Constant in All Other Things
Chapter 1
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected] - https://www.patreon.com/fakeminsk)

“Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.”
Much Ado About Nothing

Synopsis:
It may be the right thing to do, but after an assassination attempt leaves him nearly dead, David Saunders is forced to rely on Special Agent Katherine Smith to keep him alive. But how, with one of the most powerful men in the world in pursuit, sworn to your humiliation and destruction?

Zero: Not a Woman (Prologue)
I stand, gun pointed at his head.

The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago, I would’ve sworn to having never seen a handgun before--not outside of one of those movies Tom likes and I hate, or in some horrible fever dream. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics. Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip. The feel of the cold metal is once again familiar: its textured grip, the deadly weight.

But then, many new things have become familiar in the past two years: the flash of glossy pink on the painted nails resting at the pistol’s trigger; the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of vision; the slick taste of lipstick. The precarious balance and high arch of stilettos is comfortable now. I’ve learned to love my breasts, their feel and touch and weight—the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them, and even the feel of a man’s strong hand over them.

But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that . . . that will never be familiar. Now one of the bastards responsible sits tied to a chair, hands behind his back, face bloodied and back bowed. I stand, gun pointed at his head. There is beauty to the simplicity of the image. My slender bared shoulder and outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles from the weight of the weapon. It is not indecision that causes the tremble. There is a metre of empty space, and then Tom’s face, bruised eyes squeezed shut in fear. Not for the first time I admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence. After all I’ve endured: finally, revenge.

The moment he opens his eyes I’ll shoot. I want to see the look in my husband’s eyes one last time.

“Oh, God. Please, no, don’t do this.” His voice pleads and I thrill at the power I hold over him. It’s been so long since I’ve felt powerful. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so—it doesn’t—have to be this way. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t answer. The gun begins to feel heavy. In some ways I’m a lot weaker than I used to be.

“Cindy,” he says. “Please.”

“My name is not Cindy,” I hiss.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “David,” he says.

“Say it again.” I want to shout but my voice catches in my throat and finally escapes hardly louder than a whisper. This has already gone on for too long, and there isn’t much time. The sound of other violence outside the room, of other dramas unfolding, lives ending, retributions being paid or earned, steadily grows. “Open your eyes.”

“David,” he repeats.

“Look at me!”

He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most alluring feature of a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I did.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger.

Part One: Doing the Right Thing
“You’re doing the right thing,” Agent K said. “Something good.” Her name was Special Agent Katherine Smith, and she was my guardian angel. I’d taken to simply calling her K. It annoyed her, which is why I did it. Tall and slender in a sleek grey suit, she stood by me and her grip on my shoulder was strong as she looked down and straight into me. “Trust me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one stepping in front of a packed courtroom in front of Jeremiah-fucking-Steele, accusing him of murder. This guy wasn’t some backstreet thug who’d knocked over a liquor store. He was a rich—terribly rich—and powerful—extremely powerful—man, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty piece of work. The media mill churned out endless rumours that had him involved in all kinds of stuff. Shady stuff, you know?

He was also my boss.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t scare easily. Growing up, I got involved in some pretty heavy shit, the kind of shit you bury deep and do your best to forget about. I’m not particularly proud of my past. I’m not ashamed of it either. But if the people I know now found out the stuff I’ve done? That’d probably be the last of the few friendships I enjoyed.

Now, one of the few unquestionable wisdoms I’d cultivated from my youth—a lesson learned through pain and loss—was knowing who -not- to fuck with. I knew better than to mess with a mean bastard like Jeremiah Steele. Squealing on him was asking for a whole world of pain and retribution. So Agent K reassuring me I was doing the right thing sort of missed the point. I knew full well what I getting myself into and I had my own goddamn reasons for doing so, and it being the “right thing” wasn’t really one of them.

