April 14, 2021. 18:00. Vancouver.
Elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, spilling me onto the upper floor of a tower near downtown Vancouver. Finally—home.
In one hand, the rifle case weighs down my arm; in the other, a bag heavy with tools and spent adrenaline. Both feel twice their weight now that the rush is gone.
Ahead, the hallway greets me like an old friend.
Carpet hushes beneath my boots, and grey walls frame the long stretch of glass to my left. The city sprawls below in neon and gold, sunlight sliding down steel and shadow until everything looks almost gentle.
For a beat, I let myself admire it—the calm after everything—but the ache in my ribs reminds me where I've been.
At my door, I swipe my phone across the lock. A clean beep, a click, and the glossy wood swings open.
My sanctuary. A penthouse most could only dream of.
Cool tiles kiss my feet as I walk inside. The air smells faintly of steel and citrus—mine. I drop the rifle case and bag, the weight leaving my arms all at once, and exhale.
Boots off next; I line them neatly in their slot on the white rack beside a dozen other pairs.
Crossing from the tiled entryway to polished wood, a quiet wave of peace rolls through me. The living area opens wide, a refuge from the chaos outside. Shelves line the walls—books, photos, old trinkets—snapshots of who I am and what I've survived.
Warm light flicks on as I pass the massive TV, its dark screen catching my outline. A gaming console waits beneath it, surrounded by beige couches that all but beg me to collapse.
I stretch instead, twisting my torso until the ache eases.
A black coffee table gleams under the lights, stacked with fashion magazines and gun journals—two sides of me sharing space.
I tug down my hood and unzip the black jacket. My socks follow, kicked off onto the sofa.
Nearby, rays of the setting sun stab through the floor-to-ceiling windows, blinding me for a moment.
Squinting, I pull out my phone and tap the app that controls the tint.
The glare softens; I breathe out. Better.
My gaze drifts to the sleek black staircase curving to the second floor. A groan escapes me—the forgotten rifle case again. I'll deal with it later.
Rubbing my stomach, I push open the white wooden door. Automatic lights turn on, spilling over marble and glass. White-gloss tiles flow into grey-marble walls. The square mirror across from the door waits where it always does, framed in clean white.
I step toward it, and my reflection sharpens into view, equal parts tired and alive.
A lean woman with Korean features stares back—sharp and composed.
Shadow hides her eyes beneath the black cap; the plain white shirt does nothing to dull the poise underneath. Skin like porcelain catches the light, flawless and almost unreal.
With a flick, the cap lands on the counter. Black hair spills free, messy and long down my back. Cold water splashes against my face; droplets trace the edge of my jaw as I rub the tiredness from my eyes, lashes thick and unbending. Makeup melts away in patient circles, revealing the natural pink of my lips and the quiet fatigue beneath. No bruises yet, but exhaustion writes itself clear enough.
Usually this reflection feeds my ego—a reminder of every time someone's called me beautiful, flawless, untouchable.
Tonight, though, it just looks tired.
A towel finds its way into my hands; I blot away the water, fingers combing through damp strands and pushing them aside.
When the hem of my shirt lifts, faint abs show through pale skin—marred by a blotch of red. The touch of my finger draws a wince. It's annoying, but manageable. A drawer slides open beneath the counter, neat rows of medical patches and bottles inside. Five left. Ugh, damn it.
One rips free. I press it over the bruise, feeling the sting bloom beneath the adhesive until relief hums through me.
Next comes the gel—thin, blue, and biting. I spread it over my arms and legs; it burns, but I breathe through it. When it dries, the ache fades, leaving only the steadiness that follows pain. I close the drawer and move out of the bathroom, shoulders loose, body finally catching up to the calm.
As I walk back into the living room, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Mom.
A small smile slips out before I even answer.
"Hi, Ma. What's up?" Warmth sneaks into my voice without permission.
"Gina, did you just get back from work?" Her tone is the same soft calm it's always been—one sound and the day already feels lighter.
"Yeah, just walked in." I wander toward the kitchen and set the phone on speaker atop the counter island. Fashion magazines sprawl across the marble—half a dozen covers, all me. One shot has me in a long black dress, another in a crisp white suit, one in neon streetwear, one in a bikini under harsh studio lights. Every version of me sells something different, but they're all still me—the one people can't stop staring at.
"Did you need anything?" My fingers slide over the smooth stone as I open the fridge.
