Page 7 of Rescuing Mia

“Manila?”

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to contact the Americans. I’m about ready to end the call when the man on the other end continues.

“Manila allows us the freedom to operate, which we don’t have in Shanghai. We’ve arranged a drop for you. Go to the People’s Square Metro Station. Locker 214. The code is 0529—your birthday. You’ll find what you need there.”

My birthday? How do they even know who I am?

Cold tendrils of fear snake up my spine. I haven’t given my name yet, and the thought sends a shiver through me. I’m not just a case number on some foreign diplomat’s desk; I’m a target, a person whose identity has already been sifted through and laid bare. This anonymity I clung to like a shield might be thinner than I’d hoped.

My heart stutters at the mention of my birthday.

With the phone pressed to my ear, I scan the shadows of the street, half-expecting to see a figure stepping out to claim me. The voice on the other end, though disembodied, suddenly feels too close for comfort.

“Who am I speaking to?” I press, my voice barely above a whisper. The bustling street around me seems to slow, the sounds of city life dimming into a hushed backdrop.

The line crackles with a pause. “A friend,” he finally says. But his assurance does little to ease the knot tightening in my gut. “Listen carefully. The locker contains everything you need. Trust us.”

Trust them?

My laugh is hollow, lost in the ambient noise of Shanghai at night. Trust is a luxury I can no longer afford, not since discovering the deuterium stockpile, not since realizing the stakes involved. Every shadow could be an enemy, every friendly stranger a spy.

After I end the call, a shudder courses through me, leaving a trail of cold dread. I look around the dimly lit internet café, every corner now seemingly cloaked in threat, every friendly stranger a spy.

The quiet hum of computers and the occasional click of a mouse seem too loud in my heightened state of awareness. I pack my few belongings with hurried, shaky movements, my eyes darting to the café’s entrance and back to my screen.

Belongings?

I have the tablet and not much else. I don’t dare return to my quarters at Red Phoenix, which means it looks like I’m going to Manila with nothing but a mostly empty backpack carrying the fate of the world.

I thread my arms through the straps, wearing it backward, and grip it tight against my chest.

Stepping out into the night, the warm air hits me with a rush of smog and the faint smell of street food. Shanghai at night is a symphony of light and shadow, a city that never truly sleeps. I merge into the flow of the crowd, my senses tingling with every step that takes me further away from the supposed safety of the café.

Reluctantly, I edge toward the metro station, each step heavy with doubt. People’s Square is a vortex of activity, even in the late hours—lovers strolling hand in hand, night shift workers hurrying along, teenagers laughing in clusters. I weave through them, a specter with a satchel full of secrets.

The walk to the metro station is a short one, but tonight, it stretches out forever. Each step echoes ominously off the pavement, each passing face a mask of anonymity that could conceal friend or foe.

My heart beats a frantic rhythm, syncing with the rapid pace of my steps. I clutch my bag tighter against my chest, the contents within both my salvation and my curse.

As the bright lights of People’s Square Metro Station come into view, the reality of my situation sets in. This isn’t just another commute; it’s possibly my last journey through this part of the city.

My heart races as I enter the sprawling expanse of the People’s Square Metro Station. It hums with activity, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the dark thoughts swirling through my mind. The smell of oil and metal fills the air, mixed with the scents of thousands of commuters who pass through this hub each day.

It’s late, yet the station throbs with the pulse of a megacity—commuters streaming through turnstiles, a ceaseless tide of humanity. Here, surrounded by many, I am both exposed, anonymous, and very much alone.

My gaze flickers to the digital clock above—each minute brings me closer to danger or deliverance.

I navigate my way through the crowd, each face blending into the next. The electronic billboards flash with advertisements and public service announcements, their bright colors a jarring distraction. I reach the turnstiles, digging in my bag for the metro card, feeling the eyes of the station’s security cameras as if they are focused solely on me.

Passing through the turnstiles, I descend deeper into the station. The sounds of the city fade, replaced by the echoing announcements of arriving and departing trains and the rushed conversationsof thousands. The polished and sparkling tiled walls reflect the fluorescent lighting in a harsh, unflattering glow.

Locker 214.

The number is seared into my mind.

However, finding it feels impossible. I find it tucked away in a less frequented corridor of the station.

My hands are numb as I punch in the code—my birthday—a stark reminder of how exposed I am and how my personal details are just data points used in the calculation of my escape.

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