Hi. My name is Fialova—and this is my story.
I was sitting in the living room when Dad's phone rang, and in that single moment, my entire life shifted.
I had always dreamed of starting my own spy team—saving the world, going international, and one day opening my own security company. I'd carried that dream for as long as I could remember, but I never spoke about it. I never acted on it. The first time I told my parents was after we moved from my hometown to Dad's hometown. I was 15, overwhelmed by the change, and something inside me decided it was finally time.
I took a deep breath as I walked into the kitchen. But instead of saying what I'd practiced in my head, something far worse slipped out.
"Mom… can you give me the phone number of… that CIA uncle? Dad's friend?"
I didn't realize what I'd said until I saw her face. The silence that followed was sharp and heavy.
"Why?" she demanded. "For what?"
My mind went blank. One second was enough for me to know—I was dead. My lips trembled as my heart dropped straight into my stomach. All I wanted was to disappear.
After a moment, I forced myself to breathe. I gathered what little courage I had left and told her about my target. She didn't say much then. I went to my room. But at dinner, everything fell apart.
"You know your target is very dangerous, right, babe?" she said, looking at Dad while I sat frozen.
"Let's just eat," Dad interrupted calmly, shooting her a look that said not now. He could see how uncomfortable I was.
Dinner went on as if nothing had happened. We talked about our day—though mine was always boring. I'd chosen to homeschool my last three years before college, so I barely went out. Afterward, I helped Mom clean the kitchen. That's when she finally spoke.
"You know what happens to girl spies when they get caught? You're alone. No one helps you. They hurt you. Brutally. It's not that simple," she said softly, her voice full of care and fear. It shattered whatever illusion I had left.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Everything felt unreal—but I knew the truth. I wasn't strong enough. Not yet. I couldn't even face my own uncle after what he did—after he touched me.
So, I paused.
I cried for days. Thought endlessly. And eventually, I accepted the harsh truth.
I wasn't ready. Not without healing.
I kept a diary—one I only wrote in when I needed to leave a message for myself. That night, I wrote the most painful, honest words I had ever allowed onto paper:
January 11th
"You tried your best—but it's not enough yet. You need to heal before you make a move. Before training. Before calling him. Fialova, you wanted this target the moment you understood how the world really works. But it isn't simple anymore. The world isn't innocent. You need to become stronger. Heal first—before you try to protect others."
Days passed. I told Mom I'd given up—that it was too dangerous. She believed me.
I hadn't.
The dream never left. I just tucked it away, safe and quiet, waiting.
Weeks turned into progress. I started dancing again. Training daily. Practicing fighting willingly, not fearfully. I meditated. Focused on my studies. Learned discipline. Control. Then weeks slowly turned to years.
The dream was still there—but now it had shape.
One day, I opened my diary to write again. Instead, I found a message from my younger self:
July 26th
"It's your birthday. We're sixteen. I know today hurts. I'm scared, but I'm healing. I still can't look at him. But if you're reading this weeks or years from now, remember this—you're doing amazing. Even if you never reach your target, you've become the person who would've protected me. And that's enough."
I closed the diary with tears in my eyes, my chest tight with pride. Then after a moment that felt like a century, I opened it again.
Three years later, I wrote back.
"I became her. I became you. And I'm proud of who I'm becoming."
That same evening, I was back on the couch, scrolling through dramas, unaware that everything was about to change.
"What're you doing?" Dad asked, walking in.
"Nothing," I said lightly. "Just scrolling."
Before he could reply, his phone rang.
"Hey, brother," he answered.
My body stiffened.
"Oh? You're coming to visit? That's interesting… Yeah—she mentioned you months ago. Said she wanted to talk. Join you." He laughed softly. "Long time ago."
My heart screamed one word:
Time.
I stepped closer as Dad spoke about my dream—about the security company, the team, the target. I thought he already told him that long ago, years ago I didn't expect it will be today.... after three years.
Then he handed me the phone.
"He wants to talk to you."
"So," the voice said, calm and sharp, "why do you want this target?"
I swallowed. "I love adventure. Dual identities. Protecting people. I felt it when I was six—I don't know how. It just never left."
A pause.
"Interesting," he said. "So, show me how badly you want it."
"What?"
"You're not the only one chasing this," he continued. "I'll see you tomorrow. You'll be surprised who else is connected to you."
The call ended.
I collapsed onto my bed, heart racing.
I didn't know what was coming.
But I was ready.
---
Little did she know, she wasn't the only one awake that night.
But while her thoughts were heavy and restless, his problem was something else entirely.
Impatience.
Because waiting to meet her?
That was going to be unbearable.