Illya Kuryakin was going where his steps took him; he looked lost in thought but he felt devoid of all feeling, he felt like blank. It wasn't true. One feeling remained: he had been betrayed. An unbearable betrayal.

They were partners, and they were friends.

Two years ago, Alexander Waverly had started to part them, giving them solo assignments, or with a junior agent. More and more often, the Old Man had delegated Napoleon to attend important meetings. Napoleon Solo, the obvious Waverly's designate successor! Nevertheless, they were still partners, still friends, close friends. They trusted each other.

No: they had been partners. « Had been ». Friends?

Betrayed.

He could have walked for hours, for a few minutes, he didnt know. He looked around him. Raising his eyes, he recognized Napoleon's home. Bitter memories. He had felt betrayed, abandoned. He felt still betrayed, and angry. He steadied his breath, making his way to the well known apartment.

He paused outside the door. An efficient, well trained Uncle agent locks his door. This one was open.

The apartment was in a mess. Boxes everywhere, cases, thrash cans. Illya Kuryakin stood in the middle of the room, uncharacteristically indecisive. A dishevelled, casually dressed Napoleon Solo went out the kitchen, holding a box. As he acknowledged the visitor, Napoleon Solo sighed a smile. He left the box on the couch and wiped his hands on his pants. He pointed his chin at the boxes, the piles, the cases.

-What a mess! I stored up so many things! I don't know what to do with that. Oh, Illya, do you need some plates?

He was smiling, genuinely. The Russian was taken aback. Plates?

-Napoleon, what do you...? Why?

Napoleon Solo frowned; shrugging his shoulders, he looked now aggravated, as a grown-up facing a dense child.

-Why? I am leaving, Illya. That's all! Working for the Uncle was pleasant, at first, but I was getting bored. So, I leave.

-But...

-But what? You'll be promoted, I'll live a new life, everything is...

-What new life, Napoleon? What happened? Why didn't you tell me? We could have talked...

Napoleon Solo cut in scornfully.

-That, my little Russian friend, that is none of your business.

And he dropped the box on the floor.

Illya Kuryakin paused outside the door. He leaned back against the door, amazingly out of breath. The door was locked. He knocked. No answer. He had the key...

The apartment was empty, absolutely empty. Every step echoed. There were walls, floor, doors... Nothing else. The apartment was clean. No papers, no dust. Illya Kuryakin checked all the rooms. All were empty, impersonal. Except for the kitchen. On the floor, he noticed a glass, and a bottle: vodka. No message, just one glass and vodka, as a cruel, ironical legacy. He gripped the bottle and threw it against the wall.

Illya Kuryakin paused outside the door. He had already found himself in very dangerous situation, non of which equaling what he was about to do now. The door was locked. He knocked. No answer. He had the key...

The apartment was obviously desert, and absolutely tidy, clean. Everything in the right place it belonged. Illya Kuryakin checked all the rooms; all were tidy, clean, and desert. Every suit, every tie, every glass in its place. A strange universe. Nobody lived there. It looked like a model Solo's apartment. But it was lifeless, soulless.

He looked for a trace, a message, a clue and didn't find anything. Napoleon Solo wasn't gone. He hadn't packed up. He simply was not here any more. In a blink of an eye.

He didn't feel betrayed.

He wasn't angry.

He was alone.
Illya Kuryakin, now Section 2, number 1, the new CEA.

No.

Alexander Waverly sat down, clasping his hands. He couldn't delude himself. Napoleon solo had left the Uncle, simply, almost casually.

It could have been a very bad joke, ant it was not.