“There is a thin line between bravery and stupidity,” the stoic chief’s voice was echoing in my head. He’s been preaching this since day one at the academy until it became engraved at the back of our minds. I’m pretty sure even the janitors knew it.

Technically, I was on the same page as the chief, but my gut feeling had a brain of its own. Now it was screaming for me to sneak past the hysterical crowd into the hallway on the first floor where the dense, gray billows of smoke were coming from. There, I would probably find the Bogdanovs and would gather all the intel before any of the emergency services would arrive. 

Conflicted and hesitant, I took a breath so deep, I felt my stomach expand, uncomfortably digging into my tight-fitting jeans.

If I listened to my gut, I could perhaps salvage the mission that has been a complete failure since the day I stepped into this godforsaken country. But what if another bomb went off?

I couldn’t be so reckless, could I?

No.

I exhaled letting out a heavy sigh that instantly got swallowed by the blaring fire alarm, and then hurried downstairs towards the exit. It was the right thing to do, but I couldn't help but feel a hint of disappointment weighing on my chest.

I evacuated with at least fifty people, all opulently dressed in designer clothes and individually-tailored suits, except for me and a middle-aged lady in a bathroom robe, her hair sloppily piled under a damp towel. The sight of her in the cool evening air made me shiver involuntarily. 

While I was scanning the area, the crowd soon doubled in size, attracting attention from curious passers by. It was easy to distinguish those who resided at the Imperial Nevsky hotel from those grabbing lunch after their regular nine-to-five; not only by their attire, but also by the entitled and snarky attitude the guests were radiating. 

“Vanya told me it’s a water boiler that exploded, can you imagine?” said a woman in front of me, her pointed-toe kitten heel impatiently tapping against the pavement.

I slightly turned my head right, trying to eavesdrop on her without looking too obvious. However, an elderly man standing next to the bathrobe lady suddenly exclaimed so loudly, for a brief minute all I could hear was him and him alone, “Do you know how much I paid for my room?! And the VIP lounge? And they're making us stand here like we were some hobos?! I'm calling my lawyer," he paused, patting his pockets, “Shit, I left my phone in the room!” 

He kept grumbling, thankfully a bit quieter, until his voice was overshadowed by a much deeper one coming from behind, “We’ll be here for a while. The entire hotel is mined. It’s the terrorists. Americans or Poles. Americans most likely.” 

At least seven conspiracy theories, one fire brigade, four police cars and one ambulance later, I was yet to collect any useful intel. 

Having nothing better to do but wait, I glanced at my phone. A single low battery notification briefly flashed the screen. I pressed and held the shut down button, till all I could see was my own faint reflection coming from the black mirror-like display.

I had my brother's eyes, that's what my mom always kept telling me, but I'd just shake my head in disagreement. Now, however, in the faint evening light, even behind all the makeup, I could see his deep-brown stare observing me from below. 

My brother would have loved this job. He wouldn’t have given a damn about the safety nor the chief's lecturing. He would have jumped head first into the fire, igniting even more flames just for his own amusement. 

He’s always been reckless, he and his friends. I'd watch them leave the house, my eyes filled with longing and jealousy. They never wanted me to join their adventures as if my mere presence would spoil the experience. They didn't have a choice though; I quickly realized that if I complained to our mom with my red tear-streaked face and my sorrowful trembling voice, she'd force them to let me tag along.

On the weekends, they'd smash the windows at the abandoned fish factory. What started as just a pointless activity soon turned into a sport: the highest windows scored six points, the lower ones five and so forth. My brother always scored three or two, but then he’d act as if he was just warming up, making excuses about how he hadn’t found the right throwing angle or the wind was against him.

Afterwards we'd go to the nearby junkyard where they'd collect whatever trash they could, and later burn it at a makeshift fire pit behind the factory's walls. His eyes would sparkle with joy whenever he'd spot a spray-can bottle. It would usually burn for a minute and then explode with a boom so loud, it could be heard from our neighborhood.

I usually only watched their shenanigans from the sidelines, never really participating in any of it, even though I loved the melodic sound of the glass shattering, and the sight of the fierce flames—red, orange and if we were lucky, blue or green—made me giddy with excitement. 

What stopped me was an intrusive thought that left me scared stiff: I'd imagine our mom or one of our neighbors suddenly jumping out of the bushes, their faces twisted with anger. In this scenario they'd keep screaming at me as they'd drag me home by the ear. I never pictured what would have happened next.

My brother didn’t give a shit, though. He was brave, almost as brave as he was dumb. Maybe that's why he joined the military as soon as he turned eighteen and I chose to stay in our hometown to study psychology. 

Loud gasps from the crowd jerked me back to the present. I glanced at the hotel and shoved the phone into the purse. 

A few stretchers were being carried out from the entrance. I stood on my tiptoes, stretching my neck to see over the heads of the crowd. The first two stretchers carried the Bogdanovs; I recognized them by their mousy hair and nearly identical long faces, one way wrinklier than the other. The father was squeezing his left eye, his white shirt drenched in blood. The son, probably one of the older ones, lay lifeless, his bloody arms dangling down the stretcher like a broken marionette.

"Back away!" a tall, muscular yet baby-faced policeman appeared from nowhere, stretching the yellow crime scene tape around the metal posts, pushing the crowd further into the street.

Before stepping back, I caught a glance of the other four stretchers. They all carried suited up men, all four of them bloody, groaning in agony. I recognized only two of them: those were the faces of the oligarch Pavlov's sons; the same family I was intended to investigate before my plans were changed. 

