The Angel

⸶Chapter 9⸷

I glance at the clock—0:900. Time seems to stretch and contract, warping around the enormity of the task ahead. I need to plan, and I need to do it meticulously. I put the coffee mugs in the dishwasher and eat a protein bar for breakfast while I gather the letters I received from my boss and make my way to my study to formulate my plans. My mid-century turntable, a prized possession I'd picked up in an antique shop in Paris, sits in the corner, silent and imposing. I turn it on, letting the soft, crackling notes of a classic jazz record fill the room. It helps me think, brings a sense of calm amidst the storm. The room is bathed in the soft glow of morning light, filtered through the heavy curtains.

My study is a sanctuary of order, the chaos of my life. Shelves line the walls, filled with books on strategy, espionage, and history. I sit at my desk getting comfortable in my leather chair and I spread the letters out on my desk, smoothing the creases with the palm of my hand. The weight of the upcoming assignment presses down on me, each word a reminder of the stakes. I need to be meticulous, flawless in my execution. Gabriella doesn't tolerate mistakes, and failure is not an option. The first letter is a commendation for a job well done, the second, a dire warning cloaked in flowery language,with a detailed briefing for my next assignment. Each word, each sentence, is a stark reminder of the high stakes involved.

"Okay, Sia," I mutter to myself, "let's break this down." I retrieve my favoutite notebook and pen, old-fashioned tools that ground me. and start to jot down key points. As digital records can be hacked, traced—paper is safer, more intimate.

I start jotting down the key points from the letter. The assignment involves a high-profile target, one whose identity is to remain confidential until further notice. The briefing is detailed, outlining the target's schedule, known associates, and potential security measures. It's clear that this is not going to be a simple task.

The gentle scratch of my pen is accompanied by the rhythmic hum of the turntable. I organize the briefing into categories: objectives, timelines, potential risks, and countermeasures. I feel a familiar tension build as I delve deeper into the specifics. This isn't just any mission—it's a delicate operation involving international intrigue and sensitive negotiations.

I must be meticulous. The stakes are high, and Gabriella's expectations are even higher. She demands perfection. I've learned this from experience. Her standards are unwavering, and she doesn't tolerate mistakes. As I make notes, I start formulating a plan. My approach needs to be strategic, with every detail accounted for.

As I work, the jazz music creates an almost hypnotic rhythm, pushing me to think more clearly. I glance around my study, taking in the orderly chaos that surrounds me. The bookshelves, filled with volumes on strategy and espionage, are a testament to the years I've spent honing my skills. The mid-century turntable in the corner, a relic of a past life, seems almost to watch over me as I work. Its silent presence is a reminder of the importance of precision and care.

As I delve deeper into the details, my phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me from my concentration. I glance at the screen—an incoming call from Gabriella. My heart skips a beat. It's unusual for her to call directly unless something has changed.

"Hello?" I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Anastasia," Gabriella's voice is clipped, authoritative. "How's the planning coming along?"

"Almost done. Just finalizing the details," I respond, glancing at the notebook where my notes are spread.

"Good," she replies. "Remember, this isn't just about getting the job done. It's about sending a message. We need to make a statement, show that we're not to be underestimated."