The Ex Files: Get You Back

Yelena’s New Chance

Seven Years Earlier

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

Yelena was supposed to be receiving her cut from the operation, counting crisp bills in the low light of a back alley. Not this. Not this eerie white room. The silence was so suffocating. For twenty years, her world had been full of constant noise full of the chatter of syndicate operators, the sharp clink of hardware, the high-pitched hum of generators on the city outskirts.

But now, there was nothing. Only the frantic rush of blood in her ears, the soft beeping of a machine attached to her arm, and the unsettling thought that if she blinked, she'd hear the flutter of her own eyelashes. The silence was too loud.

Yelena sat like a ghost, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. How much blood did she lose? Her mind was too numb to care. She stared at the nothingness, her body heavy with exhaustion, every muscle screaming from the past few days. Her eyes were dull and lifeless, her face a too-sharp mask framed by a mop of brown hair. She was twenty years old, and the life she had known... was over? The question hung in the air.

Was it yesterday? The day before that? She couldn't tell. What she could recall, however, was the searing intensity of the fire that swallowed the streets she grew up in. She remembered the people around her, so frantic and scurrying to hide, their faces a blur of fear. And then, the utter helplessness of being caught, a blur of red and black that swallowed her whole.

She got caught. Yelena’s caught. How did that happen?

A click echoed from the hallway, the door swung open, then a man walked in. Yelena followed him with her eyes, her fists clenching subconsciously, a reflex she couldn't turn off.

The air around him was thick with authority and justice—a terrifying combination she didn't know how to deal with. He was the antithesis of the people who raised her. This is the exact man she was taught to abhor and fear. Yet, there was something in his posture, a stillness that hinted at a deeper power that went far beyond what she could comprehend.

Her eyes fell to the nameplate on his chest. General Peter Thorne. This was the third time she'd met him, and she'd be justified to lash out. He'd led the ruin of the only home she'd ever known. But then again, he was the one who'd bailed her out of the bars. His presence commanded a reverence that even she, a ghost of a girl, couldn't disregard.

"How are you feeling?" his voice was deep and steady. Almost comforting, if she didn’t know any better.

"I don't understand," she ignored his question, her voice a raspy whisper. Yelena wasn’t sure if she was the one speaking. "You got me out. Why? Why did you bring me here?”

"I know," he said, voice baritone. "And I'm not here to ask you to understand. Not yet. I'm here to offer you a choice."

He pulled a chair across the floor with a low scrape and sat down, his posture radiating a calm authority that only made her feel more on edge. It was so alien and scary.

"You're Yelena March," he stated, not as a question, but a fact. "No documented family. No education. We have files that say you've been a ghost, operating in the shadows since you were a child." He leaned back, his eyes unwavering. "Your mission was a textbook example of poor intelligence. Your entire organization was compromised. The operation was a ruse to lure out the heads of your organization, the people you called… Georgia and Ted. They called themselves your parents.”

Yelena's breath hitched. A fresh wave of shock washed over her. Right, right. Georgia and Ted. They were her family. They had been her parents since she could remember. A label born out of society’s need for categories. The closest one she’d ever get.

Yelena knew she was kept because she was useful. But those people were the ones who had shaped her into the weapon she was today, the ones who had taught her to trust no one, to be a ghost.

"They aren't my parents," she said, the words a jagged confession.

Thorne gave a single nod. "We know. They were your handlers. Your mission to intercept the middleman was a decoy. A plan to ensure you'd be the one left behind to face the consequences. They knew we were coming.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "They left you to rot."

He could see it in her eyes—the understanding dawning. They had trained her, groomed her, and then abandoned her. She was nothing more than a pawn in their game. Just a disposable asset.

"It is how it is. It’s how we move. You just happened to finally close all their exits,” she grunted, an old, bitter cynicism she'd learned years ago rising to the surface. It was how the world worked. It was how she worked.

