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The alarm never got the chance to wake him. Bret’s eyes opened at 05:28.

For a few seconds he stared at the cracked ceiling above him, listening. The cracking bones of an old building. The distant groan of traffic. A siren somewhere further downtown.

Nothing else. No footsteps outside his apartment door. No unfamiliar breathing. No danger. He let out a slow breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle protested and like a seasoned politician, he simply ignored them.

[color=C8E39A]“Right,”[/color] he muttered.

The floorboards creaked beneath bare feet as he crossed the apartment. The kitchenette was little more than a counter and a kettle squeezed against one wall. The parish didn’t exactly provide luxury accommodation but he was fine with that. Bret was never the type of person who needed anything more than what he already had.

It was only when he clicked the kettle on that he caught sight of himself in the reflection of the slowly brightening window. The split lip. Bruising along his jaw. A fresh bandage wrapped around his ribs beneath yesterday’s shirt. They’d heal, slowly. Some Grays had all the luck.

He sighed.

Last night had gone poorly. Or maybe well? Depending on perspective. The distinction became harder to judge these days.

The water finished boiling.

While the tea steeped, Bret disappeared into the bathroom.

The mirror offered little mercy as he saw more wounds. A cut across his eyebrow. Bruising around his neck. Several colourful additions to an already impressive collection of scars. He peeled back the dressing around his ribs. The knife wound looked cleaner now.

The memory surfaced uninvited.

The previous evening, a narrow service corridor at the airport. He remembered concrete walls and a man twice his size charging him with a crowbar.

The feeling of The Pilgrim whispering danger through every available path. Not future sight. Not exactly. Just certainty. The crowbar would come high. The pipe above them would rupture when the crowbar caught it mid swing and the steam that resulted would cause the floor to become slick. He would have three possible exits. One safe. Two fatal.

As he thought, the attacker came down heavy with the crowbar and Bret managed to avoid it. The Pilgrim did not give him a secondary warning for the knife that was in the guy's other hand. When it pierced his skin, it was like a white hot flash. Unfortunately, it was a pain that Bret had become used to. He stumbled back with the blade sticking out of his gut and used what strength he had to jump up and grab the low hanging pipe, spraying his attacker in the face. He lost his footing on the wet ground and slipped. There was no other sound in the corridor but the crack of his skull on the floor. 

Bret took the contracts from his corpse and left the airport service tunnel without a second glance.

He poured antiseptic over the wound. The sting brought him back to the present. [color=C8E39A]“Still alive.”[/color] A small victory. He replaced the dressing and stepped back into the apartment.
Only then did he notice the note. It sat on the kitchen counter beside the kettle. A single folded sheet. Bret frowned. [color=C8E39A]“Oh.”[/color]

Right. That.

He picked it up. The handwriting was neat.

[i]Had fun.Try not to get stabbed again. You were bleeding on my side of the bed.
- M[/i]

Bret stared at the note. Then laughed despite himself. A short, exhausted sound.[color=C8E39A]“Fair.”[/color]
The note joined a growing collection shoved beneath a fruit bowl. An embarrassing number of them, if he was honest. At least she hadn’t stolen anything. That narrowed the suspects considerably.

Tea in hand, Bret crossed to the small balcony on the other side of the window. The skyline of Calder City stretched beyond the horizon. Grey towers. Neon lights and secrets. Far too many secrets.

His phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Then stopped.

Encrypted channel.

Directorate 9.

His good mood vanished instantly. Bret set the mug down. When he unlocked the device, a familiar designation appeared on screen.

[b]BILLINGTON, C.[/b]

Of course. If it was anyone else, there was even more of a chance he wouldn’t answer.

The first message had arrived twenty-three minutes earlier. Which meant Cressida had likely been awake for hours already.
Psychopath.

He opened the recording.

Static crackled briefly before her voice filled the room. Calm as it always was. Controlled in the type of way years of training honed and annoyingly composed because she was a boarding school kid who hated the world.

“Bret.”

A pause.

“I know you’re awake.”

Another pause.

“I also know you’re considering ignoring this message.”
He rolled his eyes.

“Which means you’re probably listening now.”
Damn her.

“I know there’s no point in me trying to get you back into service. Heard you’re enjoying the whole street level vigilante thing. Very American of you, darling.” She paused for a moment and even in a recorded message, Bret could tell her words were about to get heavier. 

“Just thought you’d like you know, Cowan. He was an OP in Norway. He didn’t come home.” There was an even longer pause, he could hear seagulls in the background. Cress always liked listening to birds sing. “Thought you might want to know. I know you two had a history. I’ll catch up with you soon…hopefully…pick up your fucking phone, bellend.” 

Bret stared at the screen as it went dead. Then at the church visible several streets away.

Saint Brigid’s.

Morning Mass would start in less than an hour. Parishioners would arrive soon. People who needed help. People who trusted him. People who had absolutely no idea what sort of week they were about to have. Bret finished his tea and raised the cup to the rising sun.

[color=C8E39A]“Next one’s for you, mate.”[/color]

The city was waking up. And somewhere within it, another path had just revealed itself.