The diner before me was small, vintage. The word "CHERRY's" flickered on and off its sign. The vibes emanating from the atmosphere were nice— it felt homey. I counted ten people when I stepped into the building. They were closer to the exits; no one was seated near the kitchen area, just how I had asked. 

Quiet chatter mingled with music in the air as people went on with their lives without having to fear for them. I couldn't help but wonder how nice it must have been. My feet subconsciously carried me closer, my entire future resting in the hands of the marred journal I held close to my chest. It had to be destroyed. 

As did I. 

I grew up believing that we did the things we did to protect those who could not protect themselves. I thought that G.O.L.D. was more than an espionage agency. In my mind, we were heroes. We did unthinkable things in order to maintain a necessary balance.

Now, uncertainty was prevalent in my mind in quantities more than just a mere drop, anchoring me to the the rock-bottom of insanity, among other things. Everyone who knew me knew that I was confident about every step I took and every breath that evaded my body.

Not anymore. I was no longer the same Zara.

I was in danger. My friends were in danger. Terrible, terrible people were looking for me and the journal that my mother left behind. Once they found me, they would do unthinkable things to my mind and body. I would be tortured until I gave away secrets about the few people I still cared about in the agency. I would give away secrets that my mother died in order to protect.

So there was only one way out.

The last words that my mother wrote in her journal were echoing relentlessly through my numb mind:

"Take these words, my sweet Zara, and run.

Find a place that you can call home.

Where you're safe.

Let these pages guide you to..."

They were the words inscribed into the very last page in red ink, their urgency unsettling. She couldn't finish. She ran out of time.

It was incomplete. Incomplete like every emotion that pulsed through my rigid veins at the early night's hour. My life's purpose had been refactored, and everything I lived for was rendered meaningless.

Guide me where?

Where did my mother want me to go? It hurt that I'd never find out, but it hurt more that I would never be able to ask her.

There was no where I could turn and no one I could turn to.

All that remained certain in the world was that the sun would rise, set, and that if I left, my mother's secrets had to follow.

I felt many scrutinizing eyes analyze my every move as soon as I stepped into the small diner. It was a feeling I was accustomed to. I picked at the hem of the black shirt wrapped around my body. I was dressed in dark clothing, wanting to blend into the night that I would soon become a part of. 

The way the intimidating wind howled through the stygian night was almost a reminder that I didn't have much time; that the people I was trying to escape from were bound to show up any second. My heart beat raced against time itself, and my nerves began to grow unspeakable amounts.

My right hand was molded around the crescent pendant that hung from my neck and laid flat in between my collar bones. The cold metal sent chills through my body. It was my mother's. I stepped into the welcoming yet undeniably deceiving atmosphere of the diner, prepared to face death—prepared to face unrequited justice.   

Everyone had company with them at their booths. They laughed away with their family, friends, significant others.

Everyone except one person. He seemed to be my age—maybe older. His eyes were not on the door from which I'd entered or the journal in my hands, rather they bore right into mine. He seemed sad, emerald eyes distant as he played with the bow-tie around his neck, an untouched plate of food in front of him, and a bouquet of flowers placed in a cup of water, clearly out of place.

I couldn't quite place a finger on why I found him, among everyone, to be so interesting that night. It was the way that he sat forlorn in the booth that for some reason reminded me too much of myself.

A part of me wanted to sit with him and talk to him, but I ignored it. This wasn't what I came here for. 

But I did always like flowers. My feet glided across the floor, making no noise as I neared his table. I sensed his shoulders tense, his eyes widening as he realized that I was approaching his table. Without meeting his following gaze, I picked out a rose from the bouquet and placed it behind my ear.

His face was riddled with questions, mouth agape, trying to form words that did not want to be formed. His eyes locked onto mine, and every inch of me felt invaded. As spies, we were taught to guard our identities. We could not let anyone break down our walls, learn our names, or worst of all, look into our natural eyes. 

But in this case, it didn't matter. I wouldn't be alive to face the consequences anyway.

