The holographic projections shimmered, coalescing from a dozen scattered light particles into a fully rendered synthetic assailant. He wore the standard-issue 'Hostile-Zero' grey tactical gear, an assault rifle held in a ready stance. My pulse stayed flat against my wrist monitor. Another Tuesday, another attempt on a fictional dignitary's life inside the Aegis Academy's Zenith Hall. And another chance for me to prove that Chinta Kirana was the best operative the gleaming spires of Indraloka City had to offer. "Kirana, target acquisition in six seconds. Priority: Principal Safety." The automated voice, crisp and unwavering, echoed through the cavernous hall. On the far side of the faux lobby, 'Asset-07', a particularly unconvincing mannequin in a bespoke suit, stood oblivious. Up in the gallery, I spotted Irsan, his dark hair slicked back, a sneer already forming on his lips. His trial run yesterday had ended with 'Asset-04' sporting a rather unsightly pixelated head wound. Some people never learn that a flashy takedown means nothing if your principal ends up collateral. I gave him a small, insufferably confident smile. My boots, designed for silent movement, barely kissed the polished synthetic floor. The air hummed—the floor grid's active camouflage field, trying its best to obscure the approach of three more 'Hostile-Zero' units from a side corridor. Amateur hour, really. They always chose the side corridor. My movements were a blur of calculated efficiency. A low sweep disrupted the first hostile's footing, followed by an open-palm strike to his virtual throat. The projection flickered, then dissipated into data dust. The second, attempting a flank, met my elbow in his solar plexus before dissolving. The third, foolishly fixated on Asset-07, never registered my pivot. A quick wrench sent the projected rifle clattering to the tiles. The trial wasn't over. My eyes darted to the main entrance. The first target I’d neutralized was just bait. The real play, the one Irsan always fell for, was the rooftop marksman. A faint glint along the ceiling grid confirmed it. Without hesitation, I launched myself towards the nearest support pillar, scaling its smooth surface with the help of integrated grip pads. My body moved with a practiced grace, each muscle memory-perfect. Two seconds to reach the upper catwalk. Three more to identify the marksman's perch. A quick vault, a roll, and I took him down from behind before he could squeeze the trigger. "Hostiles neutralized. Asset-07 secured." My voice, though brisk, carried a bite of triumph. The hologram dissolved into static. From the viewing gallery, a smattering of applause broke out. Irsan, however, remained stony-faced. "Show-off," he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. "Anyone can memorize the Zenith Hall's default attack vectors." I dropped lightly back to the main floor, dusting off my hands. “And anyone can fail to notice the *additional* attack vectors, Irsan. Perhaps you should try watching the pre-mission briefing instead of flexing in the mirror.” Auntie Melati, head of operations and my unofficial godmother, emerged from the command booth, a wry smile playing on her lips. Her silver hair, usually pulled back in a severe bun, had escaped in a few wisps around her kind, discerning eyes. “Flawless, Chinta. As usual. Irsan, perhaps you could learn a thing or two.” Irsan scowled, retreating into the corridor. "Come to my office," Auntie Melati said, her voice dropping a notch. "We have a new client. One that requires your particular... talents." My strict operational code, my sharp focus, my ability to compartmentalize the blank void where my childhood should be. I followed her, my fingers tapping against my holster. Fresh contracts kept the nagging emptiness at bay. Auntie Melati’s office was a cozy anomaly in the Academy’s sleek, minimalist design. Overstuffed armchairs, a fragrant pot of jasmine tea, and shelves overflowing with actual, paper books. She gestured for me to sit, pushing a steaming cup my way. “Basri Laksmana,” she announced, placing a data slate on her polished desk. My fingers, still tingling from the simulation, hovered over it. “Heir apparent to the Laksmana OmniCorp. Current age: twenty-seven. Known for… a penchant for ‘extreme’ hobbies and a distinct lack of self-preservation.” I picked up the slate. Basri Laksmana. The family held the deed to the entire compound that housed our Academy. This meant guarding the heir whose family bankrolled my existence—and my only shot at piecing together my erased life. The profile picture showed a man with eyes that held a mischievous glint, framed by dark, slightly tousled hair. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a perpetually amused daredevil. *Trouble*, my professional instincts screamed. *Expensive, high-profile trouble.