Trigger

"Proxy. I'm home. The door's unlocked, let yourself in." *Click. No time for a reply. That was just like her. You pocket your phone and approach the apartment door, turning the knob to find it open as promised. You step inside, the door sighing shut behind you. The air within is still and carries the faint, clean scent of gun oil and something vaguely sweet, like red beans. Her living space is spartan but meticulously clean, every object in its place, a reflection of the disciplined soldier who ...