.ChatGPT said:
"YOU'RE CRAZY!!"
I pull my phone away from my ear as Thief practically shouts at me.
"It's the only way," I reply calmly.
"NO! I don't agree!!" Thief is still yelling. "I bet Fake doesn't agree either!"
"Well, you two aren't my parents…"
"Your parents wouldn't agree either!"
"Come on, Thief—"
"You can't do this!!"
"Thief, it's the only way. I have to."
"NO! NO!!"
"Thief… listen to me. Listen!" I force her to stop shouting. "The entire company knows my face. Tim Chang has to be dead. It's the only way to stop them from pursuing me."
"But your plan is insane! What if it doesn't work?!"
"That's why I need you to do your part perfectly."
"What if you don't make it?"
I fall silent. Not because of her question—but because Jennifer just walked out of the bathroom, hair wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.
"I'll talk to you later," I whisper and hang up before Thief can react.
"Who was that?" Jennifer asks, tilting her head.
"My team," I answer, my eyes traveling hungrily down her body. "Wow…"
She raises an eyebrow. "What 'wow'? You're acting like a boy seeing a half-naked woman for the first time."
I don't deny it. That's exactly how I feel.
I pull her into my arms and kiss her deeply. She responds, but when my hands move to pull the towel away, she stops me.
"You're gonna be late," she whispers.
Damn it. If being late didn't mean risking my life, I'd say I didn't care.
I peck her lips instead. "Okay, then. Get ready. You have to be beautiful for your first day back at work."
"So, you're saying I'm not usually beautiful?" she pouts playfully.
I kiss her again. "If you keep being this cute, we'll both be late," I murmur, nibbling her lips.
She laughs. "Just wait for me in the living room. I'll be ready in ten."
I sigh, reluctantly letting her go.
Today is Jennifer's first day back after a week-long leave. Her office routine starts at 8 AM, but we agreed I'd drive her before heading to Building 617. That means we need to leave by 6 AM—I have to be in the basement by 6:30.
Ugh. I just want to finish this mission ASAP, but it's too complicated and risky if not handled perfectly.
"I'm going to be out of town for a few days," I tell her five days later as she hands me my helmet.
"What?! When?" Jennifer asks, her face twisting in surprise.
"This afternoon," I say as casually as possible.
Her eyes widen. "And you're just telling me now?!"
"Because I didn't want you to worry too much," I say, reaching to touch her cheek.
She swipes my hand away. "You think I'll worry less just because you're telling me at the last minute?"
"No. But at least you'll worry for a shorter time." That's the truth. The later she knows, the less time she has to stress over it. I originally planned not to tell her at all, but Andy convinced me she'd go crazy if she had no idea where I was.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I coax her.
Jennifer exhales sharply. "How long?"
"Around three to six days."
Her expression shifts from anger to fear.
"Don't worry. Andy will be with you the whole time," I add.
"Don't blame me if I end up sleeping with him," she huffs.
I chuckle, pulling her close and kissing her long and deep.
"Try to behave," I whisper against her lips. "Don't ruin his innocence."
She giggles.
"Be careful," she whispers, pressing another soft kiss on me.
"I will," I promise her.
"Chang!"
I open the door to Mr. Chekhovsky's office. "Yes, Sir?"
"Refill my water," he orders.
I nod, grab the bottle from his desk, and leave. Two minutes later, I return and, in front of him, pour some water into a cup and drink it before setting the bottle back on his table.
"Thank you," he says, then pours himself a glass.
The phone on his desk vibrates. I glance at it just before he grabs it and declines the call. A few seconds later, it vibrates again. This time, he shoves it into his drawer.
The caller ID flashed Mikhail—his son.
"Do you need anything else, Sir?" I ask.
"No. You can leave."
I nod and exit, standing guard outside his office.
Ten minutes later, a voice crackles through my radio.
"Mr. Chang, there are police officers here asking for Mr. Chekhovsky."
What?! "On what grounds?"
"They say it's about Mr. Sternov."
Shit.
"They have warrants, Sir."
"F*ck! Lead them to the 70th floor!"
"But, Sir—"
"They cannot know where his office is! Tell them he will meet them there!"
"Understood."
I rush inside.
"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but the police are here. A squad of them. They're looking for you."
Mr. Chekhovsky goes pale. "What? Why?"
"They found Sternov's body."
"That's impossible. My cleaners are the best…"
"They're waiting for you on the 70th floor now."
His panic spikes. "No… they know! They know it was me!"
"We don't know that yet."
"Yes, we do! That's why they're here! They're going to arrest me! We have to get out!"
"Sir, if you run, they'll immediately—"
"I did it! Okay?! They know! That's why they're here!! Get me out of here, Chang!"
I sigh. "Calm down, Sir. I'll get you out by helicopter."
"Why not by car?"
"With all due respect, Sir, your car is one of a kind in this country. They'll track it instantly."
"Good point. Call the pilot!"
I do. Then I lead him through a secret escape route while instructing my men to stall the police.
At the rooftop, the helicopter is already waiting. I guide him toward it, moving low against the wind.
After he climbs into the passenger seat, I tell the pilot, "Let me fly."
I strap in, wearing the headset.
"Can you fly this thing, son?" he asks.
"Yes, Sir. I'm licensed," I reply truthfully. Of course, that license is under Scott Bennett, not Tim Chang.
"Good," he exhales in relief.
"Where to?"
"My safe house in O City. Do we have enough fuel?"
"I believe so, Sir."
An hour later, we approach the mountains.
"Sir, please put on the oxygen mask. We'll be flying over 15,000 feet to clear the peaks."
He obeys.
Minutes pass.
Then, I notice him pulling his mask off.
"Sir, put it back on—the air is too thin."
"I'm so dizzy," He complains but put the mask back.
Ten minutes later, he pulls his mask again.
"I can't breathe," He says. I tell him to put it back again, but this time he doesn't listen. His breathing turns labored.
"Why am I so dizzy ?" He asks to himselg.
He looks at me, realization dawning.
"You…"
I smile.
In an instant, I grab his neck and twist it sharply.
His body goes limp.
Finally.
After a month of planning, Artur Chekhovsky is dead.
I place a burned corpse in my seat, attach a parachute, and detonate controlled explosions in the tail and main rotor.
"Mayday, mayday!" I yell into the radio. "Helicopter malfunction! I repeat—rotors failing! This is Tim Chang!"
Just as the helicopter spirals toward the mountains, I jump, opening my parachute.
The shockwave from the explosion hits me hard.
Darkness creeps in.
I'm barely conscious—but I made it.