𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 ━━ catastrophic events
₊ ⊹☕˚୨

❝ do you know what that is? ❞

❝ why don't you tell me? ❞

The trip through time is disorienting, the world blurring and shifting around them before solidifying into what appears to be a large, 1950's style office. The Handler takes lead, guiding Shayan through the place, past various personnel in Commission uniform.

As they walk through the office, Shayan can't help but feel slightly bewildered by his surroundings. It's a weird mix of 1950s aesthetic and highly advanced technology, and the combination is disorientating. The people he sees milling about also add to the feeling, their uniforms and demeanor giving everything an air of regimentation and mystery.

The Handler catches his confused expression, and she smiles. "I can imagine it's a lot to take in," She says, not unsympathetically.

"I'd say.." Shayan mumbles.

They reach a pair of large, ornate doors at the end of one hallway. The Handler pushes them open, revealing a large, well-furnished office on the other side.

The walls are lined with bookshelves and a large wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, papers and files neatly arranged on top. The Handler gestured for Shayan to sit in one of the cushioned chairs in front of the desk.

Shayan complies, his eyes taking in the room with a mixture of confusion and wariness. The Handler takes a seat behind the desk, folding her hands on top of it.

"Now," She says, voice cool and businesslike. "We have a lot to discuss."

Shayan shifts in his seat, feeling acutely out of place. He's used to being the one calling the shots, making the decisions. But here, in this unknown time, faced with the unknown threat of the Commission, he feels off-balance, uncertain.

"As I said earlier, the Commission exists to maintain and protect the historical timeline," The Handler starts, watching him closely. "Any alterations, any deviations from the predetermined course of events, have unpredictable and potentially catastrophic consequences. Our job is to ensure that doesn't happen."

"By killing innocent people?" Shayan glares at her.

The Handler's expression tightens slightly, the first sign of irritation. "We only take extreme measures when we have to," She says, voice firm. "The safety of the timeline is paramount. If that means we have to eliminate a few people for the greater good, then that's a price we're willing to pay."

Shayan scoffs, disbelief and anger stirring in his gut. "You make it sound so clinical," He says, voice hard. "Lives aren't just numbers to be calculated and tossed aside for the greater good."

The Handler leans back in her chair, unfazed by his outburst. "In the grand scheme of things, they are," She says matter-of-factly. "This timeline has billions of interconnected lives, billions of threads intertwined to make up the whole. If we have to snip a few threads to preserve the weave as a whole, then it's worth the cost."

Shayan grits his teeth, his jaw clenched tight. The Handler's words are cold, callous, and they set his blood boiling. How can she just reduce lives to mere numbers? How can she be so heartless?

"I understand this is difficult for you to grasp," The Handler continues, a note of condescension creeping into her tone. "But you've killed before, surely you understand."

That hit a nerve. Shayan's heart thumps hard against his ribs, the painful stab of guilt twisting in his gut. Yes, he's killed, more times than he cares to count. But that doesn't mean he's okay with the idea of just discarding lives like useless pawns in a game.

The Handler senses his discomfort, his guilt, and she pounces on it, her smile sharpening. "Ah, I see," She says, faux-sympathy dripping with condescension. "There's guilt there, isn't there? Regret."

"Regret is a part of our biology. As soon as you lose the part of you that feels guilty you become no better than the people you kill." Shayan spits.

The Handler's smile doesn't waver. She seems almost amused by his outburst. "But what if I told you," She says, voice smooth, "That the people we eliminate are often far worse than we are? People who would cause untold suffering, death, and destruction if they remained in the timeline."

"Like my parents?"

The Handler tilts her head slightly, her expression shifting from cool indifference to a sort of patronizing curiosity. "Precisely like your parents," She confirms, voice a study in calm.

Shayan scoffs, "And what did they do that was so bad?"

The Handler leans back in her chair, folding her hands together. "Your parents were involved in actions that would have led to a significant deviation in the timeline," She explains, voice deceptively calm. "Their deaths preserved the balance, ensured that the timeline would continue on the predetermined path."

"Answer the fucking question."