There's a lot you can tell about someone just by their eyes. 

This boy—he seemed lonely and quite lost, but I didn't have time to spare thinking about him. He remained silent as I turned around, ignoring my racing heart, and found myself walking into a room labeled Employees Only.

The last room I would ever step into.

"You're here."

Kevin's voice was dripping with what seemed to be a mixture of disappointment and disbelief.

"You know I don't enjoy standing people up." I laughed, making a useless attempt at brightening the dismal mood.

It had been days since I had actually spoken to anyone. Although it felt nice, Kevin's voice made pain surge through my heart.

He knew why I was there. He was going to help me.

Kevin's arms were folded across his chest as he walked closer to me, his noticeably older features contorting in uncertainty. He seemed troubled—almost scared. 

That was the first time I'd ever seen him scared.

"I'm sorry about Rose," he said, casting his brown eyes down in sympathy. I placed a hand on his chest, feeling it shaking underneath my touch.

My mother was beloved by everyone. She was gone, and she took a part of everyone with her.

Kevin was an old friend of Mom's. They had been partners a few times during missions, and he'd always genuinely taken care of us.

"Listen, I know that I owe you a favor, but will you explain how this will help you at all?"

He raised his eyebrows, confused as to why I asked him to complete such an absurd task. 

"I wish I could tell you," I sighed, taking his hand in mine. I knew that I couldn't get too close. I couldn't express too much emotion, or else I would start having second thoughts. This had to be done.

"Please, just make sure everyone gets out safely."

I searched his eyes for a confirmation and relaxed when he nodded slightly, making his promise to me.

He was obviously confused, but knew better than to ask more questions.

It was just how things worked in our lives. Questions were a common enemy.

He nodded, placing a paternal kiss on my forehead before walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him. 

My heart ached the second I was alone in the room. 

I had always wondered who would be the last person I'd ever talk to. Never did I think it might be Kevin.

I wiped away a tear that had escaped my eyes and hurried to the back of the room, where he had already set up what I had asked: a small device with nothing but a red button.

This was how my mother and Kevin met. He was an engineer for the agency, and a damn good one. Even years after he stopped working for G.O.L.D., he would build anything my mom ever asked him for.

And now he had built me my weapon of self-destruction.

Holding my mother's journal tight to my chest, I reached down and placed my hand on the button.

Breathe.

Mother's voice echoed through my mind, drowning out the intruding thoughts of regret. For some reason, fear was absent from the storm that was brewing within me. 

I was not afraid of death. In the past twenty years of my life, I never was. I was more afraid of dying without being extraordinary. My mother made an impact on so many lives. She died a heroic death, and a part of me hoped that my own death could be deemed the least bit heroic, even if it was in its own twisted way.

I pushed the button. Instantly, smoke began to fill the room. I heard people shouting in the diner behind the closed door, their panic assuring me that the fire had started. People ran from the kitchen, stumbling past me and sprinting out of the room.

Run, a part of my mind pleaded. But I remained still. I pressed my trembling back against the wall and slid down until I was sat on the ground, my eyes pressed shut.

My life was not flashing before my eyes. Not yet, at least. Instead, a strange sense of bliss settled over me. This was the freedom I'd always yearned for.

I was not scared. I was ready to embrace death, because I truly believed that this was the end of my story. Zara DuBois would not meet her end in a grand mission, but in a small diner fire.

Fire was the only way to completely destroy anything. If I was going to die, it had to be in a fire. I didn't want to be salvaged, identified, or missed. It was the best way to disappear without a trace. And the journal? It would perish with me.

The smoke was intoxicating. I could feel it invade every inch of my lungs, agonizing pain bolting through my entire body. 

I could feel myself drifting away. 

In and out, in and out.

Periods of peace interrupted by seconds of agony.

Mother's journal pressed against my chest.

Her words close to my withering heart.

It's okay.

I lied.

Just let go.

And I did.

But for a split second, I opened my eyes, and through the conquering smoke, a pair of emerald green ones stared back at me.