See, I’m a mean bastard myself. I really am; I’m not a nice guy. Now, being an asshole has done me well in my current line of work. It’s a different world than when I was a kid – but not that different. Back then I ran with a gang and did… other shit. Now I’m a director for NeoPharm, I mingle with execs and all that shit and it only takes a peek beneath the surface to see this corporate existence isn’t exactly holding the moral high ground. Sure, there’s the Saville Row suits and Nikke Sekkei offices and the fountains might as well spew Moet for all the conspicuous wealth on display. Even better, there’s always some fine, young piece of ass walking through the office in a tight skirt and heels, ready to cash in a fine meal, a few stiff drinks and the right line of chat for a good fuck. But all that corporate respectability’s nothing more than a thin veneer laid over the self-serving pricks and back-room politics going on, the relentless, empty grabbing at power and wealth, like Chanel sprayed over a pile of dogshit.

Seriously, I thought I was an asshole, but then my old company got bought out by NeoPharm, and our new corporate overlords? They made even me feel good about myself. And yeah, NeoPharm. You buy their products. You’ve got their vaccine inside of you. They saved the world, apparently, and now it’s the boss’s flagship holding company and I swear, sometimes it feels half the world’s a subsidiary of Jeremiah fucking Steele’s corporate empire.

I was starting to look for another job when it all started, this whole, twisted fucked up series of events. If only I’d gotten out faster. I’d taken my time looking for a job. The Earth was still barrelling headlong into self-immolation, plagues and pandemics ran rampant and people were more fucked up than ever by the internet, by drugs, by their own hopeless expectations–but fuck it, the economy was strong and a healthy pay check made me picky. I just didn’t want to work for a scumbag like Steele. Like I said, I’m an asshole but even I’ve got my limits. Some things I just won’t do. I’d like to think I’ve got a, you know, code or something, although that makes it sound far grander than what it is. It’s not like I’ve ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it. Trust me, I’m not that clever. It’s not the bloody Hagakure or anything like that. I’m no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and what I think is wrong.

For instance, I’ll never backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that’s the worst thing a man can do, because a friend--a real friend? One you can trust with your back?--is the most valuable thing you’ll ever have in this world. When you get down to it, there ain’t much I wouldn’t do for a friend. This I’ve learned the hard way, and even if I’ve not got that many, I take care of the ones I’ve got.

And so, yeah, I didn’t need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steels blow some guy’s head off, right there on the top floor of our corporate HQ.

Did I same ‘some guy’? Ha! Georgio Antazzi wasn’t just some guy, any more than Sakura was just some girl I once worked for. And
yeah, I said Antazzi--that guy, the son of Antonio Antazzi, mob boss and underworld psychopath. Georgio: the apple of his father’s eye, the billionaire golden boy, the one who’d gone legal and done good.

Seeing those two together carried all kinds of implications. The video footage off my phone made those implications concrete: underworld connections, the intimidation and murder of corporate rivals, the movement of highly illicit substances across internal and international borders. And then there’s the scintillating dialogue overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the floor; the clip of Steele unloading three bullets into the other man’s head was the stuff of the prosecution’s wet dreams.

So, yeah, chance to take down the bad guy? Especially when that guy’s your boss? Of course I’m going to do it. Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. Agent K figures that with my testimony there’ll be enough on Steele to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries that’ll be launched into his shady dealings. And if the legal system doesn’t get him, she figures, then the backlash he’ll suffer from his allies and enemies should do him in. Even a man like Steele has to worry about the likes of Antazzi. Agent K seemed to have some kind of personal grudge against that Steele which was fine by me.

Me, I’m not so sure anything I say or show in that courtroom’s going to make much difference. Men like Steele, they get away with murder and theft and worse the way a sexy girl with a pretty smile dodges a speeding ticket.

So why do this?

Two reasons: because I can’t stand the fucker; and because of Tom.

Now, pissing off a guy like Jeremiah Steele can get you worse than killed. I was, in some ways, an ideal candidate for bearing witness against the man. I’m lucky, I guess, that I don’t have any family to worry about. Mom and I aren’t exactly close; or to be more precise, as far as she’s concerned I disappeared or died years ago, and I doubt she cares. I didn’t exactly have a lot of friends, and the few I’d consider close I hadn’t seen in years. More to the point, they can take care of themselves: any dumbass going after them will deserve whatever they get.

And as for me--well, fuck it. I felt strangely ambivalent about walking away from my job, my condo, and the shit I’d accumulated over the past ten years. I’d worked hard to get where I was, and felt some pride in that. Yet at the same time, I felt like I could just walk away from all that shit and not miss it at all.

