Amelia Vance (The Unknown Series)

Chapter 5

Amelia Pov

The door shuddered under a heavy, deliberate kick. Silas wasn't asking anymore.

Amelia’s mind, a chaotic mess moments before, snapped into a cold, efficient grid. "Back of the apartment. Bathroom," she commanded, her voice low and clipped. "Stay low. Lock the door. Don't come out no matter what."

Leo stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief. "Amelia, what are you doing?"

"Living," she retorted, her eyes locked on the door. "Now go!"

She didn't wait for him to move. She was already at the kitchen counter, her movements a blur. The small knife was discarded for a heavier frying pan. Her hands, which had so gently held a coffee cup, now tested its weight, assessing it as a bludgeon. Her gaze flickered around the small apartment. The living room was a tactical nightmare. Too many angles, too many blind spots. She had to funnel them. She grabbed a heavy, wooden cutting board and the bottle of olive oil. With a quick, practiced motion, she upended the oil onto the floor just inside the front door. It pooled into a slick, deceptive puddle.

Leo was still frozen. He was a writer, not a soldier. This was a story he was only meant to observe. But Amelia wasn't letting him. She grabbed his arm, her grip iron-strong, and shoved him toward the bathroom. "This isn't an interview, Leo. This is my life. And you're in it now. Don't make me regret that."

He stumbled back, his journalist's brain finally kicking into gear. "What can I do?"

"Nothing," she snapped, but then she saw the desperation in his eyes, the unconditional trust. Her voice softened slightly. "Just stay safe. That's all I need you to do."

A sickening crack echoed as the door splintered. She pushed a heavy armchair in front of it, a futile barricade that would, at best, buy her a few seconds. She was alone, standing at the precipice of her past. She heard a small click as Leo locked the bathroom door. A pang of love, sharp and fierce, shot through her. It wasn't a distraction; it was her anchor. He was the reason she was fighting. Not just for her life, but for *this* life. The one with chess and quiet mornings and the way his laugh made her feel whole.

Silas's men stormed the apartment. The first one through slipped on the oil, his legs flying out from under him. Amelia didn't hesitate. She swung the frying pan, the clang of metal on helmet echoing through the small space. The second man, a bruiser with a thick neck, lunged at her. He expected the barista; he got the phantom. She sidestepped, moving with a grace that seemed to bend reality, and used his own momentum to send him crashing into the wall.

The apartment was no longer a home; it was a cage, and she was the predator.

She was fighting the man who had stolen her memory, the organization that had made her, and the ghost of the person she used to be. But with every parry and every blow, she wasn't just fighting for survival. She was fighting for the chance to have a future where she could be both Amelia the operative and Amelia the woman who loved Leo. This was the fight for her soul.