I've always been a patient kid. Not because I was more virtuous than a regular five-year-old. I just learned that patience paid off. For instance, I always saved up my monthly allowance to buy manhwa instead of wasting it on packs of gum, like my friends did. Even when they started selling those square cardboard-tasting gum pieces with Seo Taiji and Boys stickers inside, I only bought a few.

In this manner, patience quickly became an essential part of my identity. If I wanted something, all I had to do was to focus and remain calm—whether it was patiently getting over the steep learning curve when studying a new language or listening to men yap about their crazy exes and their favorite football teams when attempting to date.

Now, however, my patience was running low.

I probably have been sitting here for at least five hours, I couldn't be sure; the square plastic clock on the interview room's wall was dead, stuck at two PM and the only window in front of me was broadcasting the last sun rays of the day. It was still midday when I was brought here.

With each passing minute, I became less and less aware of my aching body. And it was all thanks to someone who gave me a headache so severe, it overtook my other senses.

His name was Ivan Sokolov; soon to be retired police detective, but a really well-known one, as he humbly bragged when I met him soon after I was carried down from that damn roof. Currently sitting at a little wooden desk in front of me, he was glued to his computer screen, almost as ancient as he himself, typing slowly, one finger at a time, using his pointers only.

It was his third attempt to interview me: during the first one, the computer froze, deleting everything he had transcribed, and during the other two, he swore he pressed the right button, but somehow the system had restarted .

"And then you saw a guy with a strawberry cigar?" he couldn't nail down the few speckles of truth I've sprinkled over my story.

"No," I smiled, but my eye was slightly twitching, "I didn't see him. And it was a cigarillo, not a cigar. And cherries, not—you know what, officer, you were right. Strawberries."

Sokolov grunted as if it was him who had taken a beating. His hefty index finger hit the delete button twice so violently, it sent vibrations throughout the entire desk.

I swallowed my frustration, and answered the same few questions a dozen times. Judging by the way I was treated, gang violence here was as common as pick-pocketing in Myeongdong during spring. No one batted an eye when I spouted my bogus retelling of what had happened. They just nodded along, as if it was yet another regular Monday. I even heard one of the officers scoff, "oh brother, not this again."

"I think we're done here," said Sokolov, pushing his square yellow-tinted glasses back up the bridge of his bulbous nose.

Finally.

"That's great, detec—"

"We're getting more and more of these gang related activities, Ms," he interrupted me, "no easy job being a cop these days."

"I'm sure you've been through a lot."

"You have no idea, Ms. Working overtime every single day."
"That's rough."
"Anyway, Ms," he paused to glance at the computer screen, "Ms Pavlova, you're almost good to go, just sign this." He hit the keyboard once and turned around in his office chair, exposing a beige boxy printer previously concealed by his own broad frame.

A few minutes later, the printer let out a prehistoric mechanical groan. I hadn't heard this sound since the high-school days, and even then, it probably was coming from a newer device.

Eet eeet eeet,the printer kept buzzing and buzzing, until finally, on a piece of continuous feed paper a single line emerged. A single line. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief and faced Sokolov who was smiling softly through his messy moustache, completely content with the printing speed.

By the time my interview was printed out, the sun had already set. I squiggled a forged signature and slowly got up. "So, I guess that's it, officer?"
Sokolov nodded with the same cheeky grin and slowly walked by the door, opening it wide and gesturing for me to go. As soon as I thanked him and stepped outside, I felt his sweaty palm briefly grabbing my butt.

"I'll never see him again, I'll never see him again," I kept chanting in my mind as I left the interrogation room without looking back. In an ideal world, I would have chopped his entire arm off. But this was Russia.


I settled in a run-of-the-mill hotel, I chose only because it was conveniently located right at the edge of the city center and had two fire exits perfect for a quick escape. It also had a decent coffee shop where I managed to grab a large black coffee right before it closed down for the day.

Once in the room, I instantly called the chief and filled him in on my latest misfortunes. I skipped the part where I was groped, of course.

He listened quietly without interfering, and spoke only after the silence had settled. His voice was firm, but less demanding than usual, "it wasn't your fault. Our associate should have picked you up from the airport, but Bogdanov's pawns got to you first."

"Bagda who?" I asked, confused and took a sip of my already lukewarm coffee. I had never heard that surname before.

"Bogdanovs. There have been some… rather unexpected developments. We have a new major oligarch family in the game."
"I see," I sighed; I had already memorized over a hundred names for the mission, one more family won't do more harm, perhaps. "So what's my next move?"

