CHAPTER FOUR: IMPOSTOR SYNDROME

Nasir felt like a nobody in there.

Just an empty shell of an agent with no past, present connections or the future.

That’s what he thought of himself as he stared hard into the mirror, remembering how a single shot from him had turned the agency upside down that day.

The first day on the job!

It had been a mistake born out of ignorance. How was he supposed to know that it was wrong if no one had told him?

How could he be expected to do his job well if no one had shown him how the work was done in the first place?

Strangely, nobody blamed him. Nobody except his supervisor, Brighton—the very one Nasir quietly blamed in return.

The irony was bitter: now he had to swallow his resentment and tend to him. Brighton, the perfect agent, untouchable, lay there struggling on the bed.

“You can’t sleep either?” Brighton asked breathlessly, squinting at the silhouette before him as he fought to stay awake.

“You hate me for taking her place, don’t you?” Nasir’s voice was small as he stepped forward with a bowl and towel in hand. “I’m not really bad at my job, am I?”

Brighton hated that tone. It meant he’d broken an innocent heart. Yet, he couldn’t deny the relief of the cool cloth pressed down against his skin.

“I loved her, Nasir,” Brighton whispered, shutting his eyes as if that could shield him from the pain.

Tears slipped free despite his effort. “And just when I confessed, I lost her. And then you appeared out of nowhere… sitting at her desk.”

“It’s okay,” Nasir murmured, wiping Brighton’s face, even brushing away his tears. But they refused to stop.

Brighton kept crying, his trembling shaking the bed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, again and again, until exhaustion finally pulled him under.

Nasir pitied him, yet he couldn’t forgive him. Brighton had hurt him.

And now here he was, in a house that wasn’t his, expected to call it home.

A home where every wall was lined with smiling portraits of a woman he could never replace. He felt like an intruder.

Nasir couldn’t even remember where he had come from or what he had once done, but he knew one thing for certain—he had always hated playing numbers.

So that night, he didn’t sleep a wink.

Instead, he stripped the house of its decorations, replacing them with things that stirred echoes in his soul. He buried himself in searching for clues—anything that could remind him of his past life, anything beyond the rigid guidelines and vague hunches he was given.

He studied every file he could find, combing through the meticulous work of Brighton and Sheryl, how they investigated and filed their conclusions.

He was impressed, to say the least.

The team had always done thorough research before moving against a target.

And he couldn’t help but wish he and Brighton could work like that too—a true team.

Not a replacement.

But first things first: he would bring havoc to the Fate Department.

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