The lights always buzzed at midnight. It wasn’t the bright fluorescent kind you’d find in a convenience store or the flickering, cheap variety trailing off a bad crime drama. No, these lights were neon—elegant in their cold sterility, humming with life but devoid of warmth. At SkyVault Gym, where ambition came to perspire, everyone pretended not to hear them. Everyone except Isla.
Isla Carter adjusted the soft pink hem of her seamless tank top, her platinum blonde hair tied into a tight, utilitarian braid. She stood in front of a mirror wall that stretched endlessly in both directions, her polished sneakers practically glued to the black springboard floors. Sweat glistened subtly on her skin, catching in the angled lights that crisscrossed the ultramodern gym. The place never closed—not for holidays, not for storms, and certainly not for Isla. This was her sanctuary.
She stared at the leg press machine ahead, loaded with enough weight to make the average gym-goer rethink their life choices. Almost unconsciously, she swiped at the smartwatch strapped to her wrist. The interface flickered. Seven minutes left in her programmed workout. Seven minutes until…
“Excuse me.” The voice was deep, smooth, but with an edge sharp enough to carve doubts. Isla turned, instinctively tightening the muscles in her core, her expression neutral. The man didn’t belong here—that much was obvious. His tailored jacket had the gloss of corporate dominance, and his shoes were far too expensive to touch a rubber mat. But something about his build, the way his shoulders shifted to occupy just a bit more space than necessary, set her nerves on fire.
“Private members only,” Isla replied curtly, nodding toward the regulation sign featuring its tiny golden key icon. The gym wasn’t just any gym—it was a bastion for the elite: athletes, CEOs, impossible perfectionists. Yet here he was, unbothered, like he’d strolled into a bodega to buy gum.
He smiled. “You’re Isla Carter, right?”
Something cold slithered down her spine. She didn’t like the way her name sounded from his lips—tailored, deliberate, weaponized. Her fingers pressed on her smartwatch again, pretending to check the time. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend. Let’s keep it that way for now.” The smile didn’t reach his calculating green eyes. “Do you know how hard it was to find you? Off-the-grid people tend to leave messy breadcrumbs. But you? Clean. Professional. Almost too good.”
Isla’s heart pounded against her ribcage, but her face betrayed nothing. Years of training—both physical and mental—kept instinct and reason in perfect equilibrium. Still, he had managed to find her. And that meant one thing: her past had finally caught up.
The Extraction
“I’m just here to work out,” Isla said finally, turning back to the leg press. She knew better than to indulge a stranger—especially not one wearing shoes that could pay her rent three times over. “If you’ve got business with me, call my agent.”
“Oh, come on.” He chuckled softly, walking closer until the space between them grew uncomfortably tight. His cologne was subtle but powerful. “You think you can keep running? This isn’t about work or contracts. This is about… well, shall we call it unfinished business?”
Isla didn’t answer, her breath steady even as her pulse threatened to betray her. The man leaned in, lowering his voice. “Zenith sends its regards. Thought you’d like to know before things get… messy.”
Zenith. For the first time, her stoicism cracked. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and her posture shifted imperceptibly—a coiled spring ready to snap. “I’ve been out of the game for five years,” she said slowly, icily. “I have no interest in your little games. So crawl back to whatever hole you came from before I make you.”
The man smiled again, this time with a trace of satisfaction. “That’s what they said you’d say. You’re predictable, Miss Carter. Too bad you weren’t this predictable during Project Ghost.”
Her fingers tensed, curling into a fist at her side. She didn’t like that name. She hadn’t liked anything about that part of her life—the lies, the betrayal, the endless missions that left her covered in metaphorical blood. She had signed up for a better life back then, only to realize she’d sold her soul. And now, somehow, they were pulling her back in.
The Twist
But before Isla could retort or plant her fist in the stranger’s infuriatingly smug face, the lights flickered. What little noise there had been—the faint whirl of treadmills and the hum of the neon lights—vanished.
“What the—” he began, but Isla already knew. She could feel it. The sensation lit up every nerve in her body, like static electricity crawling the length of her arms and surging up her spine.
“EMP,” Isla muttered under her breath. “So, this isn’t just a pissing contest.” Her eyes darted to the reinforced glass windows as she backed toward the free weights rack. Outside, a blackened skyline winked out, one light at a time.
The man cursed loudly as he pulled a sleek earpiece from his pocket and barked into it, “Team Bravo, status report! Engage extraction protocol immediately. Confirm her location—she’s—”
“She’s still here,” Isla interrupted, her voice sudden and close. By the time he turned, Isla was holding a weighted bar in her hands like a staff. His lip curled in amusement, but she could see the tension creeping into his shoulders. He underestimated her. That much was clear.
No one underestimated Isla Carter twice.
Release
What happened next was a blur—lightning-quick reflexes and old instincts kicking in before she could fully process what was happening. Years of training weren’t lost, not even after five years of normalcy. She dispatched the man swiftly, leveraging angles and her own strength, leaving him groaning on the floor while she slipped off into the shadows just as backup arrived.
A few minutes later, Isla emerged into the clammy night air several blocks away, her braid slightly loosened and her breath coming fast. Her gaze hardened as she looked up at the moon, which glowed brighter now that half the city had gone dark.
They had found her. She had worked so hard to disappear, but they had still found her. The game had restarted—but if Zenith thought she was going to play by their rules again, they were sorely mistaken.
Epilogue
With a sharp inhale, Isla straightened her soft pink tank top, the gym still faintly etched onto her skin. The past five years had been about surviving. But now, it was time to fight back on her terms.
The buzz of neon lights hummed distantly in her ears, almost like a call. It wasn’t a question of if. It was just when.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Sleek Gym Glam: How to Rock Sporty Elegance
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