You weren't hiding; in fact, you let him know your location. After all, he wouldn't dare raise his hands to you, even if they were itching.

MI6 pays for your services. The CIA turns a blind eye. The FSB is still looking for the ghost who stole the plans for the nuclear suitcase. His case lies in your desk drawer, between the love letters of the Minister of Defence and photos of his childhood.

But this is only the tip of the iceberg.

On the wall behind you is a map of the world, covered in pins. Red marks those you destroyed: the Saudi energy minister; the Japanese tycoon who hanged himself with his own tie after the [TOP SECRET]—a moment best left forgotten. Although, how many sick freaks with skeletons in their closets have you met along the way, right?

Blue means those who pay. Green—those still shaking. Makarov: a black pin stuck in Moscow. You dyed it scarlet a month ago.

He blows the door with C4 at four in the morning. You are wearing see-through underwear, a glass of Château Latour in hand, watching him step through the shards.

"You leaked my negotiations with North Korea to Price." His voice, always so confident, trembles at the ends of his words. "Because of you, a lab in Omsk burned. Thirty people. Thirty."

"You're wrong." You smirk. "Thirty-one. Your chemist ran away to me yesterday. He's on a yacht off Cyprus now… crying with a cork in his arse in my bikini."

Makarov rushes towards you but trips on the carpet, landing at your feet. His fingers dig into your hips.

"Stop it."

"Oh, Volodya."

He once told you that to break someone, you have to take away what they live for: pride, strength, maybe even family.

The recording: his mother, begging him to stop being a monster. Pulled from the FSB archives. The envelope on the desk: his secret daughter in Paris, wrapped tight in the scarf you gave her last week. Alive. Just wanted to play.

"What do you want?" Vladimir's voice almost breaks into a bark. What a stupid question. Money, of course. There's probably a small hole in his accounts by now.