AZNEN ACADEMY

I sighed heavily before grabbing a can of green beans from the supermarketshelf. The commercial art on the label displayed a bowl of lumpy soup thatlooked like a failed experiment in organic viscosity. Just looking at ittriggered a mild pang of nausea.

I hated them with every fiber of my being, but Greg was obsessed with them.I tossed three cans into the cart, already imagining the revolting taste in mymouth. A dash of sodium-based preservatives and some extra monosodium glutamateto accelerate hypertension once a month wouldn't hurt anyone.

I wandered through the supermarket aisles, dragging my feet with every step.Mornings had never been my forte; my brain is a V8 engine that only reachespeak combustion after sunset. At this hour, a sheer lack of dopamine coupledwith accumulated insomnia made me dangerously irritable.The store was deserted. The dull echo of my sneakers against the cheap vinylfloor was the only sound competing with the glacial hum of the refrigerators.

Day three of my alleged "vacation" in California. Three days sinceGreg had left to visit his mother in Pasadena, leaving me alone with absolutenothingness. Boredom was taking hold of me with the velocity of an uncontrolledchain reaction, and the monotony had begun to gnaw at my nerves. I would havepreferred anything—literally anything—over continuing to play the role of adocile housewife waiting for her mediocre boyfriend to return and inject a bitof entertainment into my existence.Greg was an idiot, not to mention an insecure, controlling one. Yet, hewasn't keeping me trapped by force. I was no helpless victim in a foreign land;rather, I was a parasitic specimen feeding on a relationship with an averageAmerican citizen with an average job. Which was like the strawberry icing on aplain sponge cake—the perfect cover for an undocumented immigrant who needed tofly beneath the radar of federal authorities. He believed I depended on hisgenerosity; I knew he depended on the illusion of power I allowed him to hold.His drunken outbursts were annoying, sure, but predictable. Managing aninsecure alcoholic required the same basic chemistry as neutralizing a weakacid: a bit of calculated manipulation and knowing when to pull back before themixture effervesced.

Still, this farce was going to bore me to death one of these days.

On my way to the store, I had come up with at least half a dozen ways tobreak the routine: from synthesizing homemade cyanide using bitter almonds fromthe garden, to draining Greg's bank accounts and fleeing to Vancouver under anew identity. I could jump off the top floor of the Wilshire Grand Center justfor the adrenaline rush before deploying a parachute, or drive down HighwayOne's scenic route and waste hours staring at the landscape.

The possibilities were endless. But as long as I remained chained to thisdutiful-girlfriend persona I had constructed for survival, my mind wouldeventually rust away.

I turned into the cleaning products aisle. The pungent stench of sodiumhypochlorite and ammonia stung my nostrils, forcing me to wrinkle my nose. Acouple of improper mixtures with those bottles and I could evacuate this entirebuilding in three minutes. I smiled at the thought.

"Excuse me, dear..."

A trembling voice interrupted my calculations. I turned around slowly tofind a frail-looking elderly woman with fluffy white hair like cotton candy,holding an empty shopping basket.

"Do you happen to know where I can find the restroom?" she askedtimidly. The wrinkles around her eyes betrayed a deep disorientation.I offered her one of my most polished smiles—one of those rehearsed grimacesthat projected the flawless image of a sweet, harmless young woman. Kindness,in my world, had never been a moral value; it was simply the ultimatecamouflage.

"I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong aisle, ma'am," I replied in awarm, cordial tone. "This is a small grocery store; they don't have publicrestrooms."

The woman blinked, lost in a haze of confusion. I immediately noticed ametal ID bracelet on her wrist—the kind typically worn by Alzheimer's patients.With surgical patience, I took her by the arm and guided her toward thecheckout area, where I asked the clerk on shift to call her emergency contact.I had a particular stance on old people. It wasn't pity or romanticsolidarity. To someone like me, longevity in a chaotic world was a fascinatingtechnical achievement. If you had managed to survive seven or eight decades onthis planet without getting killed or destroyed by your own stupidity, you deserveda baseline of analytical respect.

Besides, other people's vulnerability always generated the bestopportunities.

While the cashier absentmindedly dialed the number, I used the proximity toslide my hand into the old woman's handbag with the ease of a surgeon. Thebaseball cap pulled low over my eyebrows blocked the angle of the nearestsecurity camera. In less than two seconds, I extracted her wallet, stole aquick glance under the counter, pulled out the credit card with the mostprofitable chip, and slipped the leather wallet back into place.With nimble fingers, I concealed the plastic in my back pocket. Then, Ileaned down slightly and picked up a packet of tissues from the floor as adistraction.