Shayan's outburst makes the Handler's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of irritation passing through them. "Your parents were reckless," She responds, her voice cool and controlled. "They were willing to risk the stability of the timeline for personal gain. They had to be silenced before they could do worse."

Shayan's eyes narrow, a flicker of a smile passing over his face. "You don't know, do you?"

The Handler's composure falters slightly. "Excuse me?" She responds, the cool tone of her voice faltering for just a moment.

"You don't know what they did." he says. "You're not the top dog, not here anyway, you've got the confidence but you're more the middle man. Like a regional manager. Whoever's above your pretty little head doesn't tell you more than you need to know."

The Handler's eyes narrow further, irritation replacing her brief moment of confusion. "And what makes you think that?" She snaps, voice still controlled but a hint of anger seeping through.

"Your lack of information," Shayan counters, leaning forward slightly. "The way you sidestep my questions, the careful way you word your responses. You're not the one making the big decisions, you're just taking marching orders."

The Handler's jaw clenches slightly at his perception. Shayan can see the anger and frustration bubbling just beneath her cool surface. "Perhaps," She says after a moment, voice tight, "I'm just choosing my words carefully so as not to divulge sensitive information I'm not authorized to share."

"Please," he rolls his eyes. "I know you're kind. I step on your toes and you wouldn't hesitate to throw it back in my face. But you can't throw what you don't have."

The Handler's cool mask slips for a moment, and Shayan can see the flicker of anger in her eyes. She's not used to being challenged, he can tell. But she quickly composes herself, schooling her expression back into her usual cold apathy.

"Are you quite finished?" She says, voice carefully controlled.

Shayan shrugs, unabashed. "For now," He replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But I reserve the right to question the competency of your organization any time I please."

The Handler's eyes narrow further at his words, the muscles in her jaw clenching. "My organization," She says, voice carefully controlled, "Has been keeping the timeline intact for centuries. We've prevented catastrophic events, preserved history, and maintained the balance of the world. We don't need your approval, or your sass, to do our job."

"And yet I'm here, aren't I?" he smiles. "You came to me because I got too close. You need my help, you said so yourself."

The Handler bristles at his words, clearly not enjoying being reminded of her need for his cooperation. "Yes, we need your help," She acknowledges, voice tight. "But that doesn't mean you can question us at every turn. You're here to do a job, and your job is to listen and obey orders, not undermine the Commission at every step."

"I can multitask."

The Handler's eye twitches slightly at his response, her calm facade slipping momentarily. "I can see that," She says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "But perhaps it would be in your best interest not to push your luck. Remember why you're here, and who's holding all the cards."

Shayan bristles slightly at the thinly veiled threat, but he holds his tongue, realizing that pushing further would be unwise. For now, he has to play along. But that doesn't mean he can't undermine her authority in subtle ways.

"I don't know," he says after a moment, voice feigning indifference. "I quite like pushing my luck. It makes life more interesting, don't you think?"

The Handler's eyes narrow again, and Shayan sees the flicker of irritation in them. She clearly does not appreciate his attitude, but there's not much she can do about it, not without risking the cooperation he's grudgingly offering.

She takes a deep breath, clearly trying to regain her composure. "Just remember," She says, voice careful, "We both have something to gain from this partnership. And we're both capable of making it... unenjoyable, if pushed too far."

Shayan smiles, not missing the thinly veiled threat in her words. But he's not intimidated. He's used to dealing with powerful, dangerous people, and the Handler is no different, whether she has the backing of this mysterious organization or not.

Instead of responding directly, he just leans back in his chair, a small, amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll keep that in mind," He says, voice dripping with false sweetness.

The Handler's eyes flash with anger, but she restrains herself, clearly holding back her irritation. She clenches her jaw, her expression schooled back into its usual cool apathy. "Good," She says, voice tight. "See that you do."

The two stare at each other for a moment, the tension between them crackling like static in the air. They're both sizing each other up, neither wanting to back down. But then the Handler leans back in her chair, breaking the stalemate.

"Now," She says, her voice firm and businesslike once again. "We have a lot to discuss regarding your role here at the Commission, and the nature of your… assignment."

