I can't describe the feeling of loss that fills me when I enter the research office and glance at Michael's desk.

I thought they would clear all his things away, but they've left everything untouched. It feels like he could still walk in at any moment, ready to chastise me as usual.

I fight back the memories and sit down, my eyes landing on the rack of files at the corner of my desk. There's a folder of studies tucked between two binders. I pull it out and stare at the blank manila cover.

Just a week and a half ago, I'd been so interested in getting to the bottom of the mysteries surrounding the subject and his background.

Everything changed with Michael's death.

Now, I want to avoid anything that might incriminate me and lead me to a similar fate. This has become a matter of survival, forcing me to play the good girl so that no one will turn a suspicious eye my way.

I open the folder, and the first paper inside is that study I told Michael about: the one on amygdala damage and emotional memory. I start to close the folder, intending to throw the papers away, when I notice that some words have been underlined in pencil. My breath catches in my throat.

I don't remember annotating this study.

As I flip through the pages—twenty-one in all—I piece together the message.

"Can't speak. Being observed. The subject is not The project. Other goal."

In the margin on the last page, there are four ominous words scrawled in Michael's messy handwriting.

Stay out of it.

If Michael was being watched, that likely means that I was too—and maybe I still am. Staying conscious of my reaction, I try to keep a straight face as I flip through the pages, then read through another study. And another. Enough to throw my observers off, hopefully.

This is ridiculous, I can't let myself be swept away in paranoia.

But no matter how I try to reason with myself, my sweaty palms and rapid heartbeat betray me. I'm afraid.

I put the folder back in the rack and leave the room. My footsteps quicken as I try to think of someplace I can go to calm down.

Shield has other goals, Michael said. Then, all this work on the subject is just a façade? Some way of recruiting researchers under the guise of conducting standard observations of the subject's behaviour.

Whatever the real project is, Michael made it clear that I should stay out of it. But how did he know about all this?

I turn the corner and collide with Jack Rollins.

"Are you okay?" He eyes me with mild concern. I think this is the first time I've ever heard him speak. My eyes instinctively search for Rumlow, but he's nowhere to be found.

"I'm fine." I plaster a smile on my face, tearing my gaze away as I move past him. I can't let anyone see me in this state. I just need a minute to breath.

"Wait, Ms. Summers."

I stop and turn, curiosity getting the better of me.

"I came to get you. Alexander Pierce wants to see you."

I examine his face for anything that could give away the reason for this sudden meeting. Pierce did tell me that he would be talking to me soon. About being promoted. But the fact that he sent Rollins to come get me makes me feel like I'm on my way to an execution.

I follow him out of the building, where an ordinary black SUV sits idling on the curb. There's a driver inside, but he's not wearing any combat armour, just a regular suit.

For the majority of the ride, it's silent. I'm thankful that Rollins decided to sit up front in the passenger seat rather than back here with me. I keep my attention focused on the landscape racing past outside, but I'm conscious of being watched in the rearview mirror. Rollins' eyes never leave my face. I don't know what mind games he's playing, but this is uncomfortable.

I wonder how much he knows about Rumlow and I. The two seem close. Most of the time, they're together when I see them. In fact, this might be the first time I've seen Rollins without Rumlow.

"Where are we going?" I try hard not to fidget. I can't help being nervous.

"The Triskellion." For the first time in twenty minutes, his gaze shifts away from the mirror, focusing on the driver instead. I almost want to let out a sigh of relief.

A few minutes later, the car pulls into a parking complex and we exit, entering through a high-security door guarded by heavily-armed men. Rollins leads me into an elevator and up to an office on the 50th floor.

Before I even have a chance to look around, he steps back into the elevator, taking his leave.

I return my attention to the office before me. There's a large conference table in the centre of the space. At first glance, the room seems empty. My gaze strays to the the far side of the space, where there are a few chairs and a small table beneath a projection screen. Rumlow is seated there, silently watching me as I examine the room. Why is he here? And why hasn't he said anything?

"Ah, Elise." I hear Alexander Pierce's voice before I see him. He steps away from the wall of windows, gesturing for me to come over.

I do so hesitantly. My every step feels like I'm treading on a thin layer of glass.

Pierce slips his phone out of his pocket, dialing a short extension.

"Veronica? Put me on do-not-disturb until I specify otherwise. No visitors."

I glance at Rumlow, hoping to read the atmosphere from his facial expression.

It's blank.