"Excuse me, ma'am... This was slipping out of your bag," I said,handing back the intact purse with a candid look.

The clerk flashed me an approving smile, praising my good deed, while theold woman took my hands, assuring me I was a "delightful girl." I accepted the compliments with a reverent nod. I wasn't a good girl, nor a modelcitizen, nor remotely an ethical human being; but the credulity of ordinarypeople was always endearing. And extremely lucrative.

I helped her, and she ended up helping me. Just as life should be.

Identity theft was one of my favorite financial hobbies. Skimming, signaturecloning, social engineering. I had established a small but efficient networkwith a couple of contacts on the East Coast who bought clean plastic inexchange for untraceable cash. With this card number, I’d have enough credit tofund certain reagents you can't buy at the corner pharmacy.

I stepped out of the store, and the scorching California summer sun hit mesquare in the face. I adjusted the visor of my cap to shield my skin from theharmful UV rays. The suffocating heat of this city felt irritating at times,and downright unbearable at others.I stole a stealthy glance at the plastic I had just acquired. Mary Davis.

"Thanks for the sponsorship, Mrs. Davis," I muttered under mybreath. "You’ve just contributed to the clandestine research of an amateurscientist."

If all went according to plan, old Mrs. Davis would only realize her cardwas missing long after I was far too gone to be caught. Which happened to bethe trickiest part of this job: staying in constant motion so you never getpinned down.I walked toward the parking lot, jingling the keys between my fingers, butfroze dead in my tracks halfway across.

Beside my battered '99 Honda Civic, two figures stood out drasticallyagainst the backdrop of sun-baked asphalt and palm trees.They weren't trying to blend in. They were posted up by my vehicle like twopredators who knew precisely what time their prey came out to drink.Two Caucasian males dressed in tailored suits that practically screamedopulence from a mile away. The age gap between them was immense. The one on theleft was an older man pushing seventy, leanly built, with skin as pale asplaster and perfectly combed gray hair. His posture was rigid.

The younger one looked barely like a teenager, but the way he observed meshattered any illusion of innocence. He didn't look at me with the awkwardnesstypical of a boy his age; he scrutinized me with cold, analytical precision, asif solving a mental equation whose result he already knew.I gritted my teeth. I hated when people tried to read me.I picked up my pace, concealing the slight spike of adrenaline that had justflared in my chest. It took a three-second sweep to process the data: ItalianBrioni wool suits —useless in California's climate, indicating they had justlanded— high-end timepieces, pristine haircuts, and a pallor denoting analarming lack of sun exposure. They were from Europe. High latitudes,specifically.

The boy removed his sunglasses, revealing strikingly vivid olive-green eyes,and tapped a knuckle against the hood of my car.

"Is this yours?" he asked. His voice was measured, modulated by animpeccable British accent characteristic of northern England's private schools.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I ran a slow, dismissive glance overhim, steeped in disdain. I let the silence stretch long enough to establishthat his presence didn't impress me in the slightest.

"Yeah," I finally replied, my voice flat.Without giving him room to continue, I brushed past him, opened the cardoor, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed it shut. I tossed my cap andgroceries onto the passenger seat.

Rich people. Powerful people. Those subjects didn't belong in my Californiareality. They spoke a language made of influence and bottomless money. What onearth were a pair of European aristocrats doing in the parking lot of a low-endsupermarket?I slotted the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life with aclunky rumble. I was about to shift into gear when a sharp tap against thewindow forced me to turn my head.

The English boy was leaning toward my glass, offering a polished smile thatexposed a row of perfect teeth and a symmetrical dimple on his cheek.

"What do you want?" I snapped, rolling the window down barely aninch.

"Hello," he greeted with rehearsed politeness. "My companionand I need to reach a location, but our transport encountered a slight mishapand we've found ourselves temporarily short on cash..."

"What a tragedy," I interrupted with pure irony. "Buy alottery ticket."

He gestured toward the old man behind him. The elder remained static, hisright hand suspiciously hidden inside the lapel of his jacket. A mature manacting as a chauffeur or bodyguard for a kid wearing a watch worth more than myhouse. The dynamic reeked of institutional hierarchy.

