Hazel honestly didn't know how it had come to this. She was pressed against the wall, clad in a stunning scarlet gown, her luminous golden eyes shining with a sort of ferocity and determination that bordered on wild. Her hands were sure as they held the gun, but the weapon felt far too heavy in her hands.

"Levesque. The target's in sight, hurry up!" Al barked into her earpiece, his voice so gruff and harsh it nearly made her wince.

"Alright, alright," Hazel muttered in reply, stepping out of the shadows ever so slightly.

She still had yet to see the target close-up, but they'd told her everything about him before the mission.

Tall, Asian, wearing a black and white tuxedo, as was the dress code for the gala.

Hazel scanned the crowd, searching.

"Far left," Al said, and as Hazel's gaze fell on the target, her finger nearly slipped on the trigger.

No.

It couldn't be.

"Hurry up," Al said again, his voice now harried and impatient.

Hazel couldn't even muster a reply.

This was it. This was the moment she'd trained for. All her practice, all her precision —

She readied the gun and fired.

The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling, a delicate chime ringing out as it fell through the intricately bejeweled diamond chandelier, sending the gems flying as chaos exploded below.

"What the hell, Levesque!"

Hazel pulled the mic from her ear, tossing it onto the marbled floor and making sure to crush it with careful precision beneath the sharp heel of the stilettos they'd made her wear for the mission. Then, she dropped the gun and ran.

One Month Earlier. . .

The apartment was decidedly disgusting, for lack of a better word. Perpetually dusty — Hazel wrinkled her nose, biting back a violent sneeze — with a musty, dank stench lingering in the air. And were those bullet holes in the wall on the far right?

She took a tentative step closer to investigate, then shook her head, turning away. The less she looked around, it seemed, the better the place appeared.

One of the most secretive — and wealthy — intelligence organizations in the world, and this was what they gave her.

Blowing a stray curl from her eyes, and watching the dust bunnies that flew up along with it, Hazel perched herself on the edge of the bed, heaving a long sigh.

So Agent Grace hadn't been lying when he'd informed her that it wasn't all glamorous secret missions.

Now, Hazel was really beginning to wish she'd taken that advice to heart. Picking at the garish, peeling wallpaper, she took her laptop from her bag, smoothing out the covers and grimacing in distaste as the mattress creaked beneath her before starting her work.

It was a rather listless task— sorting through and alphabetizing lists of agents and targets alike. Hazel was fairly certain there were computer systems to do that, but she would rather not get into an altercation with Agent Ramirez-Arellano, especially not over something so trivial.

She was so engrossed in her task that she did not notice the knocking on her door until it bordered on frantic.

Trying in vain to smooth out her torn jeans and frayed sweatshirt into something at least somewhat presentable, she stalked towards the door, opening it barely a crack before peering outside.

A boy was standing in the hallway, offering her a smile far too bright and innocent to be real. He was tall and sturdily built, his stocky frame outfitted by a grey Vancouver Winter Olympics sweatshirt and baggy jeans.

"Hi!" he greeted her.

Hazel arched a brow, wary. "Hello. . ." was her stilted reply.

"Uh, I'm Frank," he continued, stumbling over his words. "I um, live next door and I saw you come in — not that I was watching you or anything like that, I just. Heard the commotion — wait, no, you're not a commotion, you're just. . ."

Hazel blinked, trying to make sense of his jumbled words.

"Hello!" he finally sputtered. "That's all. I wanted to drop by and say hello. And welcome to Jupiter Apartments. I know it's not much but. . . there are definitely worse places to be in this city."

"It's not so bad," Hazel agreed, making a tentative attempt at conversation. "I mean, if you just. . . don't look too closely."

Frank's smile widened. "Yeah, give it a fresh coat of paint and it'll. . ." he trailed off, clearing his throat. "So, um," he lowered his voice. "Is it a secret?"

"What?" Hazel's voice jumped an octave. Had she left her computer open? Was this a test from Agent Grace? Was he one of them?

"Your name," Frank continued. "You haven't said it yet, so I wondered if — you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just —"

"Oh," Hazel said. "Oh," she repeated as her heart rate returned to normal. "My name's Marie." The lie came easily, so smooth that it sent a pang of guilt through her.

But she couldn't very well give her real name — Hazel Levesque was far too valuable a title to throw around so freely.

Marie di Angelo, that was who she had to be — her late mother's first name, her estranged half-brother's last. Two things that didn't quite fit, carefully wedged together.

There was a beat of silence just long enough to be awkward before he spoke again. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Marie."

She almost corrected him — who's Marie? It's Hazel — before remembering her cover.

"You too," she replied.

"I'm right across the hall if you need anything. 5B."

"Alright," she said, "thanks. And you know where I am."

"Yeah, I do," Frank replied, "not that I'm, you know —" he stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. "Anyway," he cleared his throat. "See you."

Hazel's goodbye was a slightly absent thing before the door swung shut with a loud creak.

Wincing at the sound, Hazel crossed the small room, settling once more on her sagging bed.

As her fingers flew over the computer keys, the mindless task of sorting allowed her thoughts to wander.

Frank.

There'd been something about him, something that had resonated with her.

Perhaps it had been his sheepish smile, or his far-too-genuine kindness.

Hazel was not used to people who cared so much.

He was hiding something, she decided, and only after she'd done a search of his name through the database did she realize with a gasp that she'd been holding her breath the entire time.

But aliases were easy things to fabricate. Perhaps Frank wasn't even his real name, then.

After all, he knew her as Marie.

Setting her work aside for the time being, Hazel pulled her knees to her chest, cupping her chin in her hand in deep thought.

It was hours later that she remembered that she was Agent Levesque, someone with much more important things to do than think about boys.