"Alex, I'm a spy."
The 11pm bells from the church nearby reverberated through the chilly Dublin air as I made my way home, my heels clicking a lonely rhythm against the pavement. I had been working late, my clandestine efforts to access my boss's office thwarted at every turn.
"I'm a spy!" I thought again, longing to confess this truth to Alex, my handsome neighbour. I first met Alex when he moved into the apartment next door. Our initial encounter was serendipitous, sparked by a simple mix-up of mail. His easy laugh and sincere apology over the confusion had broken the ice, leading to a short, pleasant exchange in the dimly lit hallway. Since then, our interactions had been sporadic but friendly, often a brief exchange of pleasantries outside our doors or in the building's lobby.
These lonely walks home gave me too much time for tortured thoughts. Like how desperately I wanted to confide in Alex, to just be honest for once. But of course, I couldn't tell him. Not only would it be against every rule in the book, but most men would find the truth about my life intimidating, perhaps even terrifying. Would Alex be one of them? The thought made me smile wryly. No, I didn't think so but either way, I knew that secret would stay with me.
I was deep undercover at one of the city's sprawling social media firms, a place teeming with data and secrets, and it was my job to unearth connections that could lead to the darker underbelly of international espionage. I'd spent months building my cover identity, becoming 'Alison, the social media strategist', and as an EIA agent, I needed to maintain this fascade.
The European Intelligence Agency, or EIA, was a new frontier of intelligence born from the need for an integrated European response to the intricate web of modern threats.
As I reached my apartment building, the familiar, somewhat comforting sight of the aged brick facade greeted me. I stepped into the lobby, its faded elegance a stark contrast to the high-stakes world I navigated daily. The lift dinged open, and I stepped inside, the doors closing with a gentle thud.
It was here, in the small, mirrored interior of the lift, that I allowed myself a moment of reflection — both metaphorically and literally. I met my own gaze in the mirror. The woman staring back at me had strawberry blonde hair, pulled back to keep it out of my way, framing a face many considered attractive. At 23, my years with the army and agency had changed me, but my dancer's physique still carried the grace and strength of my teenage years.
I knew the looks and whispers that followed me in the agency's corridors. My appearance and youth often led to underestimation, but I was determined to prove I was as tough as they came. During my time with the Irish Ranger Wing, I had undergone training with the British SAS — experiences that forged me into a formidable agent, at least in theory. So far, I hadn't had much to do other than to do my cover work for Pathway, the world's fastest-growing social media platform.
The lift chimed, announcing my arrival at my floor. The doors slid open, and I stepped out into the hallway, my reflection disappearing as the lift doors closed behind me. The brief moment of introspection was over, and I was back in the world of dimly lit corridors and secrecy.
Yet, as I entered my apartment, a sense of unease washed over me. The eerie silence was a glaring anomaly, one that set every nerve on edge. It was the kind of quiet that preceded storms, a stillness that screamed of danger. Something felt off. That's when I heard it — the almost imperceptible creak of a floorboard from the living room. Someone was here.
I stepped out of my heels and slid off my coat, moving silently on the balls of my feet, every sense straining for the slightest hint of movement. My hand instinctively went to the small firearm concealed at my back, a comforting weight against my palm. I advanced, each step deliberate, avoiding the usual creaks and groans of the old wooden floor.
As they emerged from the shadows of my living room, the Davis sisters were a vision of coordinated, lethal, and unsettling beauty. Both were clad in black, form-fitting bodysuits that hugged every curve and muscle. The suits were complemented by knee-high black boots, the leather gleaming slightly in the light, and their long hair was pulled back into high, harsh ponytails, giving them a severe and focused look, as if every strand was pulled back to streamline their deadly intent.
But it was their makeup that truly set them apart, applied so heavily and meticulously that it gave them an almost mannequin-like appearance. Their faces, identical in structure, were accentuated with sharp contours, exaggerated eye shadows, and bright, nearly unnaturally coloured lips. The effect was disconcerting, their expressions painted on, yet behind the makeup, their eyes were sharp and alive, calculating every move with cold precision.
The twins' names came back to me: Davina and Darina. Both eerily beautiful and undeniably dangerous. They were known for their skills but also their theatricality and appearance, a psychological tactic to unnerve and distract. But as they faced me, I knew that under the layers of makeup and within those form-fitting costumes were two of the most formidable assassins I would ever encounter.
As the Davis sisters stepped into the light, their identical, unnerving expressions fixed on me, Darina spoke first, her voice as smooth and cold as the steel of a blade. "You've been asking too many questions, Alison. Not very wise for a simple employee of Pathway."
