Mom, I'm sorry. 

I wasn't supposed to die so soon. 

I should have fixed that leaky tap in your kitchen. I should have given you grandkids, at least. Though, with my luck, I would have probably flooded the house and died during childbirth. Tragic. 

Anyways, mom, I'm really sorry. I wish I could hear your voice one last time. Hopefully, you will never find out about your daughter's ties to NIS. And that she died less than two hours into her first big-girl mission...

It was a pure chance that I managed to escape the four gunmen with nothing but a bullet wound in my left shoulder. But that was where my luck ran out. Soon after that, my navigation unit froze, leaving me stranded in yet another endless commie-block neighborhood. 

To make matters worse, I stuck out like a sore thumb: in the land of knock-off Adidas tracksuits and flat caps, I was currently disguised as a wealthy Japanese businessman in a meticulously crafted navy-blue suit. Oh, and my entire sleeve was drenched in blood.

I took a sharp left turn and dashed to the nearest nine-story apartment building. The metal entrance doors were easy to spot, but they wouldn't budge no matter how hard I pulled. A combination lock... great. 

Sweat kept dripping down my temples as I mashed random button sequences. One, two, three, four-nothing. Zero, zero, zero, zero-nothing. Six, nine, six, nine. Nothing.

In frustration, I kicked the entrance. The sole of my derby shoes imprinted into the metal with a loud clunk, and... That's when the doors briefly creaked open. Fucking idiot. I had to push. 

To my surprise, the interior was even gloomier than the gray, boxy apartment-block facade. The entire stairwell reeked of piss-human, most likely-and the vomit-green popcorn walls, scrawled with Cyrillic swear words, added a nice touch of obscenity. But at least they kept me out of the outside world. For now.

Before I could switch identities and contact the chief, I had to treat my shoulder. For that, I chose the 66th apartment on the 6th floor. Because if anything went wrong, at least I could blame it on the devil. On top of that, it turned out that it had a lock any idiot could pick. It clicked within less than 30 seconds. 

I held my breath. The metal door handle, now warm and damp under my sweaty palm, let out a painful creak as I lowered it. I was ready. Ready to bandage my arm, or get attacked with a rolling pin or with a pan, or whatever the Russian way was. 

I swung the door open.

"Meow," a horrendous, flat-faced cat greeted me from the hallway ahead. I stepped inside. Silence. 

Just by swiftly looking around, I could count five items that belonged to a museum-a neon orange dial phone mounted on a hallway wall being one of them. Even more ancient junk was littered throughout the entire apartment; too bad neither time, nor my shoulder were on my side. I would have loved to explore all the foreign 70's clutter. 

Instead, I quickly peeked at the remaining rooms, checking the most plausible hiding spots, and just like that, the 66th apartment was officially cleared. Not counting the furry devil, of course.

I'm safe. 

A deep sigh of relief emerged from within my soul. It was supposed to soothe me-I've been breath hungry for hours-but instead, it flipped a switch, or something. Suddenly, I could feel it all: my sweat soaked undershirt clinging to my skin, the hot pulsing shoulder, and a ghastly smell of blood mixed with the dusty air. My head shook involuntarily, as if refusing to face the reality I was thrown into, but overthinking was a luxury I couldn't afford. 

The blue eyed cat watched me from the hallway as I gathered the supplies: the first aid kit, a bottle of vodka, and a chef's knife. I dropped them on the bathroom floor next to my briefcase and began inspecting the wound. The bullet had slightly grazed me, tearing through the muscle and leaving a jagged path in its wake. What a relief, I won't have to dig into my flesh. 

Once cleaned up and bandaged, I finally faced the mirror. Through the foggy and spotted glass, the exhausted face of Mr. Iwasaki, my undercover identity, was staring back at me. Dressed in a sleek blood smeared shirt, he was rather handsome for a middle-aged Japanese billionaire. Or at least he had been, hours ago, before those Russian gangsters attempted to kidnap his ass.

"What a day, huh, Mr. Iwasaki?" I whispered to myself and took off the chest binder. It slid off with a relief, finally freeing my breasts. I felt itchy, but I instantly put the bloody shirt back on-I couldn't bear being naked when I could feel that cat's stare from meters away.

The prosthetic snow-white skin was the toughest to remove. It peeled bit by bit in small chunks, slowly uncovering my irritated complexion. Until, finally, it was my own face reflecting in the mirror before me.