Could it be that the two most influential families in Russia were discussing Anastasia? And who was insane enough to start a war with both of them?

A rush of excitement flushed my body. I couldn't wait to get home and update the chief. I squeezed past the hotel guests and the staff, all loudly complaining about not being able to get back to their rooms, and finally made my way out of the crowd to the bustling street. 

Suddenly, someone’s tight grip locked around my left wrist, stopping me abruptly and sending sharp pain from my injured shoulder. I jolted my head back.

Staring at me from under the yellow-tinted glasses were the dull eyes I hoped I'd never see again. It was the ass grabber. I forced a faint, confused smile. 

"Where do you think you're going?" officer Sokolov asked in a harsh, flat tone. 

"I was just leaving, officer." 

He frowned, his bushy eyebrows nearly touching one another. "No you're not."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. We both know what you're doing here." 

I flinched as he tightened his grip, cutting off circulation to my hand. Gone was the cheerful goofy old man who kept calling me Ms days ago. 

"You're hurting me," I said, not even trying to conceal my confusion. There was no way he could have recognized me; recognized Ms. Pavlova. Yet, Sokolov spoke so boldly, and looked at me with such revulsion as if… as if he knew something. He must be mistaking me for someone else. 

I remained quiet while he looked me up and down. For a brief second I imagined him as my partner, the one whose identity chief was so adamant to protect. It made me nauseous.

With a slow, stiff motion, he finally released my wrist and took a step closer. He reeked of cigarettes and the musty stench of damp clothes left in a washing-machine overnight.

"Good acting skills you’ve got," he said, looking me dead in the eye.

I opened my mouth, but before I could ask another question he continued, his voice much lower than before, nearly whispering, "A woman like you? In a hotel like this?" 

I felt my eyes widen. Oh. Ohhhh… 

"I could arrest you here and now, take you to the station, lock you up," Sokolov paused and slowly took out a lighter and a pack of Davidoff Classic from his left pocket. The translucent blue lighter, so small in his chunky palm, flickered a few times before he finally lit up a cigarette. "But that's too much of a trouble. And we don't want any trouble, do we?" he said and blew the smoke right into my face.

I squinted my eyes, but kept my expression neutral. Sokolov was old and as fit as a hibernating bear. However, he was armed, and at least eight much more capable policemen were working nearby. 

Calculating the safest escape plan, I smiled softly and nodded. "Got me, officer. Why don't we take this somewhere quieter?"

He let out a satisfying grunt and sent another cloud of smoke my way. "Good girl."

We walked quietly, Sokolov chain smoking the entire way. I kept my smile faint and obedient, but my eyes were tirelesly scanning the area, looking for the perfect crowd to disappear into.

We only passed one nearly empty street when he suddenly exclaimed, "C'mon! We ain't got the entire day!" Then, grabbed my wrist, shoving me by the entrance of a dark alley filled with nothing but a few dumpsters, one of them leaking a mysterious green fluid. 

I looked straight at Sokolov, but my gaze focused on the scene behind him: a family of four stormed out from a nearby shop. The parents were arguing heatedly, while the two tiny, identically dressed toddlers lagged behind. Bingo.

He wouldn't shoot a kid, would he?

"You're right, let's get this over with," I said and pointed to my hand he was clenching.

As soon as he released my wrist, I dashed forwards, pushing through the family, nearly knocking down the woman who briefly stopped shouting.

“You bitch!” I heard Sokolov’s scream fade into the background as I ran. 

A few moments later, I shot a quick glance over my shoulder—there wasn’t a trace of him, but I couldn’t risk stopping. From the ten years working with NIS, I knew one thing to be certain—a man with a bruised ego was capable of anything. Even if he was Sokolov. 

My lungs quickly filled with the chilly evening air, as I ran through Varshavskaya street. I knew it was a long one, but now it seemed endless: the taller fish-tank-like buildings were soon replaced by the hideous beige five-floor block houses so identical, I felt as if I was running in a loop.

I was supposed to turn right at the end of the street, where I could quickly ditch my blondie persona and safely return to my hotel.

I don’t know what came first—whether it was the same uncanny cigarette aroma or the familiar husky voice pronouncing my name with a harsh Russian "j" sound, or whether everything happened at the same time—but I stopped dead in my tracks, without thinking twice.

Catching my breath, I swiftly looked around. On my right, at the entrance of one of the beige house’s inner yards stood a figure. Concealed by a heavy shadow, it calmly waved at me with one hand, and with the other threw a half-smoked cigarillo my way. It lightly bounced on the rough unevenly paved ground and fell a few meters in front of me, the purple star-shaped logo tauntingly facing me.

Its scent, once uncanny and foreign, now seemed to greet me like an old friend. Despite that, every logical cell in my body was screaming for me to run, not to step closer to the figure that nearly killed me on the roof that fateful day.

Funny how I couldn’t bear watching movies where the oblivious characters would step into haunted basements or dark dangerous alleyways. And now I was one of them. Hell, even worse, I knew it was a trap, but I still felt drawn towards the danger. I was dumber than a brainless moth nose diving into the flames. Dumber than my brother.

But how bad could it be if I just peeked at him from a safe distance? It was important to know your enemies, after all. I could feel my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I forced down a dry gulp.

The chief would have killed me if he saw what I did next. I glanced over my shoulder, then stepped forwards into the  archway until half of my body was submerged in the shadow.

And that’s when I met her.