Davina's smirk, as chilling as her sister's tone, added, "Curiosity can be... fatal. We're here to ensure it doesn't become a habit."
I kept my posture relaxed, my face a mask of feigned ignorance, even as my heart raced. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
"Why are you asking questions, Alison? Who are you working for?" asked Darina.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just doing my job. There's no need for this," I replied, trying to maintain the persona of Alison, the social media strategist.
But they weren't buying it. They advanced, a synchronised move of trained professionals. I knew I had to end this quickly and quietly. I waited until they were close enough, then sprung into action.
Opting for stealth over firepower, I made a split-second decision to keep my gun holstered. If the assassins had truly known who they were dealing with, they might have come at me with guns blazing, but it seemed their orders were to interrogate, not eliminate. Their fatal mistake was underestimating me, assuming I was just another corporate pawn in their game of shadows. They didn't realise that even without a weapon, I was far from defenseless.
Darina was the first to reach me, her fist aiming for my face. I ducked, feeling the air whoosh above me, and grabbed her extended arm, using her momentum to throw her over my shoulder. She crashed into the coffee table with a thud, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.
Undeterred by her sister's fall, Davina launched herself at me with a high kick. I stepped aside at the last moment, grabbing her foot and twisting sharply. She yelped, losing her balance, and I pushed her away. She stumbled back, knocking into a shelf, which sent various trinkets crashing to the ground.
They recovered quickly, attacking in unison this time. I blocked a punch, dodged a kick, and then went on the offensive. A quick jab here, a kick there, I was a whirlwind of controlled aggression. They were skilled, but I was better.
The twins exchanged a look, a silent conversation in the brief respite of our combat. Darina, still recovering from my last hit, smirked, "Well, you've certainly got some moves. Did they teach you that at your marketing seminars?" Her tone was mocking, yet I sensed a grudging respect.
"Let's just say I'm full of surprises," I replied, slightly out of breath but smiling.
The fight resumed with renewed vigor, the living room transformed into a battleground, our movements a blur of kicks and parries, the stakes painfully clear.
Finally, with a well-executed roundhouse kick, the momentum of my body and years of training behind it, I sent Darina crashing back to the floor. The impact resonated through the room, her breath escaping in a hushed gasp of surprise and pain.
Davina grunted, "You're no social media specialist." Her voice full of grudging respect and venom.
I couldn't resist the urge to engage in a bit more verbal sparring, even as I prepared for her next move. "And you," I shot back, narrowly avoiding a sweeping kick, "wear way too much makeup!"
"It's called intimidation, darling. You should try it sometime," Davina retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I dodged away from another of her aggressive advances, her movements becoming more predictable with her growing frustration, "Hey, if you want to spend a couple of hours in front of the mirror before a job, who am I to judge?"
That last barb seemed to hit a nerve. Davina's next attack was reckless, a wild lunge driven by anger rather than precision. It was exactly the mistake I was waiting for. With a fluid motion, I sidestepped and caught her in a tight chokehold, my arm locking around her neck. I could feel her pulse racing against my forearm, her body struggling against the inevitable.
I could have ended it there, made it permanent, but that wasn't my style. Instead, I applied just enough pressure, a delicate balance between restraint and force, until her body went limp in my arms. With care that belied the violence of our encounter, I lowered her unconscious form next to her sister, who was still trying to shake off the effects of my earlier assault.
Darina, barely conscious and realising the fight was over, tried to muster one last defiant look, but it faltered, her eyes closing as I delivered a swift, merciful strike to ensure she joined her sister in unconsciousness. They lay there, a tangle of limbs and dark leather, their shallow breathing the only sound in the suddenly still room.
I stood back, taking a moment to catch my breath, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins.
That's when I heard it: a knock at the door. My heart raced, not out of fear but embarrassment. It was Alex!
"Alison, is everything okay? I heard some... noises," his voice came through the door, laced with concern and curiosity. The word 'noises' felt like an understatement. I could only imagine what he thought was happening in here. A fight? A break-in? Worse?
My heart, which had only just begun to slow, raced again - this time not with fear or adrenaline, but with embarrassment and a sudden, overwhelming anxiety. What would he think? The meticulously maintained image of Alison, the friendly but unremarkable neighbour, was at risk of shattering completely.
I glanced at myself in the hallway mirror, taking in my disheveled appearance. My hair was a mess, my clothes askew, and was that a bruise forming on my cheek? "Just a moment!" I called out, attempting to sound casual. I couldn't let him see the apartment like this, couldn't let him see me like this.
I glanced around the room — the overturned furniture, scattered trinkets from the shelf Davina had crashed into, and the two unconscious assassins lying in the middle of it all.