A/N: Thanks to Cruzstar and Ori1 and everyone else who reviewed. Reviews make me write faster! This is just my second fanfic so please tell me where I can improve.

Chapter 7: The Test

*

"May I present to you Julia Thorne."

I walk in from the side, stare at the panel unflinchingly. There is no reason to put a smile on my face.

"Welcome, Miss Thorne. The work you'll be doing for us requires a certain commitment."

The man in charge speaks: impeccably dressed, with an authorative voice like forged steel. Another sound reaches me. A man is wheeled into the room, strapped down to a wheelchair, with a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

"Of course."

"Who this man is, is not important. What is important is the knife on the table. Use it. Kill this unimportant man."

This is murder. There is no excuse for this. He is utterly defenseless, helpless. He has done nothing to me. His enemy is my enemy, and therefore we must be friends. I cannot kill him like this. This is wrong.

He is pathetic, pleading for his life, begging for another chance. His own actions landed him in that chair. I am simply the executioner.

The knife was sharp. One sharp jab to the heart and his pleading stopped. I traded a man's life for my own. Had I refused to kill him, they would simply have executed both of us. Or sent me back to Oleg, to start over from the beginning. I did what I had to do.

"Very good, Miss Thorne. That's all we'll need."

I put the bloody knife back on the table, and walked out of the room.

*

My apartment in St. Petersburg consists of a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. The walls are dark, the floors a rich wood parquet, with granite in the kitchen and bathroom. The closet is full of beautiful fabrics and colors. I run my hand along the hanging garments: Shantung silk, cashmere, Egyptian cotton, beaded satin, washed denim. There are elegant fur wraps and thick wool coats to fight the frigid air. All of this is mine.

*

I thought about contacting the CIA. Then I thought very hard about not contacting the CIA. I thought about living as Julia, and I thought about running away as someone else entirely.

*

I let him lead me out of the club with an arm around my waist because he was the only man brave enough to approach me. Broad shoulders, dark hair, confident gait. Afterwards, as we sprawled out on the hotel bed, his hands traced over my body, and stopped at my stomach.

"How did you get this scar?"

"Surgery. Appendicitis. I was very young."

He moved to kiss it, tenderly. And that was when I knew I wanted to leave. I was not looking for kindness. I was simply craved human contact after months of incarceration.

"I should go. I have to get up early for work."

The lies rolled off my tongue without thought, as easily as the words came in Russian.

"Stay with me. Please."

"No, I can't."

"At least give me your number."

I scribbled down a false number and stepped back into the red silk dress that lay crumpled on the floor. I hailed a cab, and was back at my apartment in minutes.

The sheets were slick, cool cotton, and the high loft down pillow cradled my head perfectly. As soon as I closed my eyes, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

*

I relish the feel of wind on my face, biting and harsh. My face stiffens from the cold, and when I finally duck into a café it's hard to form my lips around the words. The sky is bright and gray. Inside the air is smoky and thick. I look at the paper as I sip my coffee: black and bitter. Until they call me, I will enjoy the illusion of freedom.

*