The next night, each Phantom Member waited around the kitchen counter. The lights were off around them, offering some privacy to those that desired it.

Trace could sense Hailey's exhaustion. She'd been awake all night, no doubt. Though Trace didn't know what sort of relationship Peter and Hailey had that made her react so brazenly to his summons the morning before, he knew that it had to be deep enough to make her break character in front of WP-0770.

Hailey might have felt connected to everyone in a special way, with the way she dealt with Derek to the trust she put in Wyze. But something felt eerily heartbreaking when she'd embraced Peter before his departure.

Then Trace saw them—tears slowly streaming down her cheeks, made visible only by the glowing purple in her eyes.

They all stood in silence as she silently cried.

Then the front door opened, and the lights flashed on in the kitchen. Hailey twitched her head in the direction of the door, hopeful. But the guest was not Peter. It was a younger kid, about Trace's age. His mask was green, his eyes were dark, and his skin was dark like the Association's coffee. His number and words came into view momentarily, but Trace managed to retain most of it.

Isaac, 16, hc: black, ec: black. WP-0981, w#0046, m#0701, mc#0240, mf#000

Trace's Modifier couldn't get a read on his emotion.

"Welcome to WP-0770, Isaac," Hailey greeted, her voice flat. She managed so easily to switch into her professional facade. Trace watched her as she strode forward to shake the kid's hand, and her flawless motions filled him with respect. Just moments ago, she was broken, but with the help of her Modifier, she was whole again.

"It's a pleasure to be transferred here," Isaac responded, his voice young, as Trace had guessed.

Though it wasn't how we ever would've wanted it, Wyze cut in, her voice distraught and dry. She seemed to be upset, too.

For a moment, Trace was worried that this new kid could hear her animosity, but his reaction told him otherwise. He had just arrived, so of course he wasn't allowed into the WP-0770 Modifier channel.

"Your room is #7, between Trace's and Derek's," Hailey gestured back to them without looking. "You can place your belongings there."

Trace noticed the slim black bag drooped over Isaac's shoulder—something he hadn't seen before—and wondered what the young boy could've possibly brought with him that could be termed a "belonging."

"Thank you," Isaac said. Then, he looked at Trace. His eyes tightened slightly. Then he looked back at Hailey. "I look forward to working with you."

Hailey didn't respond.

"I'm Wyze," Wyze said, stepping forward to shake Isaac's hand. He shot her a disapproving look but shook her hand anyway.

Dior leaned across the counter and waved at the boy. "I'm Dior. Looking forward to many missions with you in our squad."

Derek didn't say anything. Maybe Peter's absence was taking a stronger toll on him, too.

"I'm Trace," Trace decided to interject. He held out a hand and the boy glared at him, though he still shook it, probably only because it was polite.

"I will go to my room, then," Isaac said, nodding at Hailey. Then he turned but stopped before taking a step. He turned his head toward her. "I suspect my transfer chip will be changed out tonight?"

Hailey nodded once, lazily. This earned her a doubtful look from Isaac, but he seemed otherwise pleased. He continued walking forward to the elevator and didn't look back.

#

I miss him, Hailey's voice broke over the Modifier. The rest of the team froze, afraid to look at their leader, who was crying again.

What were they supposed to do? The team would be dysfunctional without an emotionally thick and trustworthy leader. Acknowledging her vulnerable moment would only call attention to her unprofessional demeanor, would it not? They were assassins, after all. Emotive behavior was not acceptable—Trace learned this from day one with his Mentor.

#

"Your name is Trace," the cloaked man had said. His eyes were two different colors—one was brown, and the other blackened. A jagged scar ran through the blackened eye, denting it in the center and crippling his sight.

Trace had rubbed his head, feeling a burning sensation run through him almost as if he'd swallowed poison. The only thing he knew at the time was that he'd just awoken from a dream he'd already forgotten, and that his name was Trace—dictated by the burly man sitting near a weak fire in a small and dark barn.

"Who are you?" Trace had managed to ask. His voice trembled with obvious fear. He dared not to look up at the man stoking the fire, for it was clear the emotion in his eyes was gone and he held pity for no one.

"Identity is something you cannot reveal to anyone," the man had said firmly. He pushed the burning coals with a metal rod and the flames licked around it like ravenous birds. "But you may call me James, if you must call me something. It was the name my Mentor went by, and it is the name I shall go by as your Mentor."

"Why can't anyone know who I am?" Trace asked, his voice still quivering. "And why are you wearing a mask to conceal your face?"

James set the stick on the floor next to him and it clanged against a metal support in the wall. He looked at Trace, his eyes fierce and judging.

"You ought to know what the future looks like," he said quietly. When Trace didn't show signs of knowing, he continued. "Have you heard of the Association?"

Trace shook his head. "I don't remember much. Anything, really."

James nodded, his eyes reflecting the bright flames of the fire. "It wants to repair society. Though by repairing it they also must destroy it."

"What's so wrong with society?"

"Many things, but not as many as the Association thinks. More than anything, they want to be sovereign. To be God."

