Cyberpunk 2021

April 14, 2021. 18:00. Vancouver.

Finally, home. The elevator doors glide open, releasing a soft chime as I step out onto the upper floor of an apartment tower near downtown Vancouver. I lug the briefcase containing my sniper rifle in one hand and a bag brimming with my other tools in the other. The building seems to breathe a sigh of relief as it welcomes me back. I make my way across the hallway, which feels as familiar as the rhythm of my own footsteps. The soft carpet cushions my boots, and the sleek grey walls on the right, frame the large window on my left. The window reveals the city in all of its glory, stretching out below. Sunlight slants through the glass, casting a warm glow that hugs my figure as I walk. For a moment, I savour the view, but a sharp pain from the earlier fight brings me back to reality. I shake my head and push through the discomfort.

I pull out my phone, swipe it across the black lock on my door, and a familiar, mechanical beep signals the unlocking. The glossy wooden door swings open smoothly, revealing my beloved sanctuary. I step into the foyer, the cool tiles beneath my feet a welcome change from the outside world. With a heavy sigh, I place my briefcase and bag down on the floor, the weight finally off my shoulders. I slip off my black boots, placing them neatly in an empty slot on a pristine white shoe rack full of other shoes.

Crossing from the tiled entryway to the polished wooden floor, I feel a wave of peace wash over me. The spacious living area beckons, offering a temporary refuge from the chaos outside. My shelves are lined with books and personal memoirs, each carrying stories I've lived or lessons I've learned. The warm lights flick on automatically as I move past a massive TV mounted on the wall, its screen dark for now. A gaming console sits beneath it, surrounded by plush beige furniture, just waiting for me to sink in. But I move on, my tired muscles ache as I rotate my torso to stretch out the tension.

The black coffee table, polished to perfection, has a neat stack of fashion and gun magazines. I unzip my leather jacket and remove my socks, tossing them onto the nearby sofa. I then walk toward my glorious floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the skyline of Vancouver.

The setting sun stabs through the glass, blinding me momentarily. Squinting, I reach for my phone and tap into the app that controls the window's opacity. As the light dims, I let out a breath of relief. That's better. My gaze drifts toward the sleek black staircase leading to the second floor. I groan as the memory of forgetting my suitcase floods back. I'll deal with it later. 

Rubbing my stomach, I turn around and push open a nearby white wooden door. The glossy white-marble floor gleams under the bathroom's soft lighting and the grey-marble walls are calming. The first thing that catches my eye is the square mirror, framed in a stark white border, directly in front of the entrance. I step toward the mirror, the tiles cool my feet and catch my reflection.

A lean Korean woman stares back, her sharp, angular features shadowed under a black cap and simple white shirt. Her porcelain skin is flawless, glowing softly under the light. The symmetry of her doll-like face is striking, her perfectly shaped nose the kind many could only dream of having. I turn on the faucet and lean forward, splashing water onto my face before gently rubbing along my almond-shaped eyes, framed by long, thick eyelashes that seem almost unreal. My makeup dissolves after several minutes of precise movements, revealing the natural pink hue of my lips. My focused, piercing eyes scan the image before me. I don't see the bruises from the fight yet, but the exhaustion is written clearly on my face.

Normally, this reflection fills me with a mix of pride and ego. But tonight? I just look tired. I blink slowly and remove my cap, tossing it onto the countertop. My black hair, tied up in a messy ponytail, falls in long strands down my back. I grab a nearby towel to dry my face and then run my fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face.

Lifting the hem of my shirt, I examine the faint outline of my abs underneath, marred by a blotch of red against my pale skin. I wince as I lightly trace the bruise with my finger. Annoying, but manageable. I tug at the drawer beneath the countertop, revealing a collection of medical patches and small bottles. I count the remaining patches. Damn, five left. I rip one open and press it over the bruised skin, feeling the adhesive cling. The cool sensation of the medicine immediately begins to ease the discomfort.

Next, I uncork a small bottle of gel. A thin blue liquid oozes into my palm, and I rub it over my arms and legs, the sting making me grit my teeth. But I endure it. Once the gel dries, I close the drawer and leave the bathroom, my shoulders relaxing as the pain fades.

As I step back into the living room, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the caller ID. Mom. I smile instinctively and answer the call.

"Hi, Ma, what's up?" I say, warmth creeping into my voice. Her soothing tone comes through, a welcome comfort after the day I've had.

"Gina, did you just get back from work?" she asks, her voice as gentle as ever.

"Yeah, I just walked in," I wander toward the kitchen area. I put the phone on speaker and set it down on the nearby counter island. Several fashion magazines with my face on the covers line the countertops. One photo has me in a long, sleek black dress with gloves, and another in a sharp white suit. Each cover showcases a different aesthetic I wear—streetwear, beachwear, luxury fashion.