Shayan nods, schooling his expression into one of grudging attentiveness. He's not happy about being here, about being blackmailed into joining this mysterious organization, but he also knows he doesn't have much choice in the matter.

The Handler shuffles through some papers on her desk, pulling out a file and opening it. "Now," She says, her eyes skimming down the file. "There are a few ground rules we need to discuss. First and foremost, you are expected to follow orders without question or complaint."

Shayan can feel the irritation bubbling in his chest but he forces it down, knowing that arguing would be counterproductive. "I understand." he says, voice carefully neutral.

"Very good," The Handler says, seemingly pleased with his acquiescence. She scans the file again, her eyes flicking across the page. "You are also expected to maintain a high level of discretion at all times. Under no circumstances are you to discuss the Commission or your involvement in it with outside parties."

"Not a problem," Shayan replies, his voice a bit stiff. He's used to keeping secrets, and he doesn't plan on blabbing about the Commission to anyone, not even if they tortured him.

The Handler nods, continuing to scan the file. "Good. The third and final rule is that you are to report directly to me. You are not to work with anyone else within the Commission unless explicitly ordered to do so. Understood?"

"Understood," Shayan replies, his irritation growing with every rule she lays out. Working with the Handler is going to be a nightmare, he can already tell.

The Handler looks up from the file, fixing him with a cool, appraising gaze. "Excellent," She says, her tone implying anything but. "I think we understand each other now. You will, naturally, be compensated for your cooperation, but we expect a great deal from you."

Shayan resists the urge to roll his eyes again, knowing it would only amuse the Handler. "You mentioned this… assignment," He says, deciding to steer the conversation towards more useful territory. "What exactly does it entail?"

The Handler's eyes flick back down to the file, her expression becoming more serious. "Ah, yes," She says, her tone more businesslike now. "We will get to that soon enough. First, you need to go for a medical."

Shayan's eyebrows shoot up at this, surprise and irritation warring in his expression. "A medical?" He repeats. "Why do I need a medical?"

"It's standard procedure for all new recruits," The Handler replies, her voice matter-of-fact. "We need to assess your physical and mental health, make sure you're up to the task ahead. It's for your own safety as much as ours."

Shayan immediately registers the subtle shift in the Handler's gaze, her eyes darting to his hearing aids. It's a brief, almost imperceptible moment, but he catches it, his hackles rising slightly.

He can feel the defensiveness creeping up his spine, the instinct to snap at her obvious. But he holds his tongue, biting back the retort that rises to the tip of it. Instead, he just meets her gaze squarely, his own expression a careful mask of indifference.

The Handler, for her part, just pretends like she hasn't given his hearing aids a second glance. "Like I said," She continues, her tone brisk. "Standard procedure. You'll undergo a battery of tests, including a full physical and psychological evaluation. It's nothing to be worried about."

Shayan has to suppress a snort at that. Even if the tests are simple enough, the thought of having a bunch of doctors poking and prodding him, analyzing his every thought and feeling, is uncomfortable, to say the least.

But he knows arguing won't get him anywhere, not with the Handler. "Fine," He says, his voice tight. "When do I take these tests?"

The Handler glances down at her watch, a simple, digital device. "Actually, you're scheduled for them right now," She says. "If you'll follow me, please."

Shayan has to bite back a groan. Of course, they'd schedule it right now, like he's at the damn DMV. "Lead the way," He grumbles, not able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

The Handler nods, pushing back from her desk and standing up with smooth, graceful movements. She gestures for Shayan to follow her, then starts towards the door of the office.

Shayan rises and follows silently, his steps quick and purposeful. He doesn't want to be here any longer than necessary, and the sooner he gets this damn medical out of the way, the better.

The Handler leads him out of the office and down a long, sterile corridor. The walls are gray and bare, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. They pass several doors, each one labeled with a number. It's like being in a damn hospital, Shayan thinks, the thought not a pleasant one.

Eventually they come to a door that reads 'Medical Exam Room', and the Handler stops, turning to look at Shayan. "This is it," She says, gesturing to the door. "The doctor will be in shortly."

