358. Missax | Exclusive Deal

She reached into my pocket—I hadn’t seen her hand move—and pulled out my access badge.

The last page was dated 1994. A single photograph—a black-and-white surveillance shot, grainy as television static. It showed a woman’s back, turning a corner in Prague. She wore a grey coat, her hair dark and short. And beneath the photo, typed in all caps: 358. Missax

“Why me?” I whispered.

And then nothing for thirty years.