"Did you need anything?" I ask, absently running my fingers over the black marble countertops as I head toward the fridge and open it. Not executive chef quality, but a far cry from what most people can afford. I contemplate what to eat before heading out, waiting for my mom's reply.

"No, just wanted to check on you. Are you free for your father's… anniversary?"

I pause, the fridge door halfway open already, and my hand tightens slightly on the handle. "Uh, yeah, let me check," I grab my phone and flip through my calendar. December 19. I stare at the date for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm free." I close the fridge.

"Good! I just wanted to make sure you could join me. You've been so busy lately, I wasn't sure," she adds, a touch of concern in her voice. I wander back to the living room as she continues. "Is everything okay?"

I nod, though she can't see it. "Yeah, Ma, work's been crazy, but I'm handling it." My pace slows as I approach a shelf filled with photographs of me and two people who've been by my side for years. To my left is a beautiful Korean woman with long black hair, her doll-like features seemingly frozen in time, barely aging beyond twenty-four. To my right stands a tall, muscular white American man, his frame a clear nod to his passion for bodybuilding. In almost every picture, he wears a police uniform.

In one, my teenage self grips a rifle nearly half my height. Memories of firearms training, and all the times I failed, flash through my mind. I stifle a laugh before my mom hears it.

"Yeah, ma, I've been getting booked a lot by agencies lately." Not entirely true, but not a lie either. "Y'know how it is." My gaze settles on the last photo of all three of us together. A melancholic smile tugs at my lips, but I snap back to the present when I hear her voice.

"Tsk, tsk, my baby is so popular nowadays. Your profile's shot up! Three million followers and counting! Pretty soon, you won't—"

I chuckle, cutting her off. "Ma, I'll always make time for you." My voice remains lighthearted, knowing she's trying to guilt-trip me in jest. "Anyway, how's everything on your end?"

"Oh, the usual. Ever since you moved out, I've had too much free time." She lets out a jolly laugh. "I just enjoy myself with my girls."

I chuckle, rolling my eyes as I back away from the photos on the wall. "Well, at least you're enjoying life." I glance at the kitchen but decide to save cooking for later. Instead, I head back to the foyer to grab my weapon suitcase. "I'm working my butt off—for both of us."

"Thank you, sweetie." Her warm chuckle keeps me company as I lug my gear upstairs. "Oh! Do you have plans tonight?"

I reach the top of the stairs, passing railings that overlook the first floor. My spacious bedroom lies ahead, lined with dressers and drawers. To my left is a king-sized bed with stuffed animals. Further down, a well-equipped gym area stands with weights, cables, bars, and punching bags. I keep walking toward a row of three doors along the far wall while spinning my next half-truth.

"I got called by a friend to hang out."

"Oh? When are they coming over?"

"I'm not sure yet. They'll be here in a few hours." I push open one of the doors, entering a dark room bathed in red, moody lighting. Guns and screens are plastered across the walls. "I'm just getting ready before they show up." The lights brighten slightly and change from red to a warm yellow as I set the suitcase down on a desk cluttered with equipment and a large green mat, measurements etched into its surface.

"Alright, I won't keep you long. Take care, sweetie."

"Bye, Ma." The phone clicks off. I turn toward the screens as a keyboard and mouse unfold from the wall. I stare at the website displayed. Artemis, my crowning achievement. A sleek, minimalistic design with a logo made from guns forming the letter A under a circle. I log into the admin panel, analyzing my active contracts. A familiar rush of euphoria fills me. A ridiculous amount of people are always willing to pay obscene amounts to erase someone from existence. What began as a simple Canadian-based assassination service on the dark web has now expanded to North America and Europe.

My thoughts drift as I reminisce on my career journey. Leveraging my modelling career for travel excuses and combining that with my skill in makeup artistry for perfect disguises, I've made a name for myself far beyond the average mercenary. I smirk in satisfaction with what I've accomplished so far and let my ego reinforce itself.

Speaking of my modelling career. I turn to another screen, where a flood of emails fills the inbox for my public persona. Fashion brands from all over are eager to book me for their next big campaign. I scroll through the offers, my name attached to high-end labels and rising streetwear brands alike. Despite the rush of opportunities, the pressure of maintaining two lives weighs heavily on me. I let out a sigh as I begin unpacking my gear, carefully laying each weapon aside on the workbench. My fingers move methodically, but my mind is elsewhere.

My stomach growls, pulling me back to reality, and I click my tongue in frustration. I haven't even had time to retouch my makeup after today's job either. I furrow my brows in frustration.

"Damn, almost forgot about the car." I groan, smacking my forehead lightly with the palm of my hand. "I'll need Nano to take a look at that Porsche." Pulling out my phone, I jot down a reminder to handle the stolen vehicle later.

For now, food takes priority. Then, I'll deal with Wissen.