Chapter 1: The Masquerade Begins

Edith

The alarm blares insistently, dragging me from the clutches of sleep. I groan and reach out to slap the snooze button on my ancient alarm clock. Rolling over, I reluctantly open my eyes, greeted by the soft morning light filtering through my curtains.

With a sigh, I throw off the covers and sit up, stretching my arms above my head. Another day, another masquerade. I swing my legs out of bed, my feet landing on the cool hardwood floor—time to get ready for work.

My "internship" at Cameron Jones Associates (CJA) is what pays the bills—or at least, that's what I tell my parents. In reality, it’s where I execute missions and steal government secrets under the guise of legal work. The irony isn’t lost on me—pretending to be a lawyer while breaking the law. But in this twisted world, it’s just another day at the office.

I shuffle to my closet, the scent of my parents' cooking drifting up from the kitchen below. I'm 27 years old (too old to live with my parents) and they... won't let me leave. Ever since my baby brother died 20 years ago my parents have been breathing down my neck. I can't say I blame them; I was 7 he was 5, and he would've been 25 last month. His death still hurts, it hurts every hair on my head, to every time I stub my toe. I remember that this could've been him, could've been his life, but the thing is it's still my life.

Choosing my outfit for the day, I opt for a sleek, professional look—a black pencil skirt paired with a cream blouse and a tailored blazer. I tie my long brown hair into a neat updo, securing it with a few pins. As I glance in the mirror, I assess my appearance: mid-tone skin, hazel eyes, and a relatively good build. I may not look like your typical secret agent, but that’s the point.

Downstairs, I find my parents sitting at the breakfast table, engrossed in the morning news. Calum, my father, is of ancient Croacarian descent. He is tall and ruggedly handsome, with a strong, angular jawline and piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through to the heart of the matter. His hair is a sandy blond, kept short and neat, adding to his air of authority. Margie, my mother, is a vision of warmth. Her heritage goes back to Jalazcán, and it's reflected in her features and vibrant personality. She has rich, dark hair that falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face adorned with soft brown eyes that sparkle with kindness and wisdom. Her skin is a warm olive tone, with a natural glow that speaks of her inner joy.

They’re discussing the latest political developments in Croacari, the country we call home.

I grab a quick bite to eat—my mother's famous pancakes—before heading out. The news is buzzing with reports of unrest in the city and tensions escalating between rebel factions and the government. The threat of civil war looms large, but for now, life in Oaksrner seems relatively calm.

Stepping out into the crisp morning air, I inhale deeply, letting the familiar sights and sounds of my neighborhood wash over me. Oaksrner is a bustling city, alive with energy and activity. People hurry past me on the sidewalk, lost in their worlds.

I fall into step with the crowd, blending in seamlessly as I make my way towards CJA. The building looms ahead, a nondescript office block nestled among others. I push through the revolving doors, steeling myself for another day of deception.

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Zain

My eyes snap open at 5:00 a.m. a groan leaving my lips, the sound of my alarm echoing through my sparsely furnished apartment. I don’t need it; my body has been trained to wake up at this ungodly hour for years. Rising from the bed, I stretch, feeling the familiar ache in my muscles.

I make my way to the small home gym I’ve set up in the corner of the room. Exercise is my sanctuary, my way out of actually being present for the early morning hours. I push myself through my usual sets, the burn in my muscles grounding me in the present.

After a quick shower, I dress in my usual attire—a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and a tailored suit jacket. My black hair is neatly styled, and my grayish-blue eyes glint with determination as I check myself in the mirror. I may not be a morning person, but I refuse to let anything less than perfection leave this apartment.

Springcannon, the city I call home, is still asleep as I step out onto the streets. The early morning air is cool against my skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the day. I walk with purpose, the rhythm of my footsteps echoing in the empty streets.

Hemingway Industries looms ahead, a towering structure of glass and steel. It’s a far cry from the modest apartment I call home, but it’s where I belong. My father, Austin Callahan, is a senior partner here, and he’s made sure I have a place in this world, whether I want it or not.

I push through the revolving doors, the familiar hum of activity greeting me as I step into the lobby. Hemingway Industries is a hive of activity, a well-oiled machine of innovation and ambition. And I am its reluctant cog.

With a deep breath, I steel myself for another day of corporate espionage and cutthroat competition. This is my world, my reality. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

K.M. Strunk