"We are heading toward the terminal..." the boy continued withoutlosing his composure. "If you would be so kind..."

My mind began connecting the dots at high speed. Letting them into the carwouldn't be an act of charity; it was a data-gathering maneuver. If these guyswere looking for me, I’d rather have them beside me, where I could keep an eyeon their hands, than tracking me from the shadows. Besides, the decrepit oldman reminded me of Mrs. Davis from a moment ago, and old people always inspiredme to help—even if it was only half-hearted, like everything else I did. And akid and an old man were just a kid and an old man, rich or not. In other words,"easy targets to trap." Plus, they might end up helping me if Ihelped them.

"Get in," I said, unlocking the doors.The boy didn't hesitate for a second and took the passenger seat, while theold man settled into the back. I merged the car into the main avenue's traffic.The ride unfolded in tense silence. In the rearview mirror, I noticed theolder man never took his eyes off the back of my neck. Tactical surveillance.

The boy, on the other hand, observed the passing scenery through the windowwith absolute serenity.

"Do you have names, or should I just call you 'the Men in Black'?"I broke the ice with a mocking tone.

"That information is irrelevant," the boy replied without turning.

"Name and age are irrelevant? What a profound travel philosophy."

"Let me rephrase: my age is irrelevant, and my name is none of yourbusiness."He smirked smugly at me.

"Ouch..."

This kid certainly had a big mouth.

"However," he added, slowly turning his head toward me, his greeneyes locked onto my profile, "your name and your age... now that is fascinating."

I gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"There's nothing fascinating about me. Just a boring person trying tosurvive the summer."

The boy offered a ice-cold smile.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that... Yu Wenyue."

Time stopped.The name echoed inside the cabin like a detonation. I’ve had several namesthroughout my life. I’ve been called countless things, but that name... I had forgotten how that exact combination of syllables sounded—one Ihadn't heard in seven years. The identity I had buried under layers of forgedpassports, blood, and ashes.

My body reacted on instinct. I slammed my foot onto the brake with violence.The tires screeched against the asphalt, and the Honda ground to a sudden haltin the middle of a deserted stretch of road.Before the car even finished rocking, I popped open the glove compartmentwith lightning speed, whipped out the uncocked Beretta I kept at the back, andplanted the barrel directly between the boy's eyes.He didn't even blink. No flinch, no fear. Only a slow tilt of his head and aminuscule, almost imperceptible smile of someone watching his prediction cometrue.

"How... do you know that name?" I hissed. Every word dripped withvenom.The gun was empty. It hadn't had ammunition in three years. But the physicalthreat was usually enough to freeze amateurs.

"I wouldn't pull that trigger if I were you..." the young manwhispered in that flawless British voice, keeping his eyes locked onto mine.That was when I heard the unmistakable click—and I already knew howthis was going to end.

The dry, metallic sound echoed inches from my left ear. The old man in thebackseat had drawn a semi-automatic handgun fitted with a titanium suppressor.The cold barrel pressed against my temple. If he decided to pull the triggerfor any reason, it would be a clean, quiet, professional job.I processed the scene in half a second. Italian suits. An escort with asilencer. Knowledge of my past. Access to my real name.

A jolt of pure adrenaline surged through my veins. The icy sensation ofsteel against my skin didn't instil terror; on the contrary, it ignited thatold, familiar spark of electricity that had been dormant inside me for years,waiting to be awakened.They hadn't come to execute me. If they wanted my head, they would have shotme in the store parking lot. They came looking for something they knew Ipossessed. What? That was the question. But if they wanted somethingfrom me, I still held the upper hand.

I smiled. A slow, sharp, dangerous smile.I lowered the weapon slowly and tossed it back into the glove compartment. Iraised my hands to shoulder height in a theatrical gesture.

"Wise decision," the boy remarked.

I leaned over the steering wheel, wrapping my arms around the moldedpolyurethane foam, resting on it as if it were a pillow.

"Alright, pretty boy," I whispered, looking him dead in the eye,ignoring the barrel still grazing my head. "You have my full attention. Atleast one of us knows how to keep things interesting. Speak fast before I getbored and decide to crash this car into a pole.

"He glared back at me.

"Who are you, and what the hell do you want from me?"

The boy adjusted the lapel of his suit, maintaining that unbrokenaristocratic posture.

"I..." he said with absolute serenity, "...am the person whois about to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime deal."