Shayan can feel the dread pooling in his stomach, but he nods anyway. He doesn't have a choice, after all. He just has to suck it up and do it. "Great," He mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can hardly wait."

The Handler just smiles, a cold, humorless smile. "Chin up," She says, her tone almost mocking. "I'm sure it won't be as terrible as you're expecting."

Yeah right, Shayan thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he just pushes open the door and steps inside the medical exam room. The place is just as spartan and clinical as the rest of the place, with nothing but a metal table in the center and various medical equipment lining the walls.

Shayan takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the next few hours of medical prodding. He moves over to the table and sits down, the metal cold and biting through his clothes. The room is silent, and Shayan can hear the quiet hum of the medical equipment, the sound like a constant reminder of his current predicament.

He fidgets for a moment, fingers drumming against the metal table. He glances up at the clock on the wall, watching as the seconds tick by. The doctor is taking their sweet time, it seems.

As Shayan waits, he pulls out a polaroid he'd taken a few months ago. He's not sure why, but he just needed to look at it right now. The picture is of Klaus and their big, German Shepherd, both of them grinning widely at the camera, joy radiating from every inch of them. Glory's tongue is sticking out in a goofy fashion, and Klaus's arms are wrapped around the dog in a tight hug.

Looking at the photo, the dread knotting in Shayan's gut eases slightly. Glory's big, goofy grin always makes him feel better, and Klaus's smile is infectious, even in a photo. He traces a finger over Klaus's face, a faint pang of homesickness in his chest.

He's jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening. He quickly slips the polaroid back into his pocket, turning to see who's entered the room. It's a doctor, a stern-looking woman in a white coat, a clipboard in hand.

The doctor gives him a clipped smile. "Mr. Shayan Nadeem?" She asks, her voice brisk and professional.

Shayan nods, pasting on a neutral expression. "Yeah, that's me," He replies, his voice cool and guarded.

The doctor nods, her eyes flicking down to the clipboard in her hands. "I'm Dr. Larson," She says. "I'll be handling your medical evaluation today." She moves over to him, flipping open the chart on the clipboard. "Now, let's get started."

The next few hours are something like torture. The doctor runs him through test after test, all of them more uncomfortable than the last. She looks into his eyes with a bright pen light, makes him open his mouth to look at his throat, and peers into his ears with an otoscope. She checks his reflexes, his heart rate, his blood pressure, his height, his weight, and just about every other conceivable part of his body.

Shayan lets the doctor poke and prod him, gritting his teeth through the annoyance. He's not a fan of needles, and the idea of getting a bunch of shots makes him wary. "What are those for?" He asks, as the doctor prepares another injection.

The doctor, Dr. Larson, looks up at him, her expression neutral. "These are boosters," She replies. "We're updating your immunizations to ensure you're protected from any potential biological threats you might face in the field. You'll need to come in every six months for these."

Shayan's suspicions only grow as the doctor continues to inject him. There's a sense of urgency in the way she's moving, in the way her usually cool demeanor is just slightly rattled. Plus, the amount of injections she's giving him seems a bit excessive for just routine boosters.

He keeps his suspicions hidden though, not wanting to rile up the doctor any more than necessary. But in his head, his thoughts are whirling, trying to figure out what's going on. Are these shots really just regular immunizations, or is there something more to them?

He tries to keep his breathing steady as the doctor finishes the last shot, bandaging the site with a strip of tape. "There," She says, her voice a little too forcedly casual. "All done."

Shayan nods, rubbing the spot where the needle was. It's sore, and the band-aid feels itchy. "Thanks," he replies, his voice tight. "Are we done, then?"

The doctor nods, picking up his folder. "That's all from my end," She says, her eyes scanning over the charts. "We'll need you to get some blood drawn in a few minutes, but other than that, you're free to leave."

Shayan nods again, relief flooding through him. Even if he has to get his blood drawn, at least the barrage of tests is over. "Great," He mutters, standing up from the table. "Can't wait."

Getting blood drawn after receiving boosters is a bit odd. Usually, blood work is done before any injections. But he doesn't want to arouse the doctor's suspicion further, so he just nods and swallows his questions.

