"Reach behind your neck and gently feel for a bump beneath the skin. Then, apply a bit of pressure," Hailey directed.

Trace lifted his hand carefully, brushing his fingers over the incision scar on his neck. The feeling of his cold, bare fingers was strange, uncomfortable—he'd grown so used to wearing gloves. He pressed on the area that felt a little strange, and a small flat disc clicked into place.

Trace's vision went black as it had last time, though this time he only stumbled slightly. He blinked his eyes, and slowly the world came into focus, but he didn't just see the world. There were other things that sprawled across his vision, mostly numbers and words. He looked around at the parlor, and numbers fizzled into and out of existence if he wasn't looking directly at them. The numbers appeared to be dates, and the words were descriptions. The two chairs next to the couch were dated four years back, and were described as creme, white, wood.

He looked at Hailey and the descriptions and numbers were far more abundant. Hailey, 27, hc: blonde, ec: brown on one side, close to her face. WP-0770, w#0086, m#173, mc#312, mf#004.

"Name, age, hair color, eye color," Hailey explained. Trace blinked a few times and the words disappeared. "Each time you see someone for the first time, starting from now, their information will be made visible to you, and cached in your Modifier's database."

Trace stared at the numbers to her right, hovering electronically in the air. "What does the numerical data mean?"

"Squad, weapon type, Modifier ID, missions completed, and missions failed," she said quickly. As soon as she did, the numbers disappeared.

A new word ticked at the top of his vision with Hailey's name next to it. Indicative. By the look of her expression, this must've signified her current perceived mood.

It dawned on Trace that Hailey had been speaking aloud this entire time, which made him wonder. . . Did he have to manually alter the routing of his Modifier's receptivity?

"The fastest way you can learn how to utilize the Modifier is by completing a mission. And lucky for you, Peter received some easy ones for this week. I'm sure he had your best interests in mind when he requested them." Hailey reached behind her neck and her eyes switched back to brown.

A mission? Trace's heart jumped. "When is the mission?"

Hailey smiled. "Peter and Derek are getting ready for it now."

#

Derek, 43, hc: brown, ec: gray. WP-0770, w#7270, m#0962, mc#027, mf#000.

Peter, 36, hc: brown, ec: green. WP-0770, w#0006, m#0011, mc#1920, mf#004.

The three of them stood in a triangular formation at the center of the parlor, eyes glowing purple. None of them spoke. Trace awaited orders.

Peter glanced to Trace, eyes squinting. Derek took in a deep breath. Was there something wrong?

"Modifier communication is directly tied to your thoughts when activated," Peter said, his eyebrows moving together. "I guess no one told you that."

"So how do I—"

"If you don't understand something, you can ask your Modifier. If you want to be on the same wavelength as us, just tell your Modifier. It's quite simple," Derek explained. A word appeared next to his head: irritated. Yeah, no kidding.

Trace told himself mentally to connect in with Peter and Derek's conversation. As he did this, he had a feeling that Derek was setting him up for an embarrassing failure. However, to his surprise, the Modifier heeded his request, and their conversation came in crystal clear.

How long do you think it'll take? Derek asked.

Peter looked to Trace, and his eyes softened. Glad to see you trust your superior's commands, no matter how irritable he can be.

Yes, Trace replied. Derek huffed through his nose.

Now, something you should know before we leave, Peter began, focusing back on Derek. Anywhere in this bunker is a viable position for teleportation, thanks to the computer system in the basement. You can stand in your room, in the kitchen, in the parlor, bathroom, or anywhere else, as long as your leader commands it.

Peter is the leader in this mission, Derek clarified. Trace inhaled deeply at this unnecessary comment.

As you're probably already aware, our missions span across the globe. Which means, if we find ourselves in a nation where we don't understand the language, you need to be reactive so your Modifier can translate for you. Peter spread his feet apart, so they were aligned with his shoulders. This mission only calls for us three, which is perfect. You'll get to actively participate this time.

Those words both excited and terrified Trace. He knew that he was capable and had training to back him up, but something still felt off. He hadn't actually ever killed anyone before.

Peter, commanding Mission 0343. Target is nonviolent. Follow my command. His voice echoed in Trace's Modifier, and his body snapped into submission. His legs copied Peter's and his arms shot down his sides.

Longitude 115.00572. Latitude 53.36825, a robotic female voice sounded in their Modifiers. Prepare for teleport. As soon as she said it, the parlor walls disappeared and one by one, the furniture joined the blackness that soon swallowed everything.

The three stood still as the black abyss swallowed them. The only thing visible were their glowing eyes, staring at the nothingness beneath them.

Then, the blackness fizzled out and was replaced with a wintery forest. A wide river dug itself out to their left and its waters rushed violently against the bank and over rocks jutting out at its center.

Beneath them, a circular metal platform. The teleportation site.

A harsh breeze whisked off the rapids and struck their faces. Snow particles bit the area beneath their eyes.

Peter turned to the forest and Trace and Derek fell into line behind him. Thankfully, the wind flurried behind them and died out in the thick of the woods.

As they trekked through the untouched trees, their breathing became heavier. Moisture dripped on the inside of their masks and pooled at their chins.

Peter suddenly stopped after they'd walked for a while, twitched his head to the right, and his eyes flitted up to the canopy of snowy branches. Then, he pointed to either side of their path. Trace, to the right. Derek, to the left. Our target is approaching.

Trace moved carefully around trees and sought a place to hide behind a burly bush decorated with sharp icicles. Derek disappeared as well. Peter swiveled behind a large tree.

In the distance, the snow screeched under the pressure of someone's boot. As it approached them, it grew louder. Each step was careful, planned. Soon, Trace was positive the target was right on the other side of the bush.

