The Enemy I Fell For

Chapter 4

The city appears slowly through the rain speckled windshield, rising out of the grey distance in sharp lines of steel and glass.

Chicago.

Even from miles out, it feels loud.

The traffic thickens the closer I get to downtown, lanes tightening with impatient drivers weaving between cars as though shaving three seconds off their journey is worth risking an accident for. Headlights blur across the wet roads ahead of me, glowing white and red beneath the darkening afternoon sky. Somewhere further up the road, a horn blasts aggressively, followed immediately by another.

But it has no effect as no one reacts. The city just keeps moving.

I tighten one hand slightly around the steering wheel as I merge onto another packed road, my eyes flicking automatically between mirrors, exits, brake lights and pedestrians stepping too close to crossings before the signal changes. The movement is instinctive now. Automatic.

I watch everything, miss nothing.

The heater hums quietly inside the car, fighting against the cold rain hitting the windows, but the warmth never fully settles. Maybe because the entire car feels too cramped to breathe properly.

Boxes are stacked high in the backseat, crammed together with bags of clothes, half-zipped suitcases and loose files shoved in any space they would fit. A cardboard box marked kitchen slides slightly every time I take a corner. There’s a lamp wedged awkwardly between winter coats, a coffee machine wrapped in towels so it wouldn’t break during the drive, and an unopened package of picture frames I never got around to using.

Everything I owned packed up and able to fit into the back of my car. The thought lands heavier than I expect it to.

For a second, I stare at the blurred reflection of my own eyes in the rearview mirror before looking back at the road.

So much for the life I thought I had.

Rain taps steadily against the windshield as I drive deeper into the city. The skyline towers above everything now, massive buildings disappearing into low clouds, their windows glowing gold against the dark concrete and steel. The streets narrow as I move further in, lined with crowded sidewalks and people hurrying through the rain with coffee cups clutched in gloved hands.

It’s a new city, a new unit. Most importantly a new start.

That’s what Mercer had called it during the phone call.

An opportunity for a fresh start. I almost laughed when he said it.

My car’s GPS directs me down another street lined with older apartment buildings and corner stores glowing beneath flickering neon signs. The further I drive from downtown, the rougher the edges become. Less polished, less money.

Exactly where I belong.

I finally pull into a narrow parking space outside a brick apartment building squeezed between a laundromat and a liquor store with half the letters of it’s sign burnt out. The building looks older than the photos online. Tired. The kind of place people move into when they don’t plan on staying long enough to care about peeling paint or unreliable heating. Or they can’t afford anything better.

I switch off the engine, and silence settles heavily inside the car.

For a moment, I just sit there.

Rain slides slowly down the windshield while the city moves around me outside. Somewhere nearby, music pulses faintly through thin walls. A siren cuts through the distance before fading again.

I should feel something stronger than this.

Excitement maybe. Relief, fear even. Instead, there’s just exhaustion.

A dull, controlled kind that settled into me weeks ago and never really left.

My eyes drift briefly to the passenger seat where a file folder rests beneath my phone. The edge of a photograph sticks slightly out from the papers beneath it.

I look away before I can fully see it. My last unit, the last operation. The mistake that landed me here.

My jaw tightens instinctively.

No. I’m not thinking about that now.

Not here. Not again. That’s hundreds of miles behind me now.

I grab the first box from the backseat and step out into the rain. Cold air hits instantly, sharp enough to wake me properly as water dampens the sleeves of my jacket within seconds. The box is heavier than I expected, awkward enough that I have to shove the apartment door open with my shoulder before climbing the narrow staircase to the second floor.

The hallway smells faintly like old carpet and radiator heat.

The apartment itself is small enough that I can take in almost all of it from the doorway.

A dingy narrow kitchen sits tucked against one wall beside a cramped living space with scratched wooden floors and a window overlooking the alley behind the building instead of the street. The couch left by the landlord looks older than I am, and the radiator beneath the window rattles loudly enough to suggest it’s fighting for its life.

The bedroom barely fits the mattress shoved against the wall.

I sigh and set the box down near the counter and slowly look around the apartment in silence.

I move back and forth between the car and the apartment for the next twenty minutes, carrying the rest of my things upstairs one box at a time until the last of it sits scattered around the living room in uneven stacks. By the end of it, my arms ache and damp strands of blonde hair cling cold against my neck from the rain.

Most people would probably start unpacking immediately, trying to make the place feel personal.

But I don’t. Half the boxes stay sealed by the wall. The suitcase remains beside the front door.

I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair before walking toward the bathroom.

The overhead light flickers once before fully turning on.

I stare at my reflection quietly.

At first glance, I don’t look like someone people should be cautious around. I’m too small for that. Too young and innocent looking. Blonde hair pulled back into a loose mess from the drive, oversized sweater hanging slightly off one shoulder, exhaustion visible beneath my eyes.

People underestimate me because of it. Sometimes that helps. But sometimes it nearly gets me killed.

My gaze lingers on my own eyes in the mirror. They’re sharper than the rest of me. Too alert. Too guarded.

Different than they used to be.

I brace my hands against the sink and let out a slow breath.

Fragments of the past few months push at the edges of my thoughts whether I want them to or not. The gunfire, the shouting, streaks of blood across concrete.

I shut it down immediately..

I stare at myself for another long moment before speaking quietly into the empty apartment.

“This time,” I say, my voice steady despite the exhaustion sitting heavy beneath it, “you don’t make mistakes.”