobby.

These lonely walks home gave me too much time for tortured thoughts. Like how desperately I wanted to confide in Alex, to just be honest for once. But of course, I couldn't tell him. Not only would it be against every rule in the book, but most men would find the truth about my life intimidating, perhaps even terrifying. Would Alex be one of them? The thought made me smile wryly. No, I didn't think so but either way, I knew that secret would stay with me.

I was deep undercover at one of the city's sprawling social media firms, a place teeming with data and secrets, and it was my job to unearth connections that could lead to the darker underbelly of international espionage. I'd spent months building my cover identity, becoming 'Alison, the social media strategist', and as an EIA agent, I needed to maintain this fascade.

The European Intelligence Agency, or EIA, was a new frontier of intelligence born from the need for an integrated European response to the intricate web of modern threats.

As I reached my apartment building, the familiar, somewhat comforting sight of the aged brick facade greeted me. I stepped into the lobby, its faded elegance a stark contrast to the high-stakes world I navigated daily. The lift dinged open, and I stepped inside, the doors closing with a gentle thud.

It was here, in the small, mirrored interior of the lift, that I allowed myself a moment of reflection — both metaphorically and literally. I met my own gaze in the mirror. The woman staring back at me had strawberry blonde hair, pulled back to keep it out of my way, framing a face many considered attractive. At 23, my years with the army and agency had changed me, but my dancer's physique still carried the grace and strength of my teenage years.

I knew the looks and whispers that followed me in the agency's corridors. My appearance and youth often led to underestimation, but I was determined to prove I was as tough as they came. During my time with the Irish Ranger Wing, I had undergone training with the British SAS — experiences that forged me into a formidable agent, at least in theory. So far, I hadn't had much to do other than to do my cover work for Pathway, the world's fastest-growing social media platform.

The lift chimed, announcing my arrival at my floor. The doors slid open, and I stepped out into the hallway, my reflection disappearing as the lift doors closed behind me. The brief moment of introspection was over, and I was back in the world of dimly lit corridors and secrecy.

Yet, as I entered my apartment, a sense of unease washed over me. The eerie silence was a glaring anomaly, one that set every nerve on edge. It was the kind of quiet that preceded storms, a stillness that screamed of danger. Something felt off. That's when I heard it — the almost imperceptible creak of a floorboard from the living room. Someone was here.

I stepped out of my heels and slid off my coat, moving silently on the balls of my feet, every sense straining for the slightest hint of movement. My hand instinctively went to the small firearm concealed at my back, a comforting weight against my palm. I advanced, each step deliberate, avoiding the usual creaks and groans of the old wooden floor.