Wine. The one I was forced to drink tasted sour. I could imagine what it was doing to my insides. The bottle forced between my teeth was going to shatter any moment, I knew it.

Waking up in hospital days later, I wasn't surprised to see lacerations on my face from the glass. The doctors tried to stop me from taking a look and wanted the bandages to stay on, but I always preferred to face reality rather than avoid it.

A psychologist was brought in, and I went through the motions. I didn't need anyone to soften the blow that I wouldn't ever look the same again. Or, even to help me deal with the fact my arms were going to be out of action for months.

When I finally left hospital I went straight to the agency.

Then to a plastic surgeon who assisted in giving me a new face and body.

So I could return to my old job.

Assassin.