The damp alley was a suffocating labyrinth where shadows danced frenetically in response to the dim lamplight. My vision oscillated between consciousness and darkness, a frenzied battle reflecting my own physical and emotional state.

The firm grip of the Purple Jacket kept me on my feet, as if I were a puppet whose strings were in the hands of destiny. His eyes, a window to a disguised despair, met those of the deep-voiced Purple Jacket, triggering a series of events I had no control over. They argued about my identity, an enigma that even I barely understood.

"What happened here, agent? Who is this White Jacket?" the deep-voiced Purple Jacket's voice pierced the air, demanding answers while I remained imprisoned in my own body. The Purple Jacket holding me hurried to offer a faltering explanation, mentioning my status as a classified recruit by the mysterious Agent Blackwell.

"Blackwell? Is he a White Jacket recruited directly by Blackwell? That Blackwell?" The incredulity in the deep-voiced Purple Jacket's voice echoed in the alley as he processed the gravity of the situation. I had become a pawn in a game much larger than any of us could comprehend. The shadows surrounding my true identity began to unravel, revealing betrayals and obscure alliances.

While they debated my uncertain fate, more Purple Jackets materialized on the scene, like specters emerging from the shadows. A second figure approached me, releasing me from the grip of the Purple Jacket. Placed on the cold, damp ground, my body was vulnerable, but the urgency of the moment allowed no contemplation.

A new dose of something unknown coursed through my veins, enveloping me in a disjointed sensation. The world around me began to distort, colors and shapes dancing in a surreal symphony. My consciousness slid through a tunnel of darkness, sinking into the depths of a hazy unconsciousness.

I awoke in a new and unfamiliar setting. The hum of machines and the sharp scent of antiseptic permeated the air. I lay on a metallic bed, my body pulsating with a mix of pain and numbness. When I sat up, I realized I was alone in this sterile room, my clothes entirely replaced by hospital attire.

The door opened silently, revealing the figure of a doctor with a serious expression. "You're awake, Agent Winters," he said, casting a penetrating gaze. "We need to talk about what happened in the alley and, more importantly, about the true nature of your existence." The game of shadows and secrets was far from over.

My mind oscillated between the shock of the revealed truth and the urgent need to keep my charade intact. The warmth of the unknown enveloped my body as I slowly sat on the bed, the wounds that had throbbed with pain now replaced by a strangely comforting tingling sensation. The surroundings were cold, impersonal, with the whites of the walls and the artificial glow of the lights above. I stared at the doctor in front of me, a middle-aged man with glasses and a serious expression, whose meticulous gaze seemed to scrutinize every inch of my soul.

Quieting my mind, I strived to appear calm and composed, even though inside I was immersed in a confusion of emotions and questions. My eyes, polished steel, met his, seeking any hint that my story remained intact. The silence persisted, a tense anticipation that increased the pressure on my shoulders.

"What do you know so far?" My voice sounded firmer than I expected, a tone trying to mask the uncertainty that permeated my thoughts. I awaited the doctor's response, whose penetrating gaze betrayed his curiosity, but he remained silent for an agonizing moment, studying me with an intensity that could reveal more than I would like.

Finally, he yielded to my unspoken question. "You are in the facilities of the NEA. We received a request from the Purples about you." The words echoed in the room, bringing with them the confirmation that my presence here did not go unnoticed. The pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, outlining a broader picture than I had imagined.

My eyes scanned the room for an anchor, a connection to my false identity. The doctor remained impassive, observing my disconcertion as I sought something that would anchor me to the narrative I still tried to maintain. Reality, however, seemed to elude me, like elusive shadows slipping through my fingers.

"I thought Whites were supposed to work outside the dome. What's the reason for you being here?" The doctor inquired, highlighting the glaring discrepancy in my situation. His voice was calm, but curiosity, and perhaps a hint of suspicion, permeated his words. I felt the urgency to craft a convincing explanation, a story that would fill the gaps and divert attention from what had truly happened.

"What I have to deal with is directly with Blackwell. Thanks to the Jackets, the plan was delayed, and more Pomodoro attacks may hit New Eden." My voice sounded firm but laden with the anxiety of someone weaving lies in a fragile fabric. Suddenly, it was as if I were in a play, playing a complex role, and my audience, represented by the doctor and the shadows of truth, was attentive to every word.

The charade continued, a delicate dance between performance and revelation. I tried with all my might to maintain the facade of the White Jacket, even as the fissures began to form, exposing my true self to the doctor's discerning gaze. The game was in progress, and I wondered if I could keep dancing in the shadows, or if the light of truth would finally catch up with me.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Before I could continue my conversation with the doctor, the door swung open, revealing a figure I knew but whose true identity was still shrouded in mystery. JadedJellyfish, with her imposing presence, entered the room. Her blood-red and magma-like hair flowed down to her shoulders, contrasting with the all-black attire that outlined her curves. A gigantic coat the color of the night completed her look. I stared at her as if I were in the presence of the angel of death in all her fullness.

Before I could articulate any words, Jaded's voice echoed in the room, cutting through the silence. "I appreciate the concern, Doctor, but I believe Mr. Winters needs to rest now. I have some matters to discuss with him." Her words reverberated within me, making me question the reality I knew. The doctor, understanding the situation, simply nodded and exited the room. I stood there, gazing at Jaded with a mixture of surprise and bewilderment.

"Rev," her sweet voice reached my ears, and my eyes locked onto her as she sat beside me. I felt her hand touch my face, as if tracing the lines of a destiny I couldn't fully comprehend. "I told you I would make you a White Jacket." Her sinister smile carried a load of hidden meanings. She caressed my scar, a visible reminder of a life I was trying to overcome.