"After assessing the situation, we were forced to make some changes."

"Yes?"

"We might appoint you a partner."
"Wasn't this supposed to be a solo mission?"
"Yes—but—we have miscalculated the risks. We'll get back to you once we finalize the plans. For now, lay low, take a few days off."
"Wait, don't hang up. At least tell me who my partner is?"
There was a brief pause before he answered, "this partner is a valuable contact of ours. We cannot risk the information leaking. From now on we will communicate via encrypted messages only. No more calls for a while. Not even to your mother. Got it?"

"Yes, chief." I barked obediently. "But… it wasn't just a random shootout, was it? All the men—all twelve of them—were killed. I checked the police report twice while stuck in the interview room. Chief, I—" I felt my neck tense and my mouth dry instantly leaving only the stale bitter taste of coffee as I spoke, "I didn't survive. I was spared. And that person? He knows it wasn't Mr. Iwasaki on that roof. He knows, chief."
"Encrypted messages only."
I sighed again, this time loud enough for the chief to hear. He wasn't going to tell me shit. "Yes, chief. Understood. Goodbye."

"Wait."
"Yeah? "
"I'm glad you're okay. I was really worried."

"Thanks, chief."

"Alright, then. Goodbye. Stay safe"
"Thanks again. Goodbye, chief."

I called my mom next.


The first encrypted message arrived a few days after our initial call. By that time, I had already gotten into a new disguise. I did consider turning myself into a man at first, but after observing the local male fauna, I soon learned that most of them looked like tiny unkempt goblins, not much different from the bastards who had attacked me. But the women, on the other hand, they were bombshells.

So, without giving it any more thought, I ended up turning myself into a cake-faced blondie Viktoria instead. Not only did she hide my bruised and swollen cheeks well, but she also easily blended with the crowd. Inspired by the fashions of St. Petersburg, she walked fiercely in her black platform heels, completely unbothered by the fact that her skinny ripped jeans might be a tad weather inappropriate.

By that time, I had also memorized the ins and outs of the main St. Petersburg streets. Yet, I still spent every waking minute scouting the area, looking for shortcuts and any possible hideouts. That's exactly what I was doing when my phone buzzed. I jumped from excitement, accidentally straining my injured shoulder; however, I brushed off the pain and instantly began typing in all the seven passwords.

The message opened with"Please revise the following information until further notice." I clicked my tongue in discontent as I skimmed the text. There wasn't a single thing I hadn't already known: just the hefty list of Petrov's immediate family and his associates, and a few leads which were supposed to get me closer toAnastasia. And that's it. No info on my partner, nor Bogdanovs. Nor whoever the fuck undressed me on that roof.

At this point, the chief had to be mocking me—he knew how well-prepared I was. But if he wanted to keep secrets from me, he could be my guest. I was ready to play the waiting game. Plus, I had my own plans: the same day, I sought to visit every specialty tobacco store in a five kilometer radius.

And I did just that. I smelled over a hundred cigarillos until my olfactory receptors shrunk to smithereens, and everything tasted bland for the rest of the night. However, nothing came close to the uncanny aroma I've been looking for.
The next day, I finally got my first lead for my cigarillo hunt. It had to be at least the 20th tobacco store I visited. Unlike the previous, this one barely qualified as a shop. It was more of a kiosk with a single modest tobacco display surrounded by flashy shelves of booze and newspapers for sale. On top of that, unlike every other customer service worker I've encountered here so far, this one was actually nice. He even smiled.

He scribbled an address on a corner of a torn newspaper. Apparently, his cousin Olga worked at a VIP cigar lounge, and if anyone could help me, it was her. I thanked the seller, and bought a pack of Marlboro Red. I didn't even smoke anymore, I just felt like I owed him.

And I did owe him indeed.

I found his cousin Olga, an equally buoyant middle-aged lady, working at the cigar lounge on the second floor of the five-star Imperial Nevsky Hotel. Her soft, bright smile illuminated the dimmed snobbish lounge filled with rich mahogany woodwork, deep leather seating, and a few grim elderly customers.

