The realization hits me like a freight train carrying everything I’ve been trying not to understand. The combat reflexes, the tactical awareness, and the automatic responses to authority figures like Pavel. None of it was developed from random talent or movie watching.
I’m a trained FSB agent.
“No,” I breathe, gripping the window frame for support as more pieces click into place.
The dreams about weapons training weren’t nightmares.
They were memories.
The facility with the shooting range and the tactical scenarios was real. I was there. I lived it.
Agent Sidorov. That’s what the voice called me in my dreams.
My real name isn’t Katya Kozlov.
It’s Agent Katya Sidorov.
Sent undercover as Alexandra Volkova to infiltrate Dmitri’s organization.
The coffee mug slips from my hands and shatters, but I barely notice. My identity is piecing itself back together, and every shard makes me sick.
Dmitri discovered my real identity. He found out I was FSB, and instead of killing me, he decided to play a much more twisted game.
The explosion at the gallery wasn’t random violence. It was either an assassination gone wrong or the perfect cover for implementing a psychological operation that would make me forget who I am.
“Katya?” Dmitri calls from his office. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I call back, though my voice sounds strange even to me. “Just dropped something.”
I need to keep pretending while I figure out how much I remember and what it means for my current situation.
If Dmitri realizes I’m recovering my memory, he might decide that keeping me alive is no longer worth the risk.
But the memories keep coming in waves that make me grip the counter for support.
Viktor Petrov isn’t an intelligence broker who helps various criminal families. He’s my handler. My FSB superior, who assigned me to this mission and monitored my progress for over a year.
Why would my handler need to negotiate for my return? The FSB knows where I am. Unless they wanted me to disappear.
My legs go weak. What if the gallery blast wasn’t Dmitri? What if Viktor set it up to erase me once I’d served my purpose?
More memories rise, and bile comes with them. Viktor pushing me past intel. Ordering me to seduce Dmitri for deeper access. Threatening me if I didn’t deliver enough to justify a takedown.
I began questioning his orders in the weeks before the explosion. Started wondering if what he was asking me to do crossed lines that intelligence work shouldn’t cross.
The romantic manipulation felt wrong, and I’d begun to suspect that Viktor had motivations beyond standard FSB objectives.
“Agent Sokolova will continue monitoring your progress,” Viktor told me during our last meeting. “Complete psychological evaluation to ensure operational readiness.”
Agent Sokolova. Not Dr. Sokolova.
My supposed therapist is another FSB operative who’s been evaluating my mental state while I’ve been Dmitri’s prisoner.
But she’s not just another agent assigned to monitor me.
Anya Sokolova is my best friend. For seven years, we shared missions, covered each other’s backs, and traded secrets that could kill us.
She was the one person in the FSB I thought I could trust.