Trace was quiet at this. Then, after James didn't continue, he finally asked the question eating at him. "So, does that make the Association evil? For trying to be God?"

James laughed at this, though it sounded pained. "Not evil. After all, I was once a part of it. And I'm going to give you a chance to be a part of it, too."

Trace's eyes widened at this. "Why me?"

James squinted at the fire. He folded his hands in his lap. A thought warped his eyebrows into a knot on his forehead. "I don't know." He shrugged his shoulders and dropped them as though they carried a huge weight. "Maybe because you're the first I've come across who has been out of it all, without a choice."

"I don't have a choice?" The thought should've offended Trace, but it only confused him.

"Everyone who joins the Association is aware of it. They are willing to die for it, at any moment. For the sake of the Association. But you were sent to me, without any memory of your life, isn't that right?"

Trace thought about it, and James was right. Before waking up in this strange barn, he couldn't remember anything about who he was or what he had done up until now. He nodded at James slowly as he processed his predicament.

James cleared his throat and sighed. "Though you were thrown on my doorstep, I will not force you to comply. If you choose to run away, you can do it now." He lifted he metal rod and poked the fire again. Then, he spoke in a low, calculated tone. "But if you decide to stay, you have to do exactly as I say."

Trace didn't know which option sounded better. But at least with James, he would have food and a roof over his head. It seemed the proper option. "I choose to stay with you," he said quickly. An awkward smile lifted his eyes.

James grunted as he stood from his stool and turned around to the other side of the barn. He sat on what sounded like leaves. "You must learn to never express emotion to others, then. Not even me."

Trace stood from his spot and made his way over to James. He sat next to him on a bed of warm hay.

"Why not?"

James turned harshly to Trace and lifted his hand to Trace's jaw. He pinched it between his rough fingers, and he stared into the young boy's bright eyes.

"Because I'm training you to become a member of not only the Association, but also a member of their elite division of assassins." James's eyebrows shadowed his eyes. "You're going to be a member of Phantom."

#

Foolish, Derek spat. He scowled at Trace. If it hadn't been for you, Peter would be here right now and we wouldn't have to turn around and greet his replacement.

Hush, Dior hissed. You could've backed Trace up and taken the shot, but you didn't.

It was Peter's orders for Trace to—

If it had been Hailey in command, I would understand. But it was Trace's first mission, so why couldn't you have been at least an ounce of a team member when given the chance? Wyze's voice was filled with anger. After she said this, no one dared to challenge her.

Hailey was silent as tears continued to pour from her eyes. Dior was hesitant, but she was the first to move. She walked past the rest of them and wrapped an arm lightly over Hailey's shoulders, then led her to the staircase by the kitchen. Soon, they were gone.

Derek and Wyze lifted their hands to their necks, deactivating their Modifiers. Trace did the same. The feeling of freedom replenished him, but he tried not to get too excited about it. Now was not the occasion.

"What is going to happen to Peter?" Trace asked.

Derek blinked slowly at him and sighed. "He's been a token they've reused for years. They must've been waiting for him to make a mistake so they could finally retire him."

Wyze nudged him with an elbow, and he grunted. "They dispose of those they want to, whenever they want to. You're not at fault, Trace."

"Who is 'they' and why do they want to get rid of Peter? Isn't he pretty important?" Trace recalled his conversations with Peter, and then remembered that topics discussed were probably the first Peter had had with anyone. So of course neither Wyze nor Derek would know that Peter had been with Phantom in its earlier days.

Wyze laughed at this. "We are all equally important. Or perhaps we're all equally unimportant. But regardless, the Association only makes decisions to further their mission."

"Peter will be missed, but we all know this would happen sooner or later," Derek said. Trace couldn't hold back the glare he directed at him. Of all people that had to leave, why couldn't it have been Derek? "Have you seen the street we live on? All those empty bunkers have been vacant for what feels like years. Who knows what Phantom is thinking, letting such a small squad exist?"

Wyze raised her hand to stop him. "Those bunkers have always been empty, meathead. But I'm sure Phantom will fill them up soon. Not so long ago, WP-0770 was relocated here. I'm sure Phantom is recruiting others as we speak."

The thought that Phantom was planning to populate their street somewhat irked Trace. It almost felt like something that was meant to feel completely built and operable suddenly felt empty and incomplete. Like the hole in his heart that Phantom was supposed to fill was now suddenly growing at a rapid pace.

"Anyway," Wyze sighed. "Now we have another newbie to brief. Although he should be easier since he's a transfer." She looked at Trace for his reaction and wasn't disappointed. The poor boy's eyes darkened and his shoulders slooped. He was clearly crushed by her words, feeling like more of a burden than ever. She laughed aloud at his dejected posture and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm kidding. I actually can't remember training a brand-new Phantom member before you. It's been fun."

Trace wasn't so sure he should believe her. But with Derek's snort, he felt like she was being genuine.

The three waited in the kitchen for Dior to return and for Hailey to officially transfer Isaac into their small group of unique soldiers.

What they didn't foresee was the gravity of Isaac's transfer and what it meant for the future of WP-0770.