So, yeah, normally the thought of putting myself forward for something dangerous wouldn’t have me too worried. After all, even though I haven’t had to in years, I knew I could make myself disappear if necessary. It’s one of the few benefits of a messed up childhood: you learn to take care of yourself.

This was different, though. This was Jeremiah Steele.

I’ve rubbed shoulders with the powerful before, with the but nobody in this guy’s league. The dude’s seriously dangerous. Vengeful. Even if only half the rumours are true, you don’t get away from this guy. Unfortunately, rumours are usually only half the real story. In my experience, it’s the really scary stuff that people don’t know about.

Really, my only real concern in all this is Tom. I dragged him into this and if anyone finds out he’s fucked. He’s way out of his league with this shit, and yeah, I feel guilty for dragging him into this. But if I do this thing, hopefully he’ll come out okay and escape Steele’s attention.

“You ready?” K asked.

I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Two: Sexy Little Number
It went well. K led me into the dark-panelled room and sat me down, where I waited into the legal folks called on me to speak. The proceedings were running under a media blackout – no cameras, no phones – and security was heavy. I doubt Steele even noticed me as I entered. There was no reason for him to recognize me, another peon in his managerial hierarchy. On the other hand, I definitely recognized him—for all the shadiness of his off-record activities, he maintained an open and curated media personality. He was a tall man, just under two meters, muscular, and distinctively bald. He carried himself with a confidence, an arrogance that made a mockery of the proceedings, as though the procedure of human justice were just a mild inconvenience.

Steele eyed me curiously when I was called to speak. There was something seriously discomforting about the way he watched people – like he was dissecting them, frankly assessing their worth to him, or how he could profit from the breakdown of their component parts. There was something definitely uncomfortable in the way he stared at me, unblinking, during the entirety of my speaking.

Fortunately, I’m a pretty fucking confident guy as well. I described what I saw precisely and succinctly, and it went well. It helps that I’m a good-looking guy. I am—and I don’t mean that in a conceited way. It’s just an unfortunate truth that good-looking people get treated better; everyone knows that. The fact I was easy on the eyes of Steele’s lawyer—that I could openly flirt with her—made driving these nails into Steele’s coffin all the more satisfying.

So yeah, I get listened to and treated well and it’s not fucking fair but there you have it. At 165 cm I’m a touch under average for a guy, but what of it? I couldn’t care less, and if some bitch thinks I’m too short to date then fuck her. It’s her loss.

And I keep myself looking good. I’m not overly invested into the fashion thing but know where to shop and spend good cash to wear nice clothes. Dad was Japanese or something, a businessman of some kind if you believe Mom—which I don’t, and I’ve never met the bastard. But I got my good looks from both of them, I guess. From him, a smooth face; the best I can manage is some rough stubble after a week or so. From her: emerald-green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey. From him: the dark, straight hair, kept short and spiked. I look younger than my thirty-five years, and that boyish-charm thing can manage wonders, in the bar, the bedroom or the boardroom.

Another thing that works wonders is the body. I keep myself in good shape. What an understatement!--I keep myself in excellent shape. Some might call it obsessive. I guess some habits die hard. Slender and scrawny as a kid, I wrapped myself in muscle and nobody’s picked on me since. Doesn’t hurt that chicks love the abs of steel. Couple that with money and, yeah, I do pretty damn well at the clubs on a Saturday night; it’s a rare weekend that I sleep alone. The final fact that I’m pretty damn good at persuading people certainly helps as well. I’ve got a knack for understanding what they want to hear.

And so, working that court over was easy. I didn’t lie, of course, but here were certain details I wanted to omit. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I explained what I saw while hiding in that executive secretary’s office.

Perhaps I overdid it. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn’t the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to-head thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took my accusations very well. He sat behind his table, powerfully built and bald head gleaming in the camera lights, towering head-and-shoulders over his team of lawyers, and he seemed highly amused by the proceedings. The man could’ve been nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk the whole time. I think that’s what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in a few details that I’d intended to hold back.