A brief knock sounds at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in. "Doctor Larson," She says, her voice professional. "We're ready for the blood draw."

The doctor nods, setting aside the folder. "Excellent," She says, gesturing for Shayan to follow them. "This way, Mr. Nadeem."

Shayan follows the doctor and the nurse out of the room, the knot of dread in his stomach growing tighter. He's not sure why, but the idea of having his blood drawn, right after getting a slew of mysterious shots, is making him nervous.

Still, he doesn't show it, keeping his expression neutral as he's led into another room. It's similar to the first, sparse and clinical, with another metal table in the center.

The nurse gestures for him to sit on the table, so he does, his heart rate increasing a bit in spite of his efforts to remain calm. "Roll up your sleeve," The nurse says, her voice brisk.

Shayan does as he's told, rolling up his sleeve and holding out his arm. He looks away as the nurse ties a tourniquet around his upper arm, the sight of the tight rubber band making his skin crawl.

Shayan's eyes flick towards the small, black camera in the corner of the room, his breath catching. He hadn't noticed it before, his focus had been on the nurse and the doctor. But now it's there, obvious and intrusive, watching his every move.

He swallows hard, a wave of unease washing over him. He's suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is, stuck in this cold, sterile room with a needle poised to draw his blood. And knowing that every second of it is being recorded on video? It's making his skin crawl.

He tears his gaze away from the camera, refocusing on the nurse as she sanitizes the inside of his elbow. The smell of rubbing alcohol fills the room, sharp and almost comforting in its familiarity.

The nurse positions the needle, her movements swift and practiced. "This might pinch a bit," She says, her tone detached.

Shayan doesn't even flinch as the needle slides into his arm, the slight pinch barely registering. He's used to things like this, having given blood countless times before in his Navy days.

But the sight of his blood pooling into the vial still makes his stomach churn a bit, the dark, red liquid sloshing against the clear glass. He looks away, focusing on the blank white wall across from him, counting the seconds in his head as the nurse collects sample after sample.

Finally, the nurse pulls the needle free, pressing a piece of gauze against the spot where she withdrew the blood. "There you go," She says, her tone almost cheerful. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Shayan shakes his head, pulling his sleeve back down. The gauze on his arm is already blooming with a small red spot, the blood seeping through the material. "Yeah," He mutters, his voice flat. "Piece of cake."

The nurse gives him a tight smile, then steps away, capping the vials of his blood and setting them on the counter. The doctor steps forward, taking the vials and securing them inside a labeled bag.

"Alright, Mr. Nadeem," The doctor says, her tone brisk. "We're all done with the medical evaluation. You're free to go."

Shayan stands up from the table, his legs a bit shaky. The whole experience has left him feeling a little off-kilter, and the lingering soreness from the shots doesn't help. "Thanks doc," He mutters, rolling down his sleeve and hiding the blood-soaked gauze.

The doctor nods, walking over to a small cabinet and locking the bag filled with Shayan's blood samples into it. The nurse follows after her, closing the door and ushering Shayan out of the room.

Shayan's eyes flick up to the ceiling as they walk, realization dawning. There are more cameras in the hallway, small, inconspicuous things tucked into the corners, watching them as they move. Like he needed another reminder that he's being scrutinized, every moment of his life here under intense surveillance.

The thought makes the knot of dread in his stomach grow tighter. He's used to cameras being a part of his life working for the government, but the sheer amount here is intimidating. It makes him feel like he's constantly on-show, like every move he makes is being watched and recorded.

He turns away from the cameras, trying to push the thought out of his mind. But he can still feel their gaze on him, like an unscratchable itch. It's a reminder, a constant one, that he has no privacy, no secrets, not here.

The walk back to the Handler's office is silent, the only sound the quiet click of the doctor's heels against the tile. Shayan keeps his eyes forward, his mind still spinning. He can feel her eyes on him from time to time, her gaze sharp and assessing.

When they arrive at the office, the Handler is waiting for them. She looks up from her desk as they enter, her expression neutral. "Everything go as expected, Dr. Larson?" She asks, arching an eyebrow as she looks at Shayan.

