The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that sounded far too cheerful for a place like this. Floor 57 was not labeled on the directory in the lobby, and no one but high-clearance operatives ever spoke about what went on above Floor 50. Elise Marlowe stepped out, heels clicking on the matte black tile, coat fluttering behind her like a shadow she no longer tried to outrun.

At the end of the hall, a glass door sat ajar. No nameplate. No guards. Just the subtle hum of a filtration system and the metallic tang of tension in the air.

She pushed the door wider.

Inside, a single man sat at a steel table beneath a stark fluorescent light. He looked up as she entered, fingers steepled, expression unreadable beneath the scar that bisected his left brow.

“Elise,” he said, voice like velvet stretched tight. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She closed the door and leaned against it without taking a seat. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? You and I both know we’re not here for small talk.”

His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Still direct. Good. Saves us both time.”

He slid a thin folder across the table. Its cover was stamped with a silver insignia—an hourglass, shattered. She didn’t move.

“What is this?”

“You already know.” His voice lowered. “The Silver File. The last mission. The one they wiped from your record—and your memory.”

Her throat tightened. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

She moved slowly, like someone handling a bomb she remembered disarming once, in a dream. When her fingers brushed the folder, something inside her recoiled. Flashes—blood on marble, a cry through static, a man’s eyes going wide before glass swallowed him whole.

She opened it.

Inside were photos. Notes written in her own hand. A key card with her thumbprint embedded in the polymer. And a single line in bold ink:

"Asset compromised. Termination authorized—Marlowe, E."

She felt her knees weaken.

“You signed off on me,” the man said, rising slowly. “Four years ago, you ordered my death. And then they made you forget. Neat little trick.”

“I—” Her voice cracked, unheard. “Why tell me now?”

He came around the table, placing a data stick beside the folder. “Because I want you to remember. Not the version they gave you. The real one.”

Her hands trembled. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or rage, or both twisting together like old roots.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

He studied her. “Redemption. Or revenge. Either works. Just choose before midnight.”

And then he walked out.

She stood alone in that quiet room, the hum of the lights pressing in like guilt, staring down at the version of herself they’d tried to bury. The Silver File pulsed under her fingertips like a heartbeat.

And somewhere deep inside, the old Elise stirred.

---

End.