Steele kind of lost it when I got to those sketchy implications. The wry grin disappeared. His eyes hardened. In the awful silence of the closed courtroom I swear I heard him coldly whisper: “You’re a fucking dead man, Saunders” just before silently launching himself at me. It took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me. From trying, that is. I don’t throttle easily. The man’s not small, tall and built like a brick shithouse, and the bastard reached the witness stand, bowling his way through the security, before they managed to pull him back. Straining against the men who restrained him only a few feet from me, he locked his eyes with mine and hissed, “I’ll have your goddamn balls on a plate,” before they dragged him back. I wish we’d had at it then and there; I would’ve snapped his fucking neck.

Security rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was waiting for me.

“We have to get you out of here,” she said.

“Hey, I’m feeling okay,” I said. “Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”

“Please try to focus, Mr Saunders,” K said. “You know what kind of man you are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, you can be sure he intends to follow through. Mr Steele is a very vengeful man. More importantly, he can not afford to look weak in front of neither allies nor enemies. Especially considering the nature of your accusations.” She hesitated for a moment. “Were they true?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Every word.”

“You never mentioned it before.”

“Didn’t think it was important,” I said, which was a lie of course. I’d intended to withhold those details to ensure my own personal safety. It was the kind of thing that made for good blackmail.

K sighed. “You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very powerful people, Mr. Saunders. Simply testifying was enough to put you in a very precarious position, but now . . . I fear Mr. Steele will stop at nothing to make an example of you. His words were not a threat; it was a death warrant.”

She’s not so good at inspiring confidence, this woman. I nodded. “So what do we do?”

“First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steels has time to declare open season on you.”

She walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel bag. I enjoyed the view as K’s tight skirt strained against the rounded firmness of her ass. The woman’s a real looker, even if she went for a real severe look, what with the past-the-knees skirt and mannish jacket and clunky heels. Tall and slender, she gave an impression of tightly-coiled strength, somehow, and at a glance you knew better than to fuck with her. She was pale, with a long face and thin lips that seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild disdain. Her hair barely reached her shoulders and flipped up slightly at the tips, which somehow softened her look, an unexpectedly feminine touch on a woman who seemed eager to shed the outward trappings of her gender.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We’d only met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me safe and hidden before the trial. There’s something very off-putting about her, to be honest. She’d proven a sharp judge of character, and there’s always a sense that she knows more than she’s letting on. The fact that she didn’t respond to my charms didn’t help either. I had this feeling that she didn’t particularly like me. Like I said, a good judge of character. At the same time I honestly felt like I could trust her, which is saying something. I’m not a very trusting person. You could say I’ve got commitment issues.

“So how do I get outta here alive?”

“With this.” She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she moved it without much effort. She reached in and pulled out a colourful bundle of fabric.

“A dress?” It was a sexy little number, red and tight. “What the fuck, you’re gonna disguise me as a chick?”

She looked at me oddly. “Please, Mr Saunders. That would be idiotic.” She reached deeper into her bag and hauled out a heavy vest--the non-standard issue expensive kind with STL-reinforced Kevlar in it. “I think this would prove more helpful, would you not agree?” she said, handing it to me. “Unless you had your mind set on the dress, of course. I have in here some heels to match.”

“Very funny,” I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight familiar and reassuring.

“There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents, dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously, hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation and new identity.”

I nodded.

She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the vest. It was a bulky Gap thing--nondescript, and it hid the vest. I wondered if they were evacuating Tom as well. He was a tough guy, but he didn’t have my background. I’m sure that I would have been shitting myself if I hadn’t been through some rough times as a kid. I wondered where Tom was right now.

Standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher-than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay pigeon, my most pressing concern was that I’d never see Tom again. K was going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy would be okay. He’s a good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we’d never meet each other again. I hate losing a real friends. It wasn’t the first time, you know? But it still sucks every time.

“Are you ready?”

K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like a fucking federal agent. I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach. Focused. Nodded.

She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back corridors of the courthouse, our clipped footsteps echoing through the narrow halls. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. The hallways were conspicuously empty. Then a solid metal door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath. Instincts long forgotten and supressed began to awaken.

God, I was loving this. I hadn’t felt this alive in years.

We pushed through the door. The first bullet took me in the chest before I managed a single step.

Three: A Nice, Ordinary Past
“Mr. Saunders?”

The voice reached me through layers of pain. The darkness slowly receded. I took a shaky breath. I wasn’t dead, but the pain nearly left me wishing I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach test of black and blue.

