The next day, we left our weapons at the villa.
Claremont wanted to "make a show of civilian presence," in his words. No uniforms, no protocol. Only sunglasses, light shirts, and shoes too new for the local dust.
We left after breakfast. The sky was clear, the air already burning. An old but sturdy van took us to a small village perched a little further up the mountain, at the heart of a weekly market where locals sold everything they knew how to make: embroidered fabrics, pottery, spices, strange brightly colored sweets.
— No tension today, Claremont said calmly. We observe, mingle, breathe.
I followed him, like the others.
The bodyguards — Jonas, Malik, and Torres — were clowning around at a chili stand. They challenged each other to taste a local sauce, supposedly blessed by a blind abuela. Result: sweat, nervous laughter, and gulps of water.
I stayed at a distance, watching the aisles.
A group of musicians played nearby, children danced barefoot, and an old man offered to read the future with corn kernels. Jeanne tried it, more out of curiosity than faith. The man told her she had two paths, and only one would lead her to the sun. She smiled without commenting.
Claremont was buying strong black coffee, which he sipped from a paper cup while strolling between stalls.
— Looks like you do this often, I remarked.
— Maybe. But you watch as if it's a trap.
— It is, I answered bluntly.
He laughed softly.
— You sure know how to party.
I said nothing.
We ended up in a cantina at the village entrance, where a meal had been prepared for us on order. Varied tacos, roasted corn, spicy beans, and a ginger-flavored lemonade.
I sat next to Jeanne, facing Claremont.
— Are you always like this on missions? she asked between bites.
— Like what?
— Silent. Withdrawn. Watching like a crow.
— It's my job.
— Hmm.
I didn't add a word. Neither did she.
Claremont was talking with Malik about a time when the Foundation maintained a secret site in Siberia. A seemingly trivial anecdote, told in a low voice, like a memory exorcised with humor.
Late afternoon, the sun softened. We returned with a few souvenir bags: local weaving, a wooden mask for Jeanne, spices for Claremont. I took nothing.
On the way back, the mood was relaxed. Malik dozed against the window. Jonas sang off-key a local song he didn't understand. Even Torres cracked a smile.
Claremont looked at me from the front passenger seat.
— You look tense, Natsa. Want to stop for a coconut ice cream?
— I can't digest sweets.
— You don't digest anything, really.
— It's not in my job description to digest anything.
He raised an eyebrow, amused, then turned back to the road.
When we returned to the villa, light fell obliquely on the pale walls. We had sweated all day, but the laughter and human warmth had almost made it bearable.
Almost.
I climbed the stairs to my room. A stray cat slept on the patio tiles. The wind gently moved the fig tree leaves.
A day without incident. Without trap. Without tension.
A real human day.
But at night, alone in my room, I felt that familiar impression: the calm before.
Something had shifted somewhere, without me knowing what. Like a draft in a closed room.
Tomorrow, Claremont would begin inspections. And I would become what I am again: the shadow that watches silently at the borders of the visible.
The sky was still veiled when we left the villa.
Claremont drove. I sat passenger side, silent, eyes fixed on the dry road winding toward the horizon. It was one of those incident-free mornings. No palpable tension, no immediate threat. Just the warm Mexican air and tires biting the dust.
— Hey, Natsa, the meeting's tomorrow, Claremont said suddenly without taking his eyes off the wheel. Want me to give you a code name to mask who you really are in front of the other mafia members?
I looked at him from the corner of my eye.
— That's a good idea, yes.
He smiled as if he'd been preparing his joke for hours.
— Good. I propose we call you Prisca!
I raised an eyebrow. Slowly.
— What kind of whore name is that? I'm not a woman.
He burst out laughing, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel.
— So what? Ridiculous names often remove doubts, didn't you know? No one suspects Prisca of having the arm to cut a man in two.
— I'll go by Nevros.
He threw me a quick amused glance in the rearview mirror.
— Whatever you want, Nevros.
We arrived at a small adjacent village, a local market already spread along the main street, vibrant with life, sweet smells, and booming voices. The stretched canvases cast colorful shadows on the ground, and the crowd flowed like a capricious river.
