The reflection in the mirror isn’t me: the long blonde wig, the pose, the weapon. It’s all an act. Just like the discarded clothes on the bed. The neat, simple, “little black dress”. The plain but expensive jewellery. Both are parts I had to play, not me, never me.

I don’t let people know me. It’s too dangerous, and it would get in the way. I have to do things. Things that don’t make sense, not to you, not to any sane human being.

When you are presented with the facts – what could be, what mustn’t be – you can’t afford the luxury of getting involved on an emotional level. If you do, the world goes to hell in a handbasket very quickly.

I flick the chamber of the gun open and check the rounds. Five not six. Five shots were fired, have to be fired. If I loaded six I would be, could be, tempted to lose another round. Timing and placement are everything. One slip and the world fades away.

Damn this wig; the hair is heavy. Bad enough I had to grow my own for the first part of this, worse now I have to wear this damned wig. He liked to run his hands through my hair. It made me shiver, so unnatural, but then much here is to me. I have to accept it, live with it. It makes the path smoother. It’s my job.

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