Nine years ago, my parents and I were heading somewhere unknown to me. They seemed tense, whispering urgently to each other. I caught snippets of their conversation—something about "he won't find us" and "we have to keep moving." My father wasn't even sure, but he tried to reassure my mother. The tension was palpable, and I could feel the fear in their voices.

Suddenly, everything changed. We got into an accident. Time seemed to slow down as pieces of glass cut into my skin. My mother couldn't stop yelling, but then, everything went silent. Red liquid filled the vehicle, and both my parents were alive but badly injured. To this day, I don't know why I wasn't crying. They dragged me out, and my mother held me in her arms while my father clutched two guns. He threw one to her and told her to get to safety, but she refused. Ignoring the huge cut on her leg, she put me aside and got to her feet. She was right—if we ran, whoever was after us would catch us in no time.

I had no choice but to close my eyes and curl into a fetal position. Strangely, I was calm. Maybe I missed the memo on how to have a normal emotional response to sheer terror. Loud gunshots were the only thing I heard. I remember it like it was yesterday because it's something I relive every day. I was taken in by someone I didn't even know. Trained, beaten, trained, beaten—it all repeated itself. I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. All I knew, and knew best, was handling a gun.

After several missions, my skills were acknowledged. I became a national assassin at the age of fourteen, known for how I carried out my missions. But it wasn't just my skills as an assassin that set me apart. I possessed something far greater.

(From now on, I will transition from using the first-person narrative to the third-person narrative.)

Adrien Marcel sat in his small, single-room apartment. The room was modest but tidy, with a neatly made bed in one corner and a small table with a chair in the other. Shelves lined one wall, filled with books, a few personal mementos, and essential supplies. A laptop rested on the table, its screen casting a soft glow in the dim light.

The quiet of the room was interrupted by the soft ping of an incoming email. Adrien walked over to the table and sat down, opening the laptop. The new message had a sense of urgency to it, and he quickly clicked it open.

From: unknown@securemail.com Subject: Rendezvous in Paris

Message: "The Eiffel Tower sparkles brightest at midnight. Rendezvous beneath its light. The Louvre awaits its next masterpiece. Lucien will guide your hand. Collect your passport and equipment at The Black Rose, Covent Garden, by 9 AM tomorrow."

Adrien stood up from his chair, the room dimly lit despite the bright midday sunlight trying to pierce through heavy curtains. The single window was covered, allowing just enough light to filter in, creating long shadows across the floor. He walked over to the small coat rack by the door and pulled on a dark, well-worn hoodie. The fabric was soft from years of use, and the hood fit snugly over his head, casting his face in deeper shadow.

He stepped out of his apartment and locked the door behind him. The building was old and nondescript, blending in perfectly with the surrounding structures. As he descended the metallic stairs, the bustling downtown area's sounds began to reach his ears.

The streets of the downtown district were alive with activity. Neon signs flickered above narrow alleyways, and the air was thick with the smells of street food and exhaust fumes. Vendors shouted their wares from makeshift stalls, and a steady stream of pedestrians moved along the sidewalks, each lost in their own world.

Adrien moved with purpose, his steps silent and calculated. He slipped through the crowd with practiced ease. The storefronts he passed were a mix of small businesses and chain stores, their windows displaying everything from electronics to vintage clothing.

He turned a corner and saw his destination ahead: a small grocery store nestled between a coffee shop and a bookstore. The sign above the door was simple, just "Fresh Mart." Adrien pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior was brightly lit, filled with the comforting scent of fresh produce and baked goods. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with a wide array of groceries and ready-made meals.

Adrien headed towards the bakery section, his eyes scanning the assortment of baked goods. He picked up a couple of tea scones, their golden-brown crusts looking just right. Next, he moved to the beverage section, where he made an unusual choice, selecting a bottle of beetroot juice. The deep purple liquid contrasted sharply with the delicate pastries in his basket.

As he approached the counter, the cashier, an elderly woman with kind but weathered features, looked up from her small TV. The screen was showing a news report about an influential man found dead under mysterious circumstances. The old lady glanced at Adrien's selection and raised an eyebrow.

"Tea scones and beetroot juice?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement.

Adrien gave a small, polite smile. "Yes, it's a... special combination."

The old lady chuckled softly as she began ringing up his items. Her eyes kept drifting back to the TV screen where the news anchor's voice filled the air.

"...influential businessman found dead under mysterious circumstances. Authorities have not yet disclosed the cause of death..."

Adrien handed over a few bills, and the old lady accepted them with a nod, her attention still partly on the news. She placed Adrien's items in a paper bag and handed it to him.

"Thank you, young man," she said, her voice soft yet gravelly from years of experience.

Adrien nodded in return, taking the bag. As he turned to leave, he couldn't help but catch a final glimpse of the news report.

"...the investigation is being led by Chief Inspector Harold Thompson, who was seen arriving at the scene earlier today..."

The camera cut to an older man with a stern expression, his silver hair and lined face giving him an air of authority and experience. Chief Inspector Harold Thompson stood in front of a crowd of reporters. His presence commanded respect, and he was fielding questions from the press with measured responses.

"Chief Inspector Thompson, what can you tell us about the cause of death?" asked a reporter from the front row.

"We are still waiting for the results from the autopsy," Thompson replied, his tone steady. "At this time, we cannot comment on the exact cause."

Another reporter quickly followed up, "Is there any indication of foul play?"

Thompson nodded slightly. "We are treating this as a suspicious death. Our team is thoroughly investigating all possible leads."

A third reporter, her voice slightly more insistent, pressed further. "Was the victim involved in any controversial activities that could have led to this incident?"

Thompson's face remained impassive. "We are exploring all aspects of the victim's life and business dealings. It is too early to make any definitive statements."

Adrien stepped out of "Fresh Mart," the paper bag with his lunch in hand. The bright midday sun illuminated the bustling streets, and Adrien navigated through the crowd with focused purpose.

After a short walk, he arrived at a more secluded part of the district. He approached a nondescript door with a small brass plaque that read "The Black Rose." He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The interior was dimly lit, filled with the faint scent of incense. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with an eclectic mix of items that hinted at the store's true purpose. A middle-aged man behind the counter nodded in recognition and gestured towards a back room.

Adrien followed the gesture and entered the small, secure room at the back. In the center of the room stood a large safe. He knelt down and entered a combination, the lock clicking open with a satisfying sound. Inside the safe were his new documents, carefully placed in a black leather case. Alongside the documents, there were other essentials for his mission—cash and a burner phone.

Adrien took a moment to inspect everything, ensuring that all was in order. His new identity was "Julien Moreau," with a French passport and various other identification cards meticulously crafted to withstand scrutiny. He placed the items back into the case, then securely locked the safe.

With the black leather case in hand, Adrien returned to the main store. The man behind the counter spoke in a low voice, "Everything you need is in there. Your flight leaves in three hours. Make sure you're at the airport on time."

Adrien nodded, his expression stoic but resolved. "Good luck, Adrien," the man added as Adrien turned to leave.