"We knew you were the most valuable asset they had," Thorne continued, his voice softer now. "The moment we saw your work, we knew you weren't like the others. You were ten steps ahead of every one of my men, even with a flawed plan. We're not here to judge you, Yelena. I want to give you a choice."

He laid a white folder that contained a lifetime of her records in the table. "You can go back to prison, where you'll be for the rest of your life…Or, you can choose to fulfill your potential. You can come work with me."

Yelena met the older man’s eyes, hers wary but laced with a glimmer of something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

Honestly? The decision was not a difficult one. The life she had known was a lie, and the silence in this room was a promise of a future where she could finally breathe. It was a trade—her freedom for her allegiance, her past for a second chance.

Yelena March took the chance and kept it for her own.

The following year was a blur of rigorous training, a brutal rehabilitation of both Yelena’s mind and body. Luckily, she was a quick learner and her past helped her in speaking a new language—a language of military protocol and team hierarchies.

She was taught their technical rules, but they couldn't break the habits of a lifetime. Her methods were ruthless and her instincts were honed for survival, not teamwork. She was a weapon forged in the dark, and even in the newly-found light of the task force, Yelena always had a feeling she was always going to be a lone wolf.

A year of rehabilitation and the first phase of training had ended.

Yelena's stomach churned as she looked out the window of the armored transport, nearing the Task Force Chimera base. It wasn't a military barracks, but a brutalist fortress of concrete and steel, its clean lines are too foreign of a sight to a girl who had only ever known the crooked alleys, the underground bricks of the city, and the medical facility that became her home for the past year.

The sun was up and the air in the base was so crisp that bit at Yelena's lungs. It is definitely the opposite of the grimy, smoke-filled air she'd breathed her whole life. It made this place feel completely alien, like everything else in her life at the moment.

The armored transport shuddered to a halt, the pneumatic hiss of its door opening a gentle sound. A tall, grim-faced agent with the build of a linebacker stood waiting.

“Uhm,” Yelena blinked, waiting for an instruction. But the dude said nothing, simply motioned for her to exit the vehicle. She obeys and he leads her through wide hallways bathed in natural light.

Yelena whistles as she looked around. The walls were a uniform (but not impersonal) shade of gray.

The wall glasses made the place look so sophisticated and wide.

This place was a fortress, but a meticulously designed one. They passed countless secure doors, the soft hum of filtered air the only sound.

He stopped in front of a door marked "Quarters 4B." Yelena perked up when the guy spoke. "General Thorne is in a meeting. You will remain here until you are called for," he stated, his voice a flat monotone. Geez, not even a smile?

He watched her for a moment longer before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

Yelena looked at the space, setting her bag down. The room was sparse: there’s a cot, a small desk with a chair, and a locker... she thinks. Maybe a cabinet. Depends on who looks at it. Overall, it was minimalist and functional. The sheets were white and the floor was polished wood. Very clean and silent.

Her instincts screamed at her not to stay in one place. She recalls the instruction: “You will remain here.”

In true Yelena fashion, she stands up and walks to the door. Remain here, my ass.

She had to move, had to learn the layout of this new prison, find the exits, the weak points. She had to understand this place before it could understand her.

The girl slipped out into the hallway, moving with the practiced silence of a ghost. She went deep into the heart of the complex, navigating the maze of identical corridors until a new sound reached her—a faint crackle.

Gunfire.

It was the most familiar sound in this alien place. It was a siren's call, and she followed it to its source, the noise growing louder and more distinct with every step a percussive rhythm. It led her to a set of heavy, steel doors. Yelena peeked before entering.

The gun range was alive with the crack of shots. A handful of young agents, all new recruits, were lined up at various stations. Yelena slipped past them, aiming to just observe. When suddenly, her attention drawn to the target at the far end of the range.

"Hey, what's your name? We haven't seen you around here before."

Yelena's eyes flickered to the girl who had called out. She had her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, and her expression was one of genuine curiosity. Her friends were beside her, also looking at Yelena, their gazes filled with curiosity.

