Code: Juleit

Vale was the most trusted agent in the entire agency, and yet… her?

"Are you sure, Mercutio?" I asked, my voice tense.

"Pretty sure," he said, exhaling sharply. "We were at a café. She went outside to take a call, and I waited. A few minutes later, she texted me, saying she had to leave for a case. Then, when I started my car..." He hesitated, his brows furrowing as if trying to piece the moment together.

I placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Get some rest. We'll figure this out."

Without another word, I stepped out of the hospital, the cold night air hitting me as I walked to my car. I gripped the steering wheel, my mind racing. Something didn't add up. It wasn't just about Vale tampering with his brakes—or even about her being his girlfriend. The footage told an entirely different story.

Mercutio claimed they were at a café, but the surveillance video showed them in a casino parking lot. And Vale… she wasn't dressed for a case or a casual date. She wore a shimmering party dress, the kind you'd wear for something important—something planned. Then there was her expression as she answered that call near his car. Fear. Not hesitation, not surprise, but pure, unmistakable fear. Like someone had forced her hand.

Someone was playing with us. Manipulating every move.

Is Juliet really alive?

I wasn't so sure anymore. It felt like a trap, a game set up by someone who knew exactly how to twist the knife. Someone who knew my history with Juliet.

But who?

I pulled into my driveway, parked in the garage, and locked the car. As I walked toward the front door, a strange sensation crept over me—an unfamiliarity in my own home. Something was off.

Then I noticed it. A scent.

Roses.

A pleasant yet chilling fragrance filled the air.

My breath hitched. Was she here?

I forced myself to stay calm, fingers tightening around the gun tucked into my waistbelt. Moving cautiously, I climbed the stairs and entered my room. My eyes scanned every inch—nothing looked disturbed. My files were untouched, drawers still locked. There was no sign of forced entry.

Then why was she here? What was she trying to do?

I checked every corner, searching for a hidden camera, a listening device—anything. Nothing.

I sat on my bed, rubbing my temples, frustration clawing at me. "What the hell is she trying to pull?"

Then I saw it.

A note.

Lying on my pillow, carrying that same intoxicating rose scent.

My pulse pounded as I picked it up, my fingers tightening around the delicate paper. The words were printed, not handwritten.

"You think I might not be Juliet, but Romeo… aren't you supposed to tell Juliet of your love? But if you're struggling, let me remind you…

Red paint on walls, blue paint on canvas. I waited at the site, but you never showed up. Why?"

My grip on the note tightened. My blood ran cold.

How?

That phrase—those words—were meant to stay between me and her.

Which meant…

She is.