All this effort and I still could pass for a man. At least fifteen years younger, bare faced and much tanner, but still a mister. I chuckled, still staring at the mirror. If my brother could see me now, he'd choke from laughter. 

Even though he was a few years older, I had always been taller than him until he hit puberty, and outgrew us all. Until then though, I'd tower over him, often making strangers mistake us for one another. Each time it happened, I'd begin sobbing uncontrollably, thus launching an anti-pants and anti-everything-boyish campaign that would last for at least a couple of weeks. 

My brother, on the other hand, never fussed about being mistaken for a girl. Instead, he found it so hilarious, he'd mockingly call me Hyung for years to come. I'd burst into tears whenever he'd do that, but now I'd do anything to hear his rude, screechy voice teasing me.

However, I couldn't be Hyung now. I had to get rid of Mr. Iwasaki. His ID easily slid into the cigarette holder's hidden compartment. It was Ms. Pavlova's turn, but she needed some pampering. 

I only got to brush out my short, disheveled hair, when the fluffy devil meowed from the hallway. I didn't even notice how or when it stopped watching me. Then, suddenly, a click. And then the doors creaked. 

Shit. 

I braced myself, ready to knock out the poor cat person. But as soon as I peeked into the hallway, my heart skipped a beat. 

No way. 

"Surprise," a familiar coldblooded voice hissed. It was one of the four gunmen; the same bald guy in an oversized suit, who had shoved me into the back of the BMW a few hours ago. 

One second he was there, by the entrance door, and the other-all over me, grabbing my collar, pinning me down against the hallway wall. His face was so close, his smothering cigarette and hangover breath was inescapable.

I was about to shove him away when a sudden, fierce blow set my jaw on fire. Then, another one, so vigorous, stars flickered in my vision. Besides the stars, I caught a glimpse of the flashy orange shade on my right. The dial phone. 

With one swift movement, I grabbed the receiver. Summoning all of my strength, I smashed it straight to the bastard's head, again and again, until the neon orange plastic turned red, and the attacker finally took a slight, wobbly step back. 

"Fucking churka!" He roared, right hand clasping his wound, left reaching for his gun.

I hooked my foot around his ankle and gave it a sharp tug. He stumbled and was about to fall backwards, right next to the ajar bathroom door. That's when the world moved for me too. The fucker managed to grab onto me, sending us both flying straight on the floor, his gun clattering away behind us.

I landed right on top of him, my injured shoulder painfully absorbing some of the impact. Apparently the bastard got it worse. He must have hit his head in the perfect spot: his eyes no longer blazed with fury, but rolled back, and his reeking mouth gasped for air instead of spewing slurs.

"Pathetic," I muttered and, still towering over him, glanced back to look for the gun. Out of the blue, his fist met my aching jaw once more. That piece of shit. What the fuck was he thinking? The blow was feeble-it barely hurt-but was strong enough to ignite rage so scorching, it overpowered my mind. 

I snatched the knife from the bathroom floor, and lodged it straight into his left shoulder, the exact spot where I was shot. It tore into his skin with a wet, nasty sound I haven't heard in ages. Now we were even.

"You fucking psycho, I'll kill you!" he screamed, his words still slurred, hands shoving my bloody grasp so hard, I couldn't pull out the knife. So, using all of my strength I dug it even deeper, then jumped to my feet. 

A tirade of swear words, now perfectly articulated and fluent, spilled from the attacker still laying on the floor. But by the time I retrieved his pistol and pointed it to the bastard's face, he was a changed man-his voice as sweet as honey, begging, pleading to spare his precious life. I don't know what impressed me more, his acting abilities or that he thought I was Mr. Iwasaki despite my face being, well, obviously, mine, and definitely not Japanese.

I would have loved to witness his brain paint the bleak beige linoleum floor. But, something stopped me. My conscience, perhaps. Or just the sheer thought of the fluffy devil feasting on human flesh. 

So I pointed the pistol to his shin and shot it. Twice. The silencer barely muffled the sound, making my ears ring so hard that I could barely hear my own thoughts. 

"Fuck!" he roared clenching his leg, "You cowardly pidar! They're coming, you hear me, you're dead!"

I grabbed my stuff and dashed to the stairwell, leaving the screams behind.

Fuck . 

He might have been right. Loud, rapid footsteps echoed from below. I was dead. 