Target has a weapon, Peter warned them. Wait until he passes.

Trace stayed perfectly still as the footsteps moved past them, then he turned his head slightly to see what their target looked like.

Dressed in a green and brown colored suit with tall boots, fur around his neck and head, and a sling of steel-tipped arrows over his shoulder. A warped metal bow swung in his grasp as he walked, his gaze concentrated everywhere in front of him.

He was a hunter.

The three Phantom assassins watched as the man paused, knelt, and steadied his bow in his left hand. His other hand reached back to grab an arrow, pinned it to his bowstring, and aimed at something in the distance.

Trace allowed himself to look, and what he saw was a movement of hot red. Nonhuman, but alive. No numbers appeared for this creature, nor did they for the man. This feature must've only worked for Phantom members.

Trace. Peter's voice lacked all the warmth Trace had grown familiar with. What came next would be orders, and Trace would have to obey without question. Now.

His hand reached into his cloak, fingers wrapping around the handle of his revolver. Then, in a fluid and perfectly silent motion, he extended his arm out straight to aim, his thumb turned off the safety, then cocked the cylinder to the side and snapped it back into its spot in the barrel.

This shot had to kill him. If it didn't, it wouldn't only be Trace who would be in trouble, which is why he couldn't second-guess himself. Not here, not now.

The target released the arrow. It whizzed through the trees and hit the animal with a thud.

Now, Peter repeated.

Trace looked through the viewfinder, aimed for the man's head, and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the blast shook Trace's arms, but adrenaline rocketed through the rest of his body as he fell backwards into the bush.

The target fell slowly to the ground. His outfit turned brown after mixing with the red spilling from his neck—half of it was gone thanks to Trace's aim. When he hit the snowy ground, he was already dead.

Mission complete, but also failed, Peter said. His voice was gravelly. Trace looked in his direction and the word disappointment flashed where the other emotions had. His heart sank.

#

You failed your first mission, Derek scoffed once they were back in the parlor. Peter was silent as they dusted off snow from their black cloaks.

Why did I fail? Trace asked. He tried not to sound desperate, but his vulnerability gave him away.

Peter removed his gloves, revealing red fingers. He lifted both to the back of his neck to warm them, and his eyes also returned to their usual green color.

Then, he looked at Trace. Normally, we don't explain the details of commissions. It's typically for the confidentiality of our clients. However, this case is different. It was assigned by the Association themselves.

Trace felt his body go rigid. His heart couldn't find its beat, almost like it forgot how it was supposed to work.

The Association had commissioned them. And Trace failed. It was almost too terrible to believe.

To preserve wildlife isn't their mission, Peter continued, however, for the implementation of their power to be successful, a reliable food source is necessary.

So I needed to kill the target before his own mission was complete, Trace guessed.

Peter nodded. Your hesitation will be noted. If you fail to obey direct orders in the future, the consequences will be severe.

Trace's heart found its beat, but it was irregular—nervous. Why wasn't I under the full control of the Modifier?

Peter removed his hands from his neck. I was wondering the same thing. Especially with the new implementation of your Modifier, you shouldn't be as acclimated as a seasoned assassin.

It worked before, though. The first three days. Trace rushed his words. He wanted to believe that there wasn't something wrong. That he didn't have a faulty Modifier.

The first three days are unlike any of the other days you'll experience under Modifier control. Hailey makes sure of that, Peter explained. We build trust through choosing to obey, not through coercion or force.

Why have a Modifier then? Trace was frustrated now. If not to control them as it had before, what was its main purpose?

Peter sighed. Insurance.

Trace shook his head, confused.

Derek chimed in. To control you when they implement the Association's biggest mission yet.

Peter grabbed Trace's shoulder. You don't need to understand. You just need to be focused, obedient, and unapologetically loyal to Phantom.

#

"Who wasted our precious supply of Association-grade coffee?" Dior growled, holding Trace's barely touched and now-cold mug of old coffee.

Peter laughed. "Give the kid a break. It was probably the first time he ever tasted the stuff."

Dior scowled at Trace, her eyes ravenous under long strands of disheveled black hair. "He ought to be disciplined for wasting such a rare resource."

"Calm down, now." Hailey appeared in the stairwell, a smirk on her lips. "If we keep performing well, we will get more than just the extra grounds of the Association's coffee."

All of the members quieted at this, almost as if they didn't know what could've outdone the coffee. But then, as the silence grew louder, they were left to dream about other potential trade items that they could receive for their successes.

The daydreams disappeared as a loud beeping noise interrupted the silence. It came from the kitchen counter. The surface flashed on with its usual layout of touch-operated icons, but at the center of it, there was a notice. Hailey read it aloud.

"A message to WP-0770. The Association summons Modifier ID 0011 to HeadQuarters. Effective immediately."

The room fell silent once again. Everyone looked at Peter. His eyes darkened.

"No," Hailey finally said. Her voice was soft and broke when she spoke. Tears filled her eyes and washed her cheeks. She reached out to Peter. "It's too soon."

Peter pulled Hailey into a hug, and tears silently rolled over his cheeks as well. His arm shook as he patted Hailey's back. Not because he was cold—Trace knew that shake meant fear.

The two of them were in their own world for a few moments before Wyze spoke.

"Shouldn't this be on Trace? Not Peter?"

Peter pushed back from Hailey, sniffed once, and owned the tears still wetting his face. "No," he said flatly. "I've been waiting for this for a long time." He looked directly at Trace, the warmth in his eyes present, but accompanied by an indescribable pain. "This isn't your fault."

Without saying anything more, Peter turned and left WP-0770.