I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn’t look all that sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my line of sight and brought back a glass of water.

“Sit up,” she ordered.

Wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Agony flared across my chest as I struggled to sit. Just as expected: one massive bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess. K placed some pillows behind my back to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple.

“These will help,” she said and for a moment, as she handed me the glass of water and two tablets, she actually looked worried. Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-being? I popped back the pills and knocked back the glass of water.

“You’re tougher than I imagined, Mr. Saunders,” she continued, that moment of sympathy apparently gone. “The assassin was standing right outside the door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that caught you right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was dealt with.”

It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. Four bullets at point-blank range? I owed a pint to the bastard that designed the body armour. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal.

K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. Breathing deeply helped clear my head a bit, and finally my vision stopped swimming and the buzzing in my ears eased somewhat. There was still a faint worrying hum in the back of my mind, similar to a mild concussion but different somehow.

K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before: same clothes, minimal makeup, angular features pinched into an expression of severity. Too bad, really: she’d be damn fine if she tried a little harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be asked. “Where the hell am I?”

“I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr Steele’s assassins appeared. We took a very indirect route; it is unlikely that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to stay here for any length of time.”

“Yeah, great.” Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the room. I must’ve been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest--it felt a bit like tenderized beef. I should’ve hurt more, but those pills of K’s worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. The cloudiness in my head wasn’t retreating, though, and that had me a little worried. “K? I’m not feeling so hot.”

K nodded. “I see.” She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you straight in the eyes. It’s a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy. I’d be damned if I’d look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous, the way she looked at me. She looked hungry. Or angry. “Mr. Saunders, I want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you alive.”

I nodded. I already knew that. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who’s a proper asshole and who’s likely to screw me over and when someone’s a phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I know who I can trust.

“And Mr. Saunders? I need you to trust me.”

I’m not a trusting person. I’ve been screwed over far too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes as I lay battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing--somehow, it renewed my belief that I could trust her.

“This is just a temporary safe house,” she said. “To call the medical facilities here ‘limited’ would be generous. Those shots you took were at very close range. Even with the vest,” and here she gestured at the discarded armour heaped at the side of the bed, “I am concerned for your well-being, especially with the hit to your side.” The congealed shear thickening liquid had erupted from between the Kevlar sheets and set in brownish blossoms, trapping the bullets.

Staring dumbly at armour, I nodded.

“You may need professional medical assistance. Bringing you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk.”

I nodded again.

K gave me a long look. “I have a proposition for you,” she said.

She’d done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out of the courthouse--even considering I’d been shot four times. I mean, this was fucking Jeremiah Steele; I couldn’t help but wonder how many other agents turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the guy. But not K. I wouldn’t say I trusted her implicitly, but even with the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue, compared to most other authority figures I’d met. Besides, who said shit like “I have a proposition for you,” anyway? People just don’t talk that way. But K did. I think I liked her.

“Yeah? What is it?” I tried to sound confident but could hardly stay awake.

“I fear you won’t like it, David.” Her attempt at normal, sympathetic human communication worried me more than anything she could’ve said. Calling me David certainly woke me up a bit. Every communication we’d had, every meeting, she’d called me Mr Saunders. Just like she called that bastard Mr Steele and Tom, Mr. Hunter. So if she was suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad.

She sighed. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige ones, with a paperclip holding printouts in place. It seemed so anachronistic I nearly laughed. “This is you,” she said. I looked at the folder and focused and eventually could read my name. David Saunders, age 39. She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small summary of who I was and where I’d come from. The picture was from my latest ID photo at NeoPharm. I had to strain to read the summary of me. I was pleased looking through my educational and childhood history. Her officious background check hadn’t turned up anything about the gangs. Or the other stuff, Sakura and all that. Just as it ought to be. Just a nice, ordinary past, high school and good grades, a smooth ticket into university and a top degree. A couple years working in bars and clubs and then the IndigoTech startup, and then moving onto the big time, the first rung on the corporate ladder leading to now.

“And this is who I suggest you become.” K hesitated a moment and slid a second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it open.

There wasn’t much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age:

Cindy Bellamy. Age 20.

To be continued…