I never thought I’d kill the man I loved.

Two years after my release from North Korean prison, I stood at the vice president’s funeral, rifle in hand, watching President Matveyev’s pulse flicker beneath his skin. I pulled the trigger. The world screamed betrayal.

But I didn’t kill him.

Spider venom—Mike’s research—slowed his heart, mimicked death. I shot to frame myself, to draw out the real KAs. Now, hunted by the CIA, I race through storm-lit streets, gear bag slung over my shoulder, Mike’s last photo tucked in my vest. He’s gone. Orlov made sure of that.

The barge looms ahead. Orlov waits, surrounded by sleepers. My past. My test.

I step onto the deck. He smiles.

‘You hesitated at the funeral,’ he says.

‘I completed the mission,’ I reply.

He nods to a figure in the shadows.

Mike.

Alive.

Then a gunshot.

He falls.

I don’t flinch.

Orlov studies me. ‘Good. You’re ready.’

I look at Mike’s body. Then back at him.

‘I’m ready.’

But I’m not.

Not for what comes next.