I work alone.

That's the way I prefer it, anyway.

Allies just slow me down. I need no one.

There is only one person I trust without reservation. It's Frank, our old psychiatrist at the Agency. He has a bar now, so I trust him twice as much.

He knows everything about me, literally. And he has good whiskey, too. Those are two pretty solid reasons to frequent his place.

Poor guy was dismissed from the Agency after he's spent too many years listening to our blabbering, and he developed severe depression. I'd call it a logical consequence of his job rather than a chance occurrence. Those were pretty dark times, and we talked about pretty terrible things to him. No wonder he ceased to function properly. An unhealthy dose of daily deaths, nightmares, and PTSD kills the mood.

"Hey, Duke, how's your good old oedipal complex doing?"

Okay, that's two things he absolutely shouldn't do. Use my codename and disclose sensitive data. The Agency might have discharged him for a reason, after all.

"Hi, Frank. Everything's fine."

"I doubt it," he says. "You never come here on Thursdays, except when something happened, and you need to talk about the trauma."

"I'm working, Frank, all right? I need to be on the move."

"You're not on the move, you're sitting at your usual hangout. Do you need help with identifying your immediate and intermediate goals in life, both on a professional and a personal level?"

"No," I snort. "I need a whiskey."

"Oh. All right, I get it. No analysis today. Just an everyday, superficial chit-chat. No problem."

"Thanks, Frank."

"Whatever the patient wants."

"We're called patrons now, I'm afraid."

Frank pouts and turns away to wash a perfectly spotless glass.

"Okay," I give up. "Let's identify my goals."

"You're right, it's none of my business anymore," he snaps. "Let's talk about something else. Everyone's talking about the virus, shall we?"

"Well—"

"Or rather," he goes on, "let's not talk at all. We all will be dead soon, so what for? This will kill us. End of story."

"Frank, are you taking your medicines regularly?"

"Excuse me," he yells, "I'm the one to ask the questions here!"

I take a deep breath. It's one of those days. Frank's in regression. I know what it is, I learned a lot from him during the nights spent here.

"All right," I say, clearing my throat. "I want to talk about my complexes. It's been a while, and they are out of control."

I know it's something he can't resist. He puts the glass down without throwing it, which is a good sign.

"Okay," he says, sounding much calmer. "I'm listening."

I slowly nod, and I try to come up with something coherent. Frank may have problems himself, but he's still the best.

"What would you do," I ask him, "if you just realized that you suffered a lot, for no reason?"

"I suffered a lot for no reason. I listened to your sob stories diligently every day, just to get kicked out in the end. You're talking about the Agency, right? I know. That's how it goes. Everything you believe in turns to dust."

"In a way, yes. My worst trauma turned out to be a lie."

"Your worst trauma?" He raises his brows. "I thought your worst trauma was Gabriel's death. And the same went for your whole team. You lost your angel, who fulfilled the role of at least four female archetypes in your miserable lives, like the mother, the maiden, the sage, the mystic... so you put the burden of all the remaining ones on the poor woman, too, like the lover, the queen... the more the merrier, right? If she was a woman at all, mind you. She might have been a biker dude with a Santa Claus beard and a full-body tattoo. What a bunch of pathetic idiots you were, really."

"Hey," I warn him, "it's not something you're allowed to say in therapy."

"Okay, okay. Just admit that it wasn't a healthy thing. When you're part of a secret organization, and you can hardly talk to anyone, this thing happens, it's called—"

"Psychological projection." I nod. "I know. I'm aware that she's not—she might not be like we imagined her."

"Right. Anyway, back to your trauma, based on a lie. Was it the death of your friend? He was killed under orders from Mr. Toe, wasn't he? It wasn't the Thai mafia, right? I always thought so."

"Who?" I gasp for air. "What?"

"Your friend, Mint," he whispers, leaning closer. "The Agency killed him, right? Because he went nuts after Gabriel died. He turned into a security hazard."

"No!"

"Well, in fact, he did. I diagnosed him, remember? And now, I can't get over the guilt. I got him killed with it."

"Frank," I sigh. "It wasn't your fault. Leave this self-destructing cognitive pattern. Recognition is the first step to recovery."

"Oh, shut up. We're talking about you now."

His pained grimace makes me grit my teeth. I wish I could help him, effectively, not just repeating the bullshit I picked up from him. But I can't let him know that Mint lives. And I can't let him know that not for long, either.

"Never do harm to a friend, Duke," he says, answering my unspoken thoughts. "It breaks you."

I choke on my whiskey. Frank pats my back, making my coughing fit worse. After it subsides, we sit there in silence, thinking about our ghosts.

"It was you who killed him, right?" Frank asks abruptly, out of the blue.

"Whom? Mint?"

"Yes. Fucking Mr. Toe made you kill your friend."

I snort. I almost advise him to start taking his medicines again, or start writing cliché spy fiction books, because one of those will help relieve his condition. Then, I take a glance at his gloomy, guilt-ridden face, and I reconsider. I caused it, after all, by letting that asshole go.

A noble act I've regretted bitterly ever since.

"You're right," I tell him. "It was me."

The past tense might not be accurate, but, in a way, I'm telling him the truth. It's only a matter of time now.

"So you can stop worrying about that diagnose, okay?" I go on. "Your expert opinion had nothing to do with Mint's death. It wasn't the reason."

"What was it, then?"

"I can't tell you."

"Of course you can't," he says. "If you did, you'd have to kill me."

I roll my eyes. I refrain from mentioning soft-cover spy novels, again, though. My patience is almost angelic today.

Frank breathes out, sounding relieved.

"Now I understand why you turned to alcohol. To bear such a burden every day, well, I'm surprised you can look yourself in the mirror."

I close my eyes and count to ten.

"It's not something a psychiatrist should tell his patient," I remind him.

"You're a patron, bro. And I'm a bartender."

I close my eyes again.

Frank is my only remaining friend. I can't kill him too.

It's a pity.