I’ve always been a patient kid. Not because I was more virtuous than a regular five-year-old. I just learned that patience paid off. For instance, I always saved up my monthly allowance to buy manhwa instead of wasting it on packs of gum, like my friends did. Even when they started selling those square cardboard-tasting gum pieces with Seo Taiji and Boys stickers inside, I only bought a few. 

In this manner, patience quickly became an essential part of my identity. If I wanted something, all I had to do was to focus and remain calm—whether it was patiently getting over the steep learning curve when studying a new language or listening to men yap about their crazy exes and their favorite football teams when attempting to date.

Now, however, my patience was running low. 

I probably have been sitting here for at least five hours, I couldn't be sure; the square plastic clock on the interview room’s wall was dead, stuck at two PM and the only window in front of me was broadcasting the last sun rays of the day. It was still midday when I was brought here.

With each passing minute, I became less and less aware of my aching body. And it was all thanks to someone who gave me a headache so severe, it overtook my other senses.

His name was Ivan Sokolov; soon to be retired police detective, but a really well-known one, as he humbly bragged when I met him soon after I was carried down from that damn roof. Currently sitting at a little wooden desk in front of me, he was glued to his computer screen, almost as ancient as he himself, typing slowly, one finger at a time, using his pointers only. 

It was his third attempt to interview me: during the first one, the computer froze, deleting everything he had transcribed, and during the other two, he swore he pressed the right button, but somehow the system had restarted itself. Sure.

“And then you saw a guy with a strawberry cigar?” he couldn’t nail down the few speckles of truth I’ve sprinkled over my story.

“No,” I smiled, but my eye was slightly twitching, “I didn't see him. And it was a cigarillo, not a cigar. And cherries, not—you know what, officer, you were right. Strawberries.” 

Sokolov grunted as if it was him who had taken a beating. His hefty index finger hit the delete button twice so violently, it sent vibrations throughout the entire desk.

I swallowed my frustration, and answered the same few questions a dozen times. Judging by the way I was treated, gang violence here was as common as pick-pocketing in Myeongdong during spring. No one batted an eye when I spouted my bogus retelling of what had happened. They just nodded along, as if it was yet another regular Monday. I even heard one of the officers scoff, “oh brother, not this again.”

“I think we’re done here,” said Sokolov, pushing his square yellow-tinted glasses back up the bridge of his bulbous nose.

Finally. 

“That’s great, detec—”

“We're getting more and more of these gang related activities, Ms,” he interrupted me, “no easy job being a cop these days.” 

“I'm sure you've been through a lot.”

”You have no idea, Ms. Working overtime every single day.”

“That’s rough.”

“Anyway, Ms," he glanced at the computer screen, "Ms Pavlova, you’re almost good to go, just sign this,” he hit the keyboard once and turned around in his office chair, exposing a beige boxy printer previously concealed by his own broad frame.

A few minutes later, the printer let out a prehistoric mechanical groan. I hadn't heard this sound since the high-school days, and even then, it probably was coming from a newer device.

"Eet eeet eeet," the printer kept buzzing and buzzing, until finally, on a piece of continuous feed paper a single line emerged. A single line. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief and faced Sokolov who was smiling softly through his messy moustache, completely content with the printing speed.

By the time my interview was printed out, the sun had already set. I squiggled a forged signature and slowly got up, "so, I guess that's it, officer?"

Sokolov nodded with the same cheeky grin and slowly walked near the door, opening it wide and gesturing for me to go. As soon as I thanked him and stepped outside, I felt his sweaty palm briefly grabbing my butt. 

"I'll never see him again, I'll never see him again," I kept chanting in my mind as I left the interrogation room without looking back. In an ideal world, I would have chopped his entire arm off. But this was Russia.

I settled in a run-of-the-mill hotel, I chose only because it was conveniently located right at the edge of the city center and had two fire exits perfect for a quick escape. It also had a decent coffee shop where I managed to grab a large black coffee right before it closed down for the day.

Once in the room, I instantly called the chief and filled him in on my latest misfortunes. I skipped the part where I was groped, of course.

He listened quietly without interfering, and spoke only after the silence had settled. His voice was firm, but less demanding than usual, “it wasn't your fault. Our associate should have picked you up from the airport, but Bogdanov's pawns got to you first.”

"Bagda who?” I asked, confused and took a sip of my already lukewarm coffee. I had never heard that surname before.

“Bogdanovs. There have been some… rather unexpected developments. We have a new major oligarch family in the game.”

“I see,” I sighed; I had already memorized over a hundred names for the mission, one more family won’t do more harm, perhaps. "So what's my next move?”

“After assessing the situation, we were forced to make some changes.” 

“Yes?” 

“We might appoint you a partner.”

“Wasn't this supposed to be a solo mission?”

“Yes—but—we have miscalculated the risks. We’ll get back to you once we finalize the plans. For now, lay low, take a few days off.”

“Wait, don’t hang up. At least tell me who my partner is?”

There was a brief pause before he answered, “this partner is a valuable contact of ours. We cannot risk the information leaking. From now on we will communicate via encrypted messages only. No more calls for a while. Not even to your mother. Got it?”

“Yes, chief.” I barked obediently. “But… it wasn’t just a random shootout, was it? All the men—all twelve of them—were killed. I checked the police report twice while stuck in the interview room. Chief,  I—” I felt my neck tense and my mouth dry instantly leaving only the stale bitter taste of coffee as I spoke, “I didn't survive. I was spared. And that person? He knows it wasn’t Mr. Iwasaki on that roof. He knows, chief.”

“Encrypted messages only.”

I sighed again, this time loud enough for the chief to hear. He wasn’t going to tell me shit. “Yes, chief. Understood. Goodbye.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah? ”

“I’m glad you’re okay. I was really worried.”

“Thanks, chief.”

“Alright, then. Goodbye. Stay safe”

“Thanks again. Goodbye, chief.”

I called my mom next.