The shelves glint with meal-prep containers, imported fruit, and rows of sparkling water—each item neatly and precisely labeled. Nothing indulgent.
"No, I just wanted to check on you." A pause, then, gently, "Oh, and are you free for your father's anniversary?"
The words catch mid-motion.
The fridge hangs open; my hand tightens on the handle.
"Uh… yeah, let me check." I grab the phone, flick through my calendar. December 19.Nothing booked.
I stare at the date longer than I mean to.
"Yeah. I'm free." The door closes with a quiet thud.
"Good! I just wanted to make sure you could join me. You've been so busy lately, I wasn't sure." Her concern carries through the speaker. It's soft but certain.
"I know," I say, walking back to the living room.
The city glows against the windows as she adds, "Anyways… how are you? You sound tired."
I nod, though she can't see it. "Yeah, Ma, work's been crazy, but I'm handling it."
My pace slows near a shelf of photographs—me, and the two constants in my life. To my left, a stunning Korean woman with long black hair, doll-like features frozen in time; she could still pass for twenty-four. To my right, a tall, broad-shouldered American man in a police uniform, the build of someone who treats discipline like religion.
In one picture, my teenage self grips a rifle half my height. Memories of those early lessons—the recoil, the misses, the bruises—make me chuckle under my breath.
"I've been getting booked a lot by agencies lately," I add, the half-truth rolling off easily. "You know how it is."
My gaze settles on the last photo of the three of us together.
A small, wistful smile tugs at my lips, but Mom's voice pulls me back.
"Tsk, tsk, my baby is so popular these days. Your profile's shot up—three million followers and counting~! Pretty soon, you won't—"
I laugh, cutting her off with mock hurt. "Maaa, I'll always make time for you." My tone stays light, knowing she's teasing more than scolding. "So, how's everything on your end?"
"Oh, the usual. Ever since you moved out, I've had too much free time." She laughs, warm and full. "I just keep busy with my girls."
I grin, rolling my eyes as I step away from the photos. "Well, at least you're enjoying life." A glance toward the kitchen reminds me I still haven't eaten, but I let it go for now. Instead, I head to the foyer and grab my gear.
"I'm keeping busy. You know—trying to pay off all our bills?"
"Thank you, sweetie." Her gentle chuckle follows me as I haul the rifle case upstairs. "Oh! Do you have plans tonight?"
I reach the top landing, the railing above the first floor. My bedroom sprawls ahead—dressed in soft beige, neat dressers, a king-sized bed lined with stuffed animals. To the left, the gym glints with metal: racks, cables, and bags waiting for fists. I keep walking toward the far wall, where three identical doors wait.
"A friend called me earlier—wants to hang out," I say, spinning another harmless lie.
"Oh? When are they coming over?"
"Not sure yet. Probably a few hours from now." I push open the third door and step into a dim, red-lit room. Weapons and screens fill the walls in perfect order. "I'm just getting ready before they show up."
The lights sense movement and shift from red to warm gold, illuminating rows of rifles, handguns, and tech gear. I set the rifle case down on a mat marked with measurements, the familiar smell of oil and gunmetal grounding me.
Mom's voice softens through the speaker. "Alright, I won't keep you long. Take care, sweetie."
"Bye, Ma."
The call clicks off.
Silence returns.
Then my fingers tap the wall panel.
A keyboard and mouse fold out, and multiple screens flicker to life.
Euphoria hits the moment I log into the admin panel; a smirk tugs at my lips as my gaze settles on two monitors.
On one, my public inbox floods with modelling offers—proof of the life everyone sees. That surface world funds the real one: a fashion career that buys perfect cover—travel, cameras, alibis—and a skill in makeup that gives me impossible disguises.
On another, a different window loads: a clean, minimal site marked with a logo of rifles forming an A inside a circle. One hidden page lists contracts in tidy, lethal rows.
Artemis—my crowning achievement.
People pay obscene sums to make someone disappear. What began as a small Canadian service on the darknet has grown into an operation spanning North America and Europe.
Still, running both lives wears on me.
I unpack the rifle case, laying each weapon on the bench with practiced care—barrel, receiver, safety—while my thoughts drift. Fingers move on instinct; memory rewinds to the ranges where I learned recoil like a second language.
My stomach growls. Of course.
"Damn it—almost forgot about the car." I smack my forehead. The Porsche still needs a techie's touch.
I jot a note in my phone: Nano—inspect GT3.
Food first. Then work.