Dr. Larson nods, her demeanor cool and professional. "He's in good health," She reports. "The medical evaluation went smoothly, and he responded well to the immunizations. No adverse reactions to report."

The Handler nods, her gaze raking over Shayan like he's a specimen to be dissected. "And the blood draw?"

Shayan can't help but wonder again about the purpose of it all. They'd taken so many vials, way more than they needed for standard blood work. What were they planning to do with his blood?

The room lapses into silence for a moment, the tension palpable. The Handler is still eyeing him like she can read his thoughts, and Dr. Larson's body language is stiff, her usual cool demeanor faltering a bit.

After a moment, the Handler finally spoke, her voice crisp and commanding. "Thank you, Dr. Larson," She says, dismissing the doctor with a wave of her hand. "You may go now."

Dr. Larson nods, her face betraying a flicker of something that could almost be relief. "Of course," She replies, then turning and exiting the room, leaving Shayan alone with the Handler.

As the door closes behind the doctor, the Handler leans back in her chair, her dark gaze fixed on Shayan. "Sit," She says, gesturing towards the chair across from her.

Shayan obliges, seating himself in the chair and doing his best to look nonchalent. His mind is still going a mile a minute, the unease and confusion from the medical wing still lingering.

The Handler leans forward, resting her forearms on the desk. Her gaze never wavers, watching him like a hawk. "Now, Mr. Nadeem," She says, her voice smooth and controlled. "How are you feeling, after your medical evaluation?"

Shayan shrugs, trying to sound casual. "I'm fine," He replies, his voice a little hoarse. "A bit sore from all the shots, but otherwise alright."

The Handler nods, her eyes never leaving him. "I'm glad to hear that." There's a hint of a smile on her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure the immunizations were a bit uncomfortable, but they were necessary. We have to make sure you're protected from any potential biological threats in the field."

Shayan can practically hear the unspoken words in her voice. He's not just here to be protected, he's here to be controlled. These immunizations, the blood test, it's all part of the plan to keep him in line, to make sure he's compliant and under their control.

Shayan's gut is screaming at him that something isn't right about this situation. The more the Handler talks, the more he's certain that these injections weren't just standard pre-mission immunizations like they said. They feel too heavy-handed, too premeditated.

Shayan swallows down the unease, shoving it deep beneath his cool exterior. He can't show any sign of weakness, not now. There's too many eyes watching, too many unknown factors to deal with.

The Handler seems pleased with his silence, her thin smile widening. "Excellent," She purrs, leaning back in her chair. "I'm glad you're being so cooperative, Mr. Nadeem. It means this assignment is going to go much smoother."

Shayan just nods, his mind racing. He has so many questions, so much that he wants to say, but he knows better than to speak. The less he gives away, the less they can use against him.

The Handler laces her fingers together, her gaze never leaving his face. "You know, Mr. Nadeem," She says, her voice deceptively casual. "I was quite impressed when I read your file. You have an impressive record, especially for your age."

The Handler leans forward, her expression growing serious. "But there was one thing that stood out to me," She says, her voice lowering slightly. "Do you know what that is?"

Shayan has a feeling he knows exactly what she's talking about, but he plays along anyway. "Why don't you tell me?" He replies, his voice carefully controlled.

The Handler's smile widens slightly, and Shayan has the distinct impression she's enjoying this. "Your discharge from the Navy," She says, her voice a clear challenge. "It was... less than honorable, wasn't it?"

Shayan tries not to react, but he can feel his jaw tightening. This is exactly the angle he knew she was gunning for. "Yeah," He replies, his tone clipped. "It was."

The Handler's eyes gleam, like she's trying to see through his steely exterior. "Mind telling me why that was?" She asks, her voice deceptively mild.

"I was dishonorably discharged because I didn't follow orders," He says, his voice taking on a cold edge. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The Handler's smile doesn't falter, if anything it widens. "Ah, the old 'insubordination' excuse," She muses, almost pleasantly. "They really don't like it when their soldiers think for themselves, do they?"

