UNDERCOVER HOUSEWIFE

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Camila woke with a dull ache in her lower back and a headache that pounded just behind her eyes. She rolled over with a groan, hoping to steal a few more minutes of sleep, when a sudden metallic clang at her door jolted her fully awake.

“For f*ck’s sake,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “Who the hell is it now?”

She pushed herself up from the sheets, eyes squinting at the soft morning light bleeding through the heavy blinds. Her voice was hoarse when she called out, “Come in.”

A moment later, a soft mechanical beep echoed as the door opened. Three women entered, dressed in long white linen robes that looked strangely ceremonial. One of them, an older woman with deep creases at the corners of her eyes, spoke in a formal accent.

“Madam,” she said, bowing slightly. “We are here to give you your body massage.”

Camila blinked. “This some kind of pre-death ritual or what?”

The women remained silent, only offering kind, practised smiles. Camila sighed, dropped back against the pillow, and gestured lazily toward the bed.

“Fine. Get on with it.”

They worked in silence. Warm oils. Gentle pressure. Fingers kneading sore muscles that had been wound tight for years. Camila wanted to resist enjoying it—but her body gave in. Her legs unclenched. Her back loosened. Her eyes fluttered closed.

But her mind refused to rest.

Is this what dying heroes get? A spa day before hell?

By the time they were done, she was too relaxed to complain, but her tongue was still sharp. “Thanks. If I survive this, maybe I’ll hire you full-time.”

The women bowed, packed their supplies, and left.

Camila stretched and glanced at the clock. Barely 8 a.m. A knock came again.

“Oh, what now?” she muttered.

She pulled on a robe and opened the door. A young agent, barely out of college by the looks of him, stood nervously with a silver tray.

“Breakfast, ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Room service?”

He nodded and handed her the tray. Without a word, he turned and left.

She closed the door and placed the tray on the table.

The scent hit her first. Fluffy scrambled eggs. Buttery toast. Grilled chicken. Fresh fruit. Real coffee, not the motor oil they served in briefing rooms. She let out a snort.

“Wow. Free spa, now gourmet breakfast? What’s next, a beachfront retirement home before the bullet hits?”

She ate, standing up, chewing slowly, mind racing.

They’re really buttering me up.

She finished half the plate, then paced toward the desk. A clean notepad sat there. A fountain pen. And a sticky note in neat handwriting:

> For your thoughts, if you want to clear your head. – Caleb

She stared at it. Rolled her eyes. Sat down.

She started writing.

To Mom:

I don’t know if I’ll come back. But if I don’t, please forgive me. I’m doing this for you. For Edna. I just want you to breathe without pain again.

To him:

We were going to get married. But I’ve been absent, haven’t I? Always chasing ghosts, coming home with blood under my fingernails. Maybe you’ll find someone clean. Someone who can sit beside you and not flinch at loud noises.

Her hand trembled. She folded the note. Tucked it under the tray.

Then her phone buzzed.

Her heart jumped. She snatched it.

Edna.

She answered instantly. “Edna?”

“Aunty… it’s Mom. She’s—she’s better today. She asked for tea. She sat up and even smiled. Said she missed your voice.”

Camila sat down hard.

“She’s—she’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Edna whispered. “At least right now. I gave her your medicine routine and—she’s resting now.”

Camila’s eyes welled.

“Put her on.”

Seconds later, her mother’s frail voice came on the line. “Mi hija… still saving the world?”

Camila laughed through her tears. “Always. But I’m tired, Mom. I'm really tired.”

“You’ve always been strong.”

“I just want you to get better. That’s all.”

“You do what you have to. I’ll be waiting. I always wait.”

She didn’t know what else to say. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

The line clicked.

Camila wiped her eyes.

She knew how it went. One minute, her mom was asking for tea. The next, she was coughing blood.

It never lasted.

She stared at her phone.

She typed:

I’m in. Tell me where to start.

But she didn’t send it.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room.

A folded black tactical jumpsuit lay neatly over a chair. Her boots polished beside it. Her name tag sewn in across the chest. Her old life. Her old skin.

She flopped back onto the bed, her phone still glowing in her hand.

Eyes wide open. Heart pounding. Muscles are still twitching from the massage. And the message is still unsent.