Chapter 178
Raven
I stepped out of my changing booth, heels clicking against the dirt with deliberate precision. The transformation was complete. Not just the surface—the makeup, the hair, the dress—but something deeper. Something that had been sleeping inside me for too long.
God, I missed this.
Around me, the other candidates emerged from their booths like actors stumbling onto stage for the first time. The clearing had transformed into a bizarre fashion show—homeless people, businessmen, tourists, construction workers. Everyone trying so hard to be someone else.
Too hard.
"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!" Reeves barked, pacing in front of us like a drill sergeant with a headache. "To ensure fair scoring, we're scrambling the lineup. No standing with your team. When I call a number, you step forward for evaluation."
The candidates shuffled nervously, stealing glances at each other. I caught Katya's eye—or at least, I thought it was Katya beneath that librarian getup. She'd piled on the glasses, cardigan, and mousy brown wig like she was auditioning for a community theater production.
Amateur.
A woman next to me—decked out in at least four layers of clothing, trying to pass as a tourist—kept adjusting her fanny pack. I bit back a laugh. She'd probably practiced that nervous gesture for hours, thinking it made her look authentic.
It didn't.
"Before we begin the evaluation," Reeves continued, "I'm bringing in the experts." He gestured toward the tree line. "These three are the best undercover operatives you'll ever meet. If they can't see through your disguise, nobody can."
Three women emerged from the shadows. Unremarkable faces, forgettable clothes, the kind of people your eyes would slide right past in a crowd.
Now that's how it's done.
"Colonel Mitchell, Commander Zhao, and Major Thompson," Reeves said curtly. "Show them respect, and maybe—maybe—they'll teach you something before you wash out."
Mitchell stepped forward, surveying us like we were specimens under a microscope. Her gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than the others.
She noticed.
Good.
"Let's begin," Mitchell said. "Number seven, step forward."
A man shuffled out from the group—or what looked like a man. Hunched shoulders, ragged clothes, the whole nine yards of "I live under a bridge."
Not bad. Surface level, anyway.
He'd nailed the costume. Torn jacket with mysterious stains, fingerless gloves, a knit cap pulled low over greasy hair. Even added some strategic dirt to his face and neck. The kind of details most people would overlook.
But his hands gave him away. Too clean. And when he moved, there was a precision to it—a controlled grace that no amount of acting could hide.
Commander Zhao circled him slowly. "The wardrobe is convincing," she said. "The posture, the gait—you've clearly studied homeless populations."
The man's shoulders relaxed slightly. Mistake.
"But tell me," Zhao continued, stopping in front of him. "How did you get those muscles?"
The man blinked. "I... uh... used to be in construction before—"
"Before you lost everything?" Major Thompson cut in, arms crossed. "Funny. Most homeless people I've worked with don't have deltoids like that. Construction workers, sure. But someone who's been living on the streets for months? Malnourished? Possibly dealing with substance abuse?" She shook her head. "Those muscles tell a different story."
Mitchell nodded. "Your commitment to the exterior is admirable. The costume is spot-on. But you can't fake biology. A real homeless person in that condition wouldn't have your muscle definition. Six out of ten."
The man's face fell as he trudged back into the lineup. I allowed myself a small smile.
Exactly what I thought.
"Number three, you're up."
This one caught my attention immediately.
He practically crawled forward—not walked, crawled—on hands and knees, his movements jerky and erratic. Baggy clothes hung off his frame like he'd lost fifty pounds overnight. His arms were bare despite the heat, covered in track marks and bruises in varying stages of healing.
Now this is interesting.
But something about the placement of those marks was too deliberate. Too artistic. Like someone had studied medical textbooks and crime scene photos instead of actual addicts.
The examiners circled him like sharks.
"Stand up," Mitchell ordered.
He did, slowly, his whole body trembling. The tremors looked real—I'd seen enough withdrawals to know—but there was something mechanical about the timing. Like he was counting beats in his head.
"How long you been using?" Thompson asked, her tone deceptively casual.
"Five... maybe six years," he rasped, his voice cracking perfectly. "Lost count after the first overdose."
Zhao leaned in closer, studying his arms. Her eyes widened slightly.
"These aren't track marks," she said slowly. "I mean, they are—but these are self-inflicted. Recently." She pointed to a particularly dark bruise on his inner elbow. "This one's maybe three days old. And the pattern..." She looked up at him. "You actually shot up for this exercise?"
The man—no, the actor—grinned. "Saline solution. Learned from a documentary. Figured if I was gonna commit, might as well go all the way."
A beat of silence.
Then Thompson started clapping. Slow at first, then faster. Mitchell and Zhao joined in.
"That," Mitchell said, shaking her head, "is dedication. Or insanity. Possibly both." She glanced at the other examiners. "Score?"
"Nine," Zhao said immediately.
"Nine," Thompson agreed.
"Nine," Mitchell confirmed. "Outstanding work. Though for the record, we do not recommend injecting yourself with anything for training purposes."
Reeves let out a low whistle. "Which one are you?"
I already knew.
The way he'd positioned his fingers when he first appeared—three pressed together, pinky extended. Ethan's nervous tick. He did it when calculating probabilities, usually without realizing it. And the tremors? Too rhythmic. Three seconds on, two seconds off. Mathematical precision masquerading as chaos.
Clever boy.
The man pulled off his wig and began wiping away the makeup, revealing Ethan's familiar features beneath. His grin was absolutely smug.
"Ethan, reporting for duty, sir."
Reeves slapped his forehead. "I knew it! I had you pegged from the start." Complete lie, obviously, but Reeves would never admit otherwise. "Outstanding work, Ethan. Even if you don't take first place, I'm getting you a spot in the Advanced Reconnaissance Unit. That's a promise."
Ethan's smile widened as he stepped back into the lineup.
He earned that one.
"Number nine!" Reeves called out. "Get your ass up here!"