As soon as she heard my description of the cigarillos, her smile lit up even more, exposing pink glossy gums, "did it also have a subtle hint of a bonfire and this muddy smell of the air right before it rains?" she asked.
"Yes, exactly! May I try one? "
Olga let out an intense, piercing laugh, "if we're talking about the same thing, I'm afraid not, sweetie. You just wait a second." She disappeared behind the bar.
A few moments later she came back carrying a bunch of thick magazines. They fell on the neatly polished wooden bar with a hefty clunk. One magazine after another, she began swiftly flipping through the pages filled with photos of Bentleys, Yachts and an occasional ad of a cigar or a high-end watch.

"Here!" She finally stopped and pointed to a page with an extravagant wooden box of cigarillos. "Are you talking about these?"

The room was so dim, I had to get closer.

Brown paper and a purple, star shaped had to be it…

"Yes!" I gasped, "what are they exactly?"

"Lamento cigarillos. Himalayan tobacco, hints of cherries, curry plant and geosmin extract—a truly unique blend. Limited edition."
"Where could I buy some?"
"Oh, sweetie, our market could only dream of such goodies," she chuckled, "I'm afraid these were only sold in the US between 2003 and 2004. I doubt you could get your hands on any even if you had the big buck."

"I see. Any idea how much one would cost?"
"Well, it doesn't say here," she paused, scratching her forehead and slightly messing up her frizzy bangs, "but, I guess it would be anywhere between 6000 and 7000 rubles for a single cigarillo of this class. And there were eight in the box, so do the math."
I was about to ask her why would a single ten-year-old cigarillo cost as much as a week-worth of groceries, but a strong vibration came out of my chief was finally sending me info.

I excused myself, and dashed to the nearest ladies restroom on the same floor. My recent cigarillo hunt must have gotten into my head—I swore I could briefly smell that odd aroma when I opened the heavy, opulent restroom doors. However, I was the only one there, I even checked all four stalls twice. So I locked myself into the corner one, sat on a closed toilet lid and finally read the message:

Utmost urgency. Due to recent developments, the focus of your operation has shifted. Instead of concentrating on Petrov's family like previously instructed, you are now directed to prioritize the investigation of Oligarch Bogdanov's family, which are believed to have direct ties to Anastasia.

Intelligence indicates a planned assassination attempt on Bogdanov's at the Imperial Nevsky Hotel (see coordinates), (see date), at 21:00 Moscow Standard Time. There's a bomb planted somewhere in one of the conference rooms where Bogdanov's are planning to meet.

I felt a rush of adrenaline engulf my stomach, thus making me slightly nauseous. There was no way I ended up in the same Hotel on my own. Could this all be just a crazy coincidence? Fate toying with me? Or is it a weird elaborate conspiracy? And what's more… couldn't they have given me even less time to prepare?

I glanced at my pink, sparkly watch. I still had three hours before the bomb went off. Pushing my conspiracy thoughts aside, I kept reading the message. The remaining text contained instructions: try bugging the phones of the main leads, collect intel on whom and why Bogdanov's are meeting, and evacuate the hotel before 21:00, prioritizing the lead's lives over the civilians. And the last one—a tad odd—avoid direct contact with the Bogdanovs at all costs. Unless instructed otherwise.

The attached file held fifty-six new faces and names I was yet to memorize. It wasn't going to be as easy, though. The entire Bogdanov's family, all the eight siblings and all relatives on the patriarch's side, were eerily similar. All of them had the same wicked copper-brown eyes, which made me uneasy, compelling me to instinctually avert my gaze; and all of them shared the same long faces and mousy brown hair. Everyone, except the eldest son, whose eyes and hair were both pitch black, looking less like a hunter and more like a pray.

There were some distinctive faces though, distant relatives, workers, friends, gang members, and thankfully none of them shared the same evil look.
What most of them shared though, was their branding. I clicked on the attached picture to enlarge it. Just like some gangs, the entire family, both blood and chosen, had the same tattoo of a two-headed eagle, its beaks slightly ajar, spitting fire. The closer to the patriarch you were, the bigger the tattoo was, the document explained. Such a male-thing to do.

I took a few deep breaths until the tension in my stomach subsided, and, still sitting in the bathroom stall, began working on my mission. Firstly, I quickly set up my fake Wi-Fi network labeled "Imperial_Nevsky_Hotel_STAFF" and left it unlocked. More often than not, this cheap trick effortlessly got me into my victim's phones. Hopefully, Bogdanov's also weren't as bright.

Then, after googling the Hotel and inspecting all the available photos, I got up and was ready to find the hotel's layout, probably located by one of the fire exits. However, before I got to leave my stall an unthinkable happened—suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the ground beneath me.

It wasn't even 18:00 yet.