Shayan doesn't answer, his jaw tightening again. She's trying to bait him, to get him to lash out. And he's not about to give her the satisfaction.

The Handler leans back in her chair, her gaze raking over him. "Why didn't you follow your orders, Mr. Nadeem?" She asks, her voice a soft purr. "What was so important that you felt the need to disregard your superiors' commands?"

Shayan keeps his expression neutral, but the question hits a raw nerve. He knows damn well what he was doing, but he's not about to spill his guts in a top secret facility. "It's private," He says, his voice as cold as ice. "You don't need to know."

The Handler's eyes narrow slightly, her smile turning sardonic. "Oh, I don't need to know, do I?" She asks, her voice dripping with condescension. "You think you're the only agent with secrets, Mr. Nadeem? That I don't have access to your file, to every little detail of your past?"

"Then find out yourself, and stop wasting my time." he says calmly. "I'm tired, and I'd like to get this shit over with, so is there somewhere I can sleep or is the floor available?"

The Handler’s smile falters for a second, clearly not expecting that response. Her gaze flicks over him, assessing. Then, she nods. “You’re dismissed for the night. You’ll find that the quarters on the second floor have been set up for you to rest and acclimate.”

Shayan feels a wave of relief wash over him. He'd been bracing for more questions, more push, more manipulation. But the Handler had backed down, at least for now. He stands up, feeling the weight of her gaze on him as he exits the room.

"You'll be sent a few suits and a briefcase in the morning that you will use for each and every assignment, as well as a new codename. The briefcase is to be kept on your person at all times, understood?" The Handler says.

Shayan turns to face her once more. "Understood," He replies, his voice flat. The last thing he needs is more gadgets he has to manage on the job. But he knows better than to argue.

The Handler nods, her expression cool and professional again. "Good. Now go get some rest. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow."

Shayan doesn't respond, just turns and exits the office, closing the door behind him. He feels a mixture of relief and unease at the same time. He's glad to be away from the Handler and her questions, but he can't shake the feeling that there's something bigger going on here, something he's yet to uncover.

As he makes his way up to his quarters, his thoughts are racing. He needs answers, he needs to know what he's gotten himself into. But right now, all he can do is sleep and prepare himself for tomorrow's mission. And whatever it might bring.

The room he's been given is plain but functional. It's nothing fancy, just a bed, a desk, and a small dresser. Shayan takes a quick look around, his eyes scanning the room methodically.

He checks the corners, the ceiling, under the desk and the dresser, looking for any sign of a camera. But he finds nothing. It's possible that they're hidden, but if they are, they're damned good. There's no obvious signs of any surveillance equipment in the room.

Satisfied that he's alone, Shayan starts to unpack the few things he had. He doesn't have much, just a few changes of clothes and some personal items. He stows them in the dresser and the closet, then sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling tired.

Shayan's thoughts go immediately to his fiancé, Klaus. He wonders if Klaus is aware of his sudden disappearance. He wonders if he's worried, if he's trying to contact him, or if he's heard anything from the guys. He feels a pang of guilt, knowing that he can't reach out to him, can't reassure him that he's okay.

The thought of Klaus not knowing what's happening, not knowing if Shayan is even alive or dead...it's a dagger in his heart. He'd give anything to be able to talk to him, to let him know that he's okay and that he'll be back soon.

Shayan is aware of the fact that he needs to find some way to manage his emotions. He knows that he can't let his feelings for Klaus cloud his judgement on the assignment, that he needs to stay focused and objective. He takes a deep breath, trying to push his thoughts of Klaus to the back of his mind.

Shayan thinks about writing letters, even though he knows he won't be able to send them. He knows that sometimes, the act of writing down your thoughts and feelings can be therapeutic, even if no one else ever reads them. He imagines what he would say to Klaus, how he would try to reassure him and tell him everything will be okay.

He knows it won't be the same as actually talking to him, but it might give him some small comfort. And it'll give him something to do, something to focus on besides the mission.

With that idea in mind, he pulls out a pad of paper and a pen from the desk drawer and starts to write, pouring his thoughts and feelings into each word.

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© TOO SAD TO CRY