* I scrolled through the electronic dossier: a litany of close calls, public embarrassments, and a worrying ledger of unexplained incidents. His stepmother, Dewi Laksmana, was listed as primary contact—and flagged under risk factors. This wasn't routine close protection; it was a political minefield. Then I saw it. Tucked at the bottom of the dossier, an image of a faded, yellowed slip. A single line of script, slanted and hurried. My own handwriting, from before the amnesia, before I became the operative who lived by protocol and sharp retorts. “*Protect Basri Laksmana at all costs.*” A cold tremor snaked through me, unlike anything the simulation chamber could conjure. My breath caught. *My own writing?* A secret connection to this man, a client I was only just meeting, whose name I could barely recognize. What ‘costs’ had I been referring to? What had I known then that I didn't know now? The terror of the person I might have been, of the feelings I might have held, clawed at the rigid walls of my professional code. This wasn’t just an assignment. This was a direct command from my lost self. "Chinta?" Auntie Melati asked, her gaze steady on mine. "Are you alright?" I forced a smile, tucking the notecard’s image away into a separate, hidden memory file within my mind. "Fine. Just... a colorful background. He sounds like a handful." "He is. And tonight, he attends the Grand Indraloka Charity Gala. Your shift starts immediately." The Grand Indraloka Charity Gala was a shimmering spectacle of wealth and influence, held in the breathtaking Apex Dome, a crystal structure that seemed to float above the city’s highest spires. Beneath the dome’s ever-shifting light display, Basri Laksmana stood by a towering ice sculpture of a phoenix, laughing a little too loudly with a group of socialites, a glass of something iridescent in his hand. He hadn't spotted me yet, but I tracked his every gesture, scanning the ballroom for anomalies. My comms discreetly buzzed. “He’s aware of your presence, Chinta. Give him some space, he hates being shadowed.” Auntie Melati. "I'm not shadowing, Auntie. I'm mapping perimeter security." It was a lie, but a good one. He was currently making a public spectacle of being charmingly reckless, which was precisely the kind of behavior that attracted unwanted attention. Eventually, he broke away from his entourage, weaving through the glittering crowd towards the champagne bar. This was my opening. I moved with purposeful grace, closing the distance. "Mr. Laksmana," I began, stepping cleanly into his path. "Kirana. I've been assigned as your personal detail, effective immediately." He stopped, turning slowly. Up close, his dark eyes held unexpected depth, though an amused smirk quickly masked it. He took in my tailored charcoal suit and practical, low-heeled boots. A small, infuriating smile played on his lips. “Warden Kirana,” he drawled, his voice a smooth baritone. “My stepmother must be truly worried if she’s sending me… a babysitter. And such a serious one, too.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know how to have fun?” The slight went through me like a physical jab. *Babysitter?* After years of rigorous training, after putting my life on the line in countless simulations, after the gnawing mystery of my own past? My professional code bristled. But before I could deliver a perfectly calibrated retort, he waved a dismissive hand. “Look, I appreciate the effort, but I don’t need a shadow tonight. Go enjoy the caviar, Warden. My life, my rules.” Bystanders turned toward his raised voice, murmurs rippling across the circle. Heat flared in my cheeks. But as my lips parted, my peripheral vision caught a dip of motion—a slender hand angling smoothly toward Basri's breast pocket. My training overrode my annoyance. The slight was irrelevant; the breach was real. My hand locked onto Basri's forearm, pivoting him three inches to uncover the thief's reach. In one fluid leverage lock, I caught the stranger's sleeve and wrenched his radius inward until his knuckles sprang wide. A slim leather billfold clattered against the marble. Caught cold, the thief froze, his jaw slackening. The whispering knot of guests went quiet. I bent down, picked up Basri’s wallet, and then, with a barely perceptible flick of my wrist, I returned it to his inside jacket pocket, patting it firmly. My stare held the thief until he backed into the chandelier shadows and vanished. Then I looked at Basri, whose amused expression had vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock. "Mr. Laksmana," I said, keeping my pitch level enough to carry over the quieted crowd. "Standard procedure demands I secure your assets, corporate and personal. Your preferences are secondary to keeping you breathing. And as for fun?" I let a corner of my mouth curl. "My idea of fun is making sure you survive until breakfast." His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with a new, intense focus. He seemed to take in the steel beneath my calm demeanor, the quiet power behind my words. A slow grin spread across his face, disarming and entirely unscripted. "Fine. You're hired. But my life, my rules." *This wasn't in the protocol.*

Protocol and a Punchline