The Spy's House sitter.

It’s all coming together now: red wine (Merlot), a hand mask, a face sheet mask, popcorn, pizza, and finally, Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet has pearls twisted into her hair, and all my pain and anxiety melt away at the sight of her. It’s silly, I know, but this comfort movie has a way of healing the wounds on my soul.

I sink deeper into Sandra’s couch, letting a wave of gratitude wash over me. I’m getting paid to watch a movie at someone else’s house. Sure, I walked Pickle, fed him his kibble with the special sauce, and gave him a breath mint, but this still beats spending eight hours on my feet, serving drinks over a bar.

Don’t get me wrong—I love bartending. But after the breakup, I needed a break. Can you blame me? Four years together, and then he decides to move away... But I won’t dwell on that. I’ll focus on the good. I’m getting paid to sit here and enjoy this movie while Sandra is off on a well-deserved vacation.

A tiny pang of jealousy creeps in. I wish I could go somewhere, do something exciting. I put my whole life on hold for Mike, and look where that got me. I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and let go of that feeling. Just enjoy this moment. Enjoy the movie.

Sitting in Sandra’s English Colonial–decorated house while watching Pride and Prejudice feels like a masterpiece in itself. Dark wooden floors, deep red Persian rugs, copper lights, oil paintings of horses—all of it exudes charm. Her eclectic collection of textures and colors brings everything together. I love the seashells and antiques, but my favorite by far is her vintage phone collection.

The shelf of phones, interspersed with old cameras, sits to my left. I shove more buttery popcorn into my mouth, marveling at the screen. Things are going to get better. Everything will be alright.

A phone rings. It’s not mine—my phone lies silent and still on the mahogany coffee table. Wait, is that Sandra’s phone?

The vintage phone on the display shelf shakes its bell, demanding attention. It’s rung about seven times by now, and I find myself standing before it in awe. These phones work?

My gloved hand reaches out and lifts the exquisitely crafted golden handle.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Agent Nickel. We have a situation. Agent Quarter is missing in action, and a mission must be completed. One of the largest human trafficking rings has been under our surveillance, and we now have proof of their illegal activities. Agent Quarter copied the files onto a chip hours before disappearing. Deliver the evidence to Michael De Silva at the Imperial Library tonight at twenty-two hundred hours. Do you accept your mission?”

“Uuuuuhhhhh...yes, but you see—”

“Wonderful. We’ll send over the messenger pigeon with the memory stick shortly. Best of luck, Agent Nickel. Your code word is ‘Alpaca.’ Your confirmation is Moby Dick. The COIN agency thanks you for your service.”

The line goes dead. The phone sits silently once more, as if nothing had happened.

“What the fuck?”

I stare at the receiver in disbelief. Did that just happen? Agent Nickel? Does this mean Sandra is a spy? A secret agent?

A loud wingbeat jolts me back to reality. A pigeon has landed on the windowsill, its gaze as urgent as the phone’s ringing had been. The messenger pigeon—with the evidence of the trafficking ring.

This is real.

The French windows creak open. The pigeon waits, still and expectant. Pickle barely lifts an eye before drifting back to sleep—clearly, this is nothing new.

A small silver cylinder gleams on the bird’s ankle. I reach for it, but the slippery hand mask reminds me to peel it off first. The cylinder slips off the bird’s leg, and it vanishes into the night as quickly as the phone’s ringing ceased.

I need to get to the library. To meet...who? Damn it, what was his name? Michael something? Anxiety blooms in my chest. I haven’t even started, and I’m already screwing this up.

But there’s no time to overthink. Hundreds of lives could be saved if I just deliver this chip.

I spend the entire drive talking myself down, repeating affirmations and forcing positive thoughts. The interior of my car is as messy as my mind—candy wrappers, empty soda cans, crumpled receipts. I always think about cleaning it, but I never do.

My rust bucket of a car groans to a stop outside the Imperial Library. This is a bad idea—one big, ridiculous, dangerous idea—but I can’t back out now.

The library’s lights glow with the same warmth as Mr. Darcy’s eyes when he looks at Elizabeth. I force one foot in front of the other, wearing Sandra’s long cream coat that was hanging by the door.

I’m done waiting for something to happen. It’s time to make something happen. I can do this.

The softest classical music plays inside. Golden lights illuminate endless rows of books. My sneakers make no sound against the marble floor. This is the perfect place for a spy meeting—always quiet, everyone too engrossed in their books to notice reality.

But what now?

A man with a ponytail looks up from his book, his gaze landing on Sandra’s coat. He closes the book, his expression calm but curious.

“Excuse me, miss,” he whispers, his voice respectful of the silence. “Any interesting pet ideas?”

My mind blanks. “An interesting pet?” I draw out the word, stalling. And then, the answer hits me. “Alpaca?”

A crooked smile spreads across his face. He hands me a book—Moby Dick.

I exhale, relief flooding me. This is it. The confirmation.

My fingers close around the memory stick in my pocket. This is the moment—the part where I hand over the evidence, save the day, and call it a night.

But then I hear it—a soft swoosh, like an arrow slicing through the air. The man’s expression shifts to confusion, then panic. He sinks to the floor, his eyes wide and terrified.

A figure steps forward, blending into the shadows as if materializing from them. She wears glasses, a messy bun, and a cozy sweater—a perfect disguise. But in her hand is a small dart gun.

Before I can react, she fires. Reflexively, I lift the book. The dart buries itself into Moby Dick.

We both stare in surprise.

Her expression hardens, and she tucks the gun into her jeans. She approaches, a predator closing in.

My instincts scream at me to run. I dart through the bookshelves, my mind racing.

I stumble into a reading nook, and something on the wall catches my eye—two crossed rapiers beneath a plaque reading The pen is mightier than the sword.

A glimmer of hope.

I grab one of the swords just as she reaches for the other. Our blades clash, metal ringing through the empty room.

She’s quick. Too quick. I’m outmatched, and her blade bites into my forearm, then my thigh.

I collapse, wounded and exhausted. She stands over me, calm and deadly, her sword poised for the final blow.

A book flies through the air, striking her head. She spins, but a fist meets her face.

My savior is as dashing as I’d imagined—the man with the ponytail.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” It’s all I can manage.

“You were so brave.” His voice is warm, his eyes soft.

He leans in, and for a moment, I feel the pull of a storybook kiss. But reality snaps me back.

And then, I really am back—on Sandra’s couch, in my pajamas, the movie still playing.

It was just a dream.

But should it stay that way?

Maybe it’s time to become more adventurous. To break out of this cocoon, spread my wings, and maybe—just maybe—save the day.