There was nothing about her that wasn’t contradictory. She was enormously powerful yet incredibly weak; majestically terrifying yet small and unassuming; she had the ferocity of a cornered tiger yet was meek and as insecure as a mouse.

The world seemed to change instantly as the spear of my lie approached her. Her assault on Martin stopped as though a light switch had been thrown, and the vortex of her fury dissipated. With a fleeting feeling of satisfaction, she receded, yielding my senses and body back to me. It had been too easy: something wasn’t right.

My sense of touch returned first, and I realized that I held something hard and metallic. With dread, I recognized the feel of the MP-448. My right arm was raised. The lingering echo of the gunshot still rang in my ears. My returning sight confirmed my worst fears: Martin lay dead from a bullet through the forehead.

Kseniya had dropped Martin’s coat when she fled. I took it, pocketed the gun, then I ran into the winter once again, holding back tears.