I died three hundred and ninety-nine days ago.
The doctors told me that I didn’t really die. I just lost 46.6 percent of my human body. It felt like dying when they dragged my broken frame out of the rubble and inferno of the explosion and filled the empty spaces with wires and metal.
There are three rules for being an assassin. Don’t hesitate. Don’t question. Don’t feel.
Emotions get you in trouble, and the pain of the past is a distraction.
I glide through the crowd, sipping my champagne and smiling at everyone who meets my eye. I know how to act like just another beautiful woman. I used to be one, after all.
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