"But... I thought... you were from Pom..." My voice trembled, interrupted by Jaded, who silenced my lips with her finger. Her piercing eyes met mine, and in the blink of an eye, she brought her face close to mine and whispered in my ear. "My work is much bigger than that. I'm still tied to your old self. Your protection is of total priority to me." Her words reverberated within me, bringing back memories I wished to forget.

Confusion overwhelmed me as I tried to process the revelations. Blackwell, the Black Jacket, was directly linked to my past, to the sinister experiment conducted by the man in the wall. The scar on my face was the physical mark of an experience that transcended human understanding. The mystery surrounding my existence unfolded before me, and I found myself entangled in plots that surpassed the boundaries of what I imagined to be possible.

Jaded's expression was a mosaic of complexity, a balance between determination and concern. Her words echoed in my mind as a constant reminder that my destiny was intrinsically tied to something larger than myself. While the impact of the revelations reverberated, my body seemed to oscillate between physical exhaustion and mental turmoil.

"You must follow the plan," she reiterated, stepping back to study my face for any sign of understanding. My mind was still spinning, trying to assimilate the truth unfolding before me. The man in the wall, the life continuation experiment, Blackwell and her connection to me—all seemed like a complex piece of a cosmic puzzle, and I was only beginning to glimpse its overall shape.

I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of my decisions echoing in the tense silence of the room. Blackwell's presence, the Black Jacket behind the veils of espionage, loomed like a shadow in the room. I stared at her, seeking answers in her enigmatic eyes. "Since we're claiming I'm a White, what will happen to my status within the academy?" The question left my lips, laden with uncertainties about the future unfolding before me.

Blackwell remained calm, her impenetrable expression revealing little about her intentions. "Your status quo hasn't changed. You will continue working in the academy as a battle assistant. Personally, I'll assign someone from my squad to accompany you. After all, you need to develop your incarnation, don't you?" She smiled, while her fingers traced the scar on my face. I felt the mounting pressure of a destiny I was only beginning to grasp.

Before I could fully process Blackwell's words, a familiar face appeared before me. A woman with long, golden blonde hair, dressed in black like the night, became part of the conspiratorial plot unfolding. "This is Agent Hawthorne, or rather, Whisper," Blackwell announced, smiling. Her piercing eyes met mine, and I found myself once again facing Whisper, one of Pomodoro's secret spies. The name "Whisper" echoed in my ears as Blackwell highlighted her presence. "She will accompany you. According to your new records, she will be considered your friend. So, consider having a deeper conversation with her. Hawthorne will also move into your apartment complex."

The whirlwind of information hit me like a wave, and I struggled to process the magnitude of the revelations. Whisper, whom I had encountered before, now emerged as an integral part of this intricate web of intrigues. She, like Blackwell, was a Black Jacket, a dark facet of the shadow game I was about to delve deeper into.

Whisper approached, her gaze fixed on mine, and I felt the tension in the air. Her proximity brought with it an aura of mystery and intrigue. Blackwell, with her subtle smile, seemed to relish the confusion unfolding before me. My thoughts oscillated between the past, the present, and the uncertain future.

My hands traced the extent of the hole in the back of my shirt, the torn fabric bearing witness to the violence of the previous night. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I looked at the damage, lamenting the loss of what had been my favorite piece of clothing. Dressing in that manner, with the tangible reminder of the battle, was now an unwelcome obligation.

After putting on my jeans and boots, I glanced at the time display, noting that the clock mercilessly read seven in the morning. Fatigue weighed on me, reminding me that for two nights, I hadn't been able to enjoy a peaceful sleep. "Damn, the second night I haven't slept," I muttered to myself, aware that the demands of my new role as a White Jacket did not allow for rest.

As I headed for the exit, I noticed Hawthorne's silent presence, a shadow following me with determination. My steps echoed through the NEA hospital corridors, each laden with the seriousness of a warrior who had faced the darkness. The NEA staff's gaze reflected a mix of fear and respect at the sight of a Black Jacket and a White Jacket marching together. I couldn't concern myself with the impression we caused; my mind was focused on my destiny.

Reaching the exit, I faced the vastness of the city still waking up from the nightmare Pomodoro had imposed. Without hesitation, I plunged into the urban turmoil unfolding before me. The reigning chaos, the wreckage, and the visible marks of the night's violence were all part of the new cityscape I called home.

As I navigated through the bustling streets, I could feel the curious and fearful looks of passersby. Black Jackets walking side by side with an ordinary person were a rare spectacle, and the city seemed to hold its breath in the presence of one of the key players in New Eden's shadow game.

Curiously, I looked back and noticed Whisper accompanying me. The feeling of having her in the rear was strange, and I didn't know how to handle her enigmatic presence. Words between us were scarce, but silent communication seemed to convey mutual understanding, an acceptance forged in the unusual circumstances that surrounded us.

The distance between the hospital and my home seemed to stretch like an endless journey. Each step was a countdown to the comfort of my refuge, where I could, at least for a brief moment, escape the constant tension that had now become my everyday.

Upon finally reaching the entrance of my apartment, fatigue weighed on my shoulders. The familiar environment enveloped me, and I stripped away the mask I wore to the outside world. Hawthorne remained by my side, a silent witness to the unfolding events of the night.

I entered my personal space, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Recent events had altered my perception of everything around me. As I closed the door, I faced the reality of my new life as a White Jacket. I sighed again, exhaustion weighing on me like an anchor.

Hawthorne stayed there, and the silence between us was laden with unspoken meanings. I turned to her, seeking some hint of understanding in her eyes. In response, she merely nodded, as if acknowledging the complexity of the threads intertwining our destinies.