Yelena's mind went blank. Name? She opened her mouth, a confused "Uhhhm." escaping her lips. Should she tell them? Would it be wise?

The girl squints. "Never mind that," she said, realizing Yelena's discomfort. Her eyes flickered to the target at the far end of the range, a complex hostage-taker simulation. "Do you think that target is even hittable? None of us were able to."

Yelena glances at the far erected target.

And she thought…well, why not?

She walked to the end of the line, picked up a standard-issue pistol, and slid the ear protectors over her ears. Her movements were fluid and practiced, her posture was low and predatory, a cat ready to spring.

But a military observer would have found her form a sin. She didn't plant her feet shoulder-width apart. Instead, her stance was low and predatory. She didn't use the three-point sight alignment the recruits were drilled on. She took a deep breath, and fired a series of three shots. They didn't hit the bullseye. They were grouped perfectly, one after the other, between the simulated vertebrae of the paper target's spine.

A low murmur of genuine awe rippled through the other recruits. She felt a thrill bubble up in her chest that is immediately stepped on by a voice that broke the impressed crowd.

"Your posture is all wrong."

Yelena turned around. Her eyes met a man leaning against a post, his arms crossed, and his gaze sharp. He was tall, with a confident, almost arrogant posture that spoke of a lifetime of privilege. Blonde hair contrasted with his dark eyes who gazed at her with scrutiny.

"My posture," she said, her voice dry as dust, "got the job done."

Yelena knew this guy. Callum Riley, the golden boy of Task Force Chimera. Thorne had mentioned him a couple of times, always in a tone of paternal pride. Probably a typical arrogant protégé. The man was handsome in a way that pissed her off. He’s got that quiet confidence that had never been tested in the streets, for sure.

"We don't shoot to kill a target," Callum said, gesturing to her shredded target. He glanced at the other recruits watching them with open curiosity, as if to lecture them all at once. "We shoot to stop a threat. Center mass. Two shots, then reassess. It's protocol. Your technique is a liability in the field."

"What if the threat is wearing body armor?" she countered, her voice sharp. "What if they're in a crowd? Your protocol gets people killed. My way, they drop. End of story."

His easy smile dropped, replaced by a scowl. "Your way gets you kicked out of the corps. And a bullet in the back when you don't check your corners."

The recruits watching share amused glances at their exchange.

"I don't need to check my corners," she said, her eyes cold. "I know how a room is going to clear. I know how a man is going to move."

Callum took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low tone. "That's where you're awfully, incredibly wrong."

The space between them crackled with a cold, contained fury. Yelena's eyes, wide and daring, held his gaze. She didn't flinch.

“Wanna bet? Most hits in sixty seconds." She nodded to the row of pristine targets, a silent dare hanging in the air.

Callum raised a brow, a calm smirk replacing his scowl. "If it'll show you the efficiency of your ways, then so be it."

Yelena didn't hesitate. She grabbed a fresh pistol from the rack, her jaw set.

They entered the shoot-house, the live-fire simulation beginning the moment the door sealed behind them. Her fingers buzzed with the familiar rush.

Callum moved like a ghost—methodical, his posture textbook, his feet quiet as he cleared each corner and engaged every target with two clean shots to the chest. Show-off!

Yelena, however, was a force of nature. She flowed through the targets. She used the walls not for cover but to ricochet, her gun held at an awkward, low angle. She ignored the center mass, her shots striking with brutal precision: a headshot, a shattered kneecap, a bullet lodged in a simulated spine. Her movements were chaotic and unpredictable, every shot was a complete violation of every rule, and yet, every single target dropped.

They met at the center of the kill house, their barrels still smoking.

A tie.

"What's going on here?" Suddenly, a voice so deep, and authoritative cut through the thick tension they built. Every head in the gun range snapped to attention, except theirs.

Their eyes locked in a silent promise of what was coming next. Their rivalry had just begun.

Yelena's first day on Task Force Chimera had cost her dearly, ending not with an assignment, but with a mop, a few days of janitorial duty, and the company of Callum freaking Riley.