I don't know how I ended up on the roof. From that moment onwards everything was a blur. When the three men surrounded me, I still held the pistol; when four turned into ten, maybe even more, I simply dropped to my knees, hands up in the air, pistol clanging on the rooftop floor. 

I did consider jumping or swallowing the cyanide pill concealed in one of my shirt's buttons. But I couldn't. I just prayed to whatever twisted gods were watching over me that no man would find out I wasn't Mr. Iwasaki. I would rather be killed as a man than suffer the consequences of being a woman surrounded by those low-lifes. 

"Fucking bastard, not so brave anymore, huh?" one of the men laughed, kicking my stomach.

Oxygen fled my body, letting agony take its place. Another sharp hit, this time from behind, and I collapsed, right cheek pressing against the cold, rough rooftop floor.

This was it, huh? At least those racist bastards still thought I was the same Japanese guy. Once a Hyung, always a Hyung. 

One more robust blow to the crown of my head, sharp, overpowering. My vision went static. Using its last efforts, my body contracted in agony, and then went entirely numb. It wasn't a bad feeling.

Cool, damp gray overtook everything-my body, my mind and my vision. I wasn't sure whether it was the floor I was seeing, or the commie blocks or the sky. Or the insides of my skull.

Mom... 

A pair of brand-new Adidas sneakers briefly illuminated the dark background. Then gray again. Muttered speech, a few laughs, loud and juicy. And finally, a cold pistol pressing against the back of my head.

I'm sorry.

It was just a matter of seconds before the fatal click. Wasn't life supposed to flash before my eyes? A movie featuring my beloved faces, ones I'll miss seeing, and the others I couldn't wait to see in the afterlife. And I wanted to see them both now more than ever before. Then, why the hell all I could think of were regrets? And that stupid flat-faced cat that probably fled the apartment.

The movie never came to be. Neither did the click. Just a faint bang and a thud. And shouts. Shouts turned into screams, and screams turned into a cacophony of deafening gun shots. Until finally. Silence. 

It might have been a second. It might have been an hour. I couldn't tell, and I couldn't care less. It felt oddly good laying curled up in this gray, numb existence. As light as a feather, painless, blissful. 

I could have stayed like this forever, but someone had to ruin it.

"Take off your shirt for me, will you?" a young, raspy voice commanded, snapping me back to reality, slowly awakening my body back into its misery.

"What?" I tried to ask, but I only let out a whiny grunt. 

Desperate, I gasped for air. My lungs filled with an uncanny aroma, I could even taste it: smoke, cherries, and red wine. And something else. Something familiar, yet I couldn't put my finger on it. But I was certain-it was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

"Okay, I'll do it myself then."

"No. Don't." My words came out jagged. 

I was still lying pressed against the floor, when two hands wrapped around me from underneath. They turned me to the side so slightly, I barely moved. Yet the pain came rushing back, igniting flames throughout my entire body. Fuck, why wouldn't my body cooperate? 

Slowly, he began undoing my buttons, starting from the bottom one. Despite my burning lungs, I held my breath as the hands continued, their movements, soft and precise. Rhythmic. Until they brushed against my chest. 

No, no, no...

The hands froze, briefly, as if startled. Then, lightly, squeezed my breasts, and only then resumed their pace, unbuttoning me. If I could have moved, I would have swallowed that cyanide pill without a second thought.

I exhaled only when I was stripped down to my undershirt.

"Your shoes too," he said and proceeded to remove them, slowly.

Just what the hell was this freak thinking? Do it quickly and let me go back to the gray void. 

But once my shoes were off, there were no more hands. No more raspy voice. No more muffled bangs. Nothing. Just the awakening pain and that uncanny smell... I took a deep breath, as deep as my shattered body allowed, and let the aroma overflow my mind. 

I recognized it. It wasn't just the smoke, cherries and red wine. It was also the green, earthly smell right before it rained. And a forest engulfed in vicious flames. Fire, devouring everything in its path. Leaving no man alive.

I focused on the gray hues, until I could finally see the texture of the rough ground I was slumped on. Not just that. In the corner of my eye lay a fat half-smoked cigarette with a red logo stapled to its brown paper. The leftover tobacco was still lit, sending the aromatic fumes my way.

Was this person an idiot? Leaving evidence in broad daylight? 

Before I got my body to cooperate, before my vision fully recovered, the air filled with the cigarette smell and the distant sounds of sirens. They grew louder and louder, until all I could hear was the sound of red and blue, and all I could feel was fire.