Chapter 2: The Chameleon
1528 Words
“Did you hear about the soul-bonding thing?” a woman asked as she and her companion strolled through the alley, unbothered by the dangerous surroundings.
Sylvia, crouched in the shadows, chewed on an energy bar she’d stolen from a roadside vendor, her coat’s side pockets stuffed with the day’s haul.
“What, that weird love thing people are talking about?” the second woman replied.
Sylvia’s ears perked up. She leaned in closer, careful to stay hidden in the darkness.
“They’re saying it’s real. When two people are truly in love—soulmates—they can hear each other’s thoughts, feel each other’s emotions.”
The other woman snorted. “Sounds like nonsense to me.”
Sylvia frowned, something stirring deep in her. It didn’t sound like nonsense. It sounded . . . familiar.
“Doesn’t happen to everyone, though,” the first woman continued. “Both people have to feel it. Real love, they say. And it takes time—years, sometimes—for the bond to form.”
Later that night, Sylvia couldn’t shake the conversation from her mind.
Could that be what she was experiencing?
She’d never heard anyone else talk about being able to read minds. But if soul-bonding took time and love, then what she had wasn’t that. Hers didn’t need love. It didn’t require years of connection. She didn’t even need the other person to know she existed. All it took was an emotional pull—fear, pity, anger, desire—and she could hear their thoughts. The stronger the emotion, the clearer the voice in her head.
Sylvia wrapped her arms around her knees, staring up at the stars. Whatever this was, it wasn’t soul-bonding. It was something else. Something that made her unique.
Nine Years Later
Sylvia adjusted the wide-brimmed hat on her head, her heels tapping softly as she scanned the grand lobby, noting the security guards by the entrance, the cameras in the corners, and the sleek reception desk.
Her lips curled into a small, confident smile. This was where she belonged—among marble columns and expensive suits.
Across the room, her target emerged: Senator Gerald Worthington, flanked by two aides. His mind was an open book, thoughts swirling with stress about the upcoming election and a scandal he was desperately trying to keep quiet.
°If anyone finds out about those offshore accounts, I’m finished.°
'Music to my thoughts.'
Sylvia walked confidently toward him, and as she passed, she “accidentally” stumbled, brushing against his arm.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice sweet and apologetic.
Worthington barely glanced at her, muttering, “No harm done.”
But she wasn’t finished.
“Wait,” Sylvia said, her tone shifting. She tilted her head, feigning curiosity. “You’re Senator Worthington, aren’t you?”
The senator turned, his expression softening. “Yes, I am. Have we met?”
“No, but I’ve seen your speeches,” Sylvia said, her smile warm and engaging. “You’re incredible. Truly. It’s so inspiring to see someone fighting for what’s right.”
Flattery always worked. She could already see his ego inflating, his thoughts shifting to pride.
“I appreciate that,” he said, his tone more pleasant now. “It’s always nice to meet someone who believes in the cause.”
Sylvia nodded, faking a keen expression. “Oh, absolutely. Your work is so important. In fact, I’d love to contribute to your campaign. If I could just have a moment of your time . . .”
By the time she left the building, she had everything she needed: access to the senator’s private schedule, details about his campaign fund, and the name of the shell company hiding his offshore accounts.
~•~
Over the years, Sylvia had built a reputation in the underground world. Whispers spread about a young woman who could get into anyone’s head, who knew your secrets before you even realized you had them. She was a ghost—untraceable and unstoppable.
They called her 'The Chameleon'.
Her biggest jobs had made waves—an art collector swindled out of priceless paintings, a tech billionaire tricked into wiring half a million dollars to a fake charity, a pharmaceutical CEO blackmailed into “donating” millions to an anonymous account.
But no one could prove anything.
At twenty-one, Sylvia was no longer the girl scraping by in alleys or living out of a duffel bag.
She had a luxurious apartment in the city, her closets filled with designer clothes, and her bank accounts overflowing. Her aliases were all sophisticated, and her disguises flawless. Gone were the days of barely surviving—she was thriving, and elegantly so.
And yet, she wanted more. Something more challenging. So, Sylvia began targeting influential figures—politicians, CEOs, socialites. She attended galas, charity events, and private meetings, blending seamlessly into their world.
Her gift made it easy. All it took was one touch, one conversation, one play of trivial emotions, and their thoughts became hers. She learned who they trusted, who they feared, and what skeletons they kept hidden.
But with every high-stakes con, the risks grew.
One night, not long after her successful con on the senator, Sylvia had finished another job that left a hedge fund manager short $300,000. She sat in her living room, sipping champagne as she flipped through TV channels, her legs stretched out on the plush velvet sofa.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
She frowned. Only a few people had this number.
Picking it up, she saw an unknown caller ID. For a moment, she debated ignoring it, but curiosity got the better of her.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, then a low, measured voice.
“Impressive work with Senator Worthington.”
Sylvia froze, her grip on the phone tightening.
“Who is this?” she demanded, her voice firm.
The voice chuckled. “Someone who’s been watching you. Don’t worry, I’m not the police.”
Her stomach twisted. “What do you want?”
“To meet. I have a proposition for you—something bigger than anything you’ve ever done before.”
Sylvia’s mind raced. She hated being caught off guard, hated the feeling of being one step behind. But whoever this was, they knew too much.
“Fine,” she said after a long pause. “Where?”
The line went dead.
Sylvia stared at the phone, her heart pounding in her chest. Whoever this person was, they weren’t just guessing. They knew too much about her. A feeling Sylvia hadn’t experienced in a long time began to creep over her . . . Fear.
Days Later
Sylvia stared at the burner phone on her kitchen counter, her jaw clenched. The call from the mysterious voice had been two days ago, and she still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a setup.
Someone who knew about the Senator Worthington con wasn’t just “watching.” They were investigating.
Sylvia had dealt with risks before—paranoid marks, angry victims, even small-time detectives—but this felt different. Bigger.
Whoever it was, they weren’t bluffing.
The message they’d texted her that morning had been short and precise:
“Tomorrow. Greenfield Park. Noon. Public enough for you?”
Sylvia knew better than to trust anyone who wanted to meet in public. Public places weren’t safe. They were traps. Crowds made it easier for someone to surround you, cut off your escape.
She drummed her fingers on the counter, her mind racing. Normally, she’d ignore a meeting like this and disappear for a while. But this wasn’t just about one con. They knew about her. If she ran now, she’d leave a trail.
Sylvia couldn’t afford that. Not when she had so much to lose. So she made a plan.
The next morning, she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, a stranger staring back at her. Her makeup was flawless, aging her at least forty years. A curly gray wig framed her face, and her hunched posture sold the look of an elderly woman weighed down by life.
She straightened her oversized coat, its pockets stuffed with everything she might need—a burner phone, a forged ID, cash, and her favorite tool: a small voice recorder she often used to replay her clients’ confessions.
She arrived at Greenfield Park an hour early, her “elderly” legs carrying her slowly along the winding path. The park was busy—kids playing on the swings, joggers circling the pond, and couples chatting on benches.
But Sylvia wasn’t here to admire the scenery. She was here to listen. She closed her eyes briefly, focusing on the mess of thoughts around her, fishing for anything that stood out.
°Remember, you’re a tourist. Use your cover to scope more ground.°
°We’ve got eyes on the east entrance. Just wait for the signal.°
°The woman in the yellow jacket has been confirmed as a civilian—don’t blow your cover.°
Her heart skipped a beat. The thoughts weren’t random. They were coordinated. As she'd expected, there were agents everywhere.
- Writer
