The erasure

The glow of the computer monitor was the only thing anchoring me to the room as I began to systematically dismantle the life I had built. My fingers flew across the keyboard, the clicks sounding like terminal heartbeats in the quiet house. With a final, heavy keystroke, I executed the transfer. I sold my business—everything I had worked for—to Kay and Tara. It was a gift and a curse, wrapped in a digital bill of sale.

Next, I opened my secure email. I stared at the blank "To" field for a long moment before typing Bob’s name. My chest felt tight as I began to write.

“Bob, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone. I need you to listen. Vic and I... we were involved. I loved him, or maybe I loved the idea of him. It doesn’t matter now. It’s become dangerous for everyone, and I won’t let you be collateral damage.”

I hit enter, starting a new paragraph.

“I am disappearing. By the time you process this, the house will be in your name. The deed transfer is already in motion and will be finalized in a few hours. Don’t look for me, Bob. Don’t try to be a hero. Just take care of yourself.”

I hit send. Before I could lose my nerve, I pulled out my phone and message Kay.

“I’m going into hiding, Kay. The business is yours and Tara’s now. I’m sorry I can’t explain more.”

My phone buzzed almost instantly. Kay wasn’t letting go.

Kay: What? No! You can't just drop this on us and vanish. Where are you? We can figure this out together.

Kay: Talk to me!

I stared at her words, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell Bob that I was scared, that the agency was closing in, and that my world was collapsing. But I couldn't. Knowledge was a death sentence in my line of work. To tell them was to target them. I didn't reply.

I stormed into my bedroom, the adrenaline finally overriding the grief. I pulled my medical stash from its hiding place and began splitting my pills into several different shipping boxes. I padded them with old sweaters and books, making sure they didn't rattle. I needed these safehouses stocked; I didn't know how long I'd be underground.

I drove to the 24-hour shipping store, my cap pulled low. I moved through the transaction like a ghost, sending the boxes to various locations that I knew—with absolute certainty—no one else on the planet was aware of. Not my handlers, not my brother, not even Serafina.

Returning home, I moved with a cold, practiced efficiency. I packed a small bag—only what I could carry without looking like someone fleeing a crime scene. I grabbed my multiple IDs and passports from the hidden floorboard safe. The government knew I had them, but they were dormant. The moment I used one, a light would go on in a basement.

I looked at the front and back doors. The chips were there, embedded in the frames. They were silent sentinels. Once I crossed that threshold, the clock would start. They’d know exactly when the ghost had left the house, and they’d be able to track exactly which ID or passport I chose to breathe life into.

I didn't second-guess myself. I shut my phone down and crushed it under the heel of my boot, the glass crunching like ice. I turned on my backup tablet—hardened, encrypted, and old. I sent a message to a contact I hadn't spoken to in years. He was a man who had worked for the KGB many moons ago and had survived the collapse by becoming more of a ghost than the people he hunted. We weren't friends, not really. We were just two people who knew where all the bodies were buried.

“I’m on the run. I need protection.”

The reply came back in less than a minute.

Contact: Protection from what, little bird?

Me: Getting out of this lifestyle. I can’t keep doing this to my family. I need to start over. I need a brand new identity.

Contact: You know the price for a total erasure. You know where to meet me. I expect you in twenty-four hours. Don’t be late.

"I won't be," I whispered. I smashed the tablet, ensuring the circuitry was beyond recovery.

I pulled a burner phone from my bag and dialed a number that existed only in my memory. "Government taxi," a voice answered.

"I need a ride to Skyhaven International Airport," I said, using the specific destination code that would trigger a sanitized extraction.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't a defection. I wasn't turning my back on my country, just on the life that was killing me. I needed to get out of the country, get out of this program, and slowly, quietly, find a way back. Maybe as someone else. Maybe as no one at all.

As I gathered my few remaining things, I realized my KGB friend had worked faster than I expected. He’d already given the government taxi company a heads-up. When I finally walked out of my house, the black sedan was already idling at the curb, its headlights cutting through the mist like predator eyes. The driver didn't look back; he just waited for the soft thud of the door closing.

"Skyhaven," I said, sinking into the leather seat.

"Already on the manifest," he replied, pulling away from the curb before I’d even buckled my seatbelt.

As we accelerated toward the highway, a familiar hum resonated from the small, modified tablet tucked in my jacket—a different device, one linked to a private, ancient frequency. I checked the display, and my breath hitched. I was being tracked. I expected the government’s pings, but this was different. The encryption signature was unique, a digital fingerprint I hadn't seen in two decades.

My childhood best friend.

She knew exactly where I was going. We hadn't spoken in twenty years—a lifetime of secrets and different paths had stretched between us—but she was still there, watching my coordinates crawl toward the airport. In this world of professional liars and shifting shadows, she was the only person I trusted at the moment. She was the only person who knew the girl I was before I became the ghost.

The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine for a split second. "She's always with you," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "She says to stay charged."

A jolt of electricity shot through me. I didn't ask how he knew or who she had spoken to. I simply nodded, the silent confirmation passing between us in the reflection of the glass.

In no time, we reached the airport. We didn't pull up to the main terminal with the crowds and the crying children. Instead, the sedan veered off toward a restricted access gate, rolling onto a private tarmac where a sleek, unmarked jet sat waiting under the hangar lights.

I stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at my skin. I moved through the expedited version of customs—a small, windowless office where the air smelled of stale coffee and ozone. I reached into my bag and pulled out my Russian passport.

The customs agent took it with gloved hands. He looked at me, then down at the passport picture—a version of me from a life that felt like a dream. He scanned the document, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern on the desk. As he handed it back, he leaned forward, trying to maintain a professional facade despite his struggling accent.

"Pri-yat-nava po-lyo-ta," he said in very bad Russian. Have a great flight.

I took the passport, my expression unreadable. "Spasibo, drug," I replied in perfect Russian. Thank you, friend.

I turned and walked toward the jet, the ghost of my past following me into the sky. I knew this was going to be a very long flight, and I would be cutting it dangerously close to meet my KGB friend. Between the multiple layovers, the necessary switchbacks to lose any tail, and the logistical hurdles of crossing borders on a burner manifest, it would take me exactly 23.5 hours to get to him. That left me with a thirty-minute window. No room for error.

We landed in Paris, France, at Charles de Gaulle, and the clock was already screaming. My connection was at another terminal on the complete opposite side of the airport. I had exactly eight minutes to make it, but the overhead signs estimated a fifteen-minute walk even at a brisk pace. I began to run, my boots echoing against the linoleum.

Suddenly, a golf cart whirred to a stop beside me. An airport employee, her face obscured by a cap and mask, leaned out. "Deppgrl?" she asked, her voice low.

I nodded once, breathless. "Yes."

"Hop on," she commanded.

I didn't hesitate. I jumped onto the back as she floored the accelerator, weaving through the crowded hallways with surgical precision. She knew the back corridors that bypassed the bottlenecks. We reached my gate in seven minutes flat. I turned to thank her, to ask who had sent her, but before I could get a single word out, she had already turned the cart around and vanished back into the service tunnels.

Three minutes later, my boarding group was called. I slipped into my seat as the cabin pressurized. We flew to Rome, Italy, then took a dizzying series of connecting flights designed to scrub my trail: Belarus, Japan, Thailand, and even a freezing refueling stop in Greenland. By the time we finally crossed into Russian airspace, I was vibrating with exhaustion and caffeine.

I landed on a secondary strip outside Moscow with exactly two hours left on the clock. I didn't have time to breathe. I had two hours to navigate the security cordons and reach a hidden, unmarked room deep within the Kremlin.

When I reached the exit of the airport, I knew I couldn't wait for official transport. I had to trust my gut. I looked for the unlicensed taxis—the underground cabs that moved faster than the rules allowed. I quickly passed my bag between my hands a few times, a subtle signal, then scuffed the marble flooring in a specific pattern. A young man, about 23 years old, approached me.

He spoke in bad English, offering a ride. I cut him off, speaking in perfect Russian. "I need to get to the Kremlin as soon as possible. I will pay you triple to get me there now."

He nodded toward a nondescript car, and we scrambled in. The normal drive into the center of Moscow usually took 43 minutes. He did it in 25, slicing through the heavy, stagnant traffic like a razor. When he pulled up, I grabbed my bag and pulled out 400 rubles to pay the fare.

In poor English, he shook his head. "Your fare was already paid for by our mutual friend."

I stared at him for a second, then shoved 200 rubles into his hand anyway, thanking him in perfect Russian before disappearing toward the entrance.

By the time I arrived at the front doors of the Kremlin, I had exactly three minutes to get through security and find the room. My heart was a drum against my ribs. I knew that if I missed this opportunity, I would be stuck in Russia for months, if not a year, and I wouldn't be able to escape the grip of my own government.

I rushed through security, my pulse spiking as the metal detector hummed. I had only minutes left. Suddenly, a babushka approached me, her face a map of wrinkles. She insisted on showing me her favorite stained glass window, pulling me toward it. As we stood before the colorful light, her voice changed. In perfect English, she began giving me rapid-fire directions.

"When I sneeze and grab a tissue," she whispered, "head past the water fountain, go right, and at the second hallway on your left, turn left. There will be three doors on your right. Knock twice on the middle one, knock six times on the door on the right, and knock three times on the door on the left. A door on your left will be opened two inches ajar. Go in there. Our friend is waiting for you."

Before I could thank her, she let out a loud sneeze. I took off immediately, maintaining a brisk but calculated pace, acting as if I were a woman who knew exactly where she was going. I didn't dare look at my watch, but the weight of the seconds felt physical. I followed her directions to the letter: the fountain, the right turn, the second hallway on the left.

I kept my eyes peeled for the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—one door in the long corridor stood two inches ajar. I checked my surroundings; the hallway was empty. I slipped inside just enough to get through, and the door immediately clicked shut behind me, plunging the small room into a heavy silence.

"Deppgrl," a voice said from the shadows. I froze. I knew that voice as my uncle, Charles.

"Charles?" I breathed, my eyes adjusting. I stared at the man standing there—the man I had mourned for years. "I thought you died."

The room began to spin. Twenty-three hours of adrenaline, the freezing layover in Greenland, the frantic sprint across Moscow—it all caught up to me at once. The oxygen seemed to leave the room, and the floor tilted. I didn't even have time to hear his explanation before my knees gave out and the world went black. I fainted.