Before stepping out, I put on the mask.
It was a smooth, ivory-white mask, adorned with a few discreet vertical red lines on the forehead and cheeks, like stylized scars. The eyes were simply two black slits, and the mouth absent. No smile, no expression. It was like me: neutral, sharp, disturbing in its lack of emotion.
I stood beside Claremont. He wore an open shirt with too vivid patterns and tinted glasses. The kind of guy who deliberately didn't want to go unnoticed.
We had barely walked a few meters when a woman with wavy brown hair, wearing a short floral dress, grabbed Claremont's hand.
— Hi mister, you're handsome, want to come dance with us?
Claremont blushed slightly, which always surprised me. He smiled with sincere warmth:
— Well, who dares refuse a dance to such a pretty woman?
I slapped my forehead slowly, resigned.
And to think we originally came to shop.
But I didn't have time to sigh further.
Another woman, younger, tanned skin and bright eyes, grabbed my arm without asking.
— You too, come with us! By the way, what are you hiding under your mask, if I may?
I looked at her for a moment. She was sincere. Curious, not intrusive.
— Meh. When I was younger, I burned my face with third-degree burns. So… it's not pretty to see, my face.
Her smile froze. Then, gently, her fingers released my arm.
— What bad luck… You look so young though… Very well, I understand. You can keep your mask.
I lowered my eyes for a moment. Not out of embarrassment, but to respect her silence.
Behind my black slits, I felt Claremont's gaze slide over me, light.
"You're a good liar, Natsa," he surely thought.
I thought so too.
And yet, in this absurd staging, in this sticky heat, something felt right.
I was no longer Natsa.
I was Nevros, a masked creature in the middle of a human theater.
And strangely… I quite liked it.
The music echoed, bodies twirled, and Claremont had already been swept into the crowd. His jungle-patterned shirt beat to the rhythm of his shoulders, and around him, laughter burst like soap bubbles. He danced with the grace of a man who had forgotten he knew how to kill.
I stayed in the background.
The mask on my face blended with the moving shadows under the canvases. I watched Claremont, surrounded by a bunch of women and children, spinning in the dust and low sun.
I sighed.
— I'm going to get the supplies, I said to no one in particular.
No one answered. No one heard me.
I slipped between the stalls, moving away from the music and sweaty bodies. My shadow, thin and straight, slid over the uneven stones. Here, the crowd was calmer. People bargained for baskets of fruit, jars of fermented peppers, blocks of homemade soap. There were caged chickens and children chasing skinny dogs.
An old woman with opaque eyes handed me a bunch of coriander without a word. I took it, then dropped some bills into her basket.
— Thank you, she said in a worn voice. Want me to read your future?
I hesitated. Then declined with a shake of my head.
I already knew what the future held for me: silence, shadows, and a role I could never abandon.
I kept going.
At the end of the alley, a small shop offered rarer products. Black rice, local alcohol, imported seeds. I methodically chose what we needed: three bags of rice, two bottles of distilled water, a rare chili paste for Claremont — and, for some reason, a box of mint candies.
I packed them in a canvas bag.
Then I looked up, drawn by a familiar voice.
— Natsa! Or rather, Nevros! Claremont called, dragging a garland around his neck, his face damp but his smile intact. You handle logistics while I make hearts beat?
— Someone's got to do the real work, I answered.
He laughed, then gave me a sidelong glance.
— You know you could smile a bit. There's even a dance contest later. The prize? An obsidian statuette blessed by some local witch doctor. You should try.
— You know I dance like a robot.
— Exactly. That would be fascinating to see.
I gripped the bag tighter against me.
— I'm going back. To put away the supplies. The villa is empty. Might as well use it.
Claremont watched me for a moment.
He knew.
He knew that moments like this made me nervous. Not because of danger, but because of what it revealed: what I was not.
I was not made for laughter. Nor dances. Nor smiles of women who had never seen blood.
I was made for the wings. The blind spots.
Claremont gently tapped my shoulder.
— Very well, Nevros. Don't get lost in the hallways, okay?
— I was born in them.
He disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by cries and rhythms.
I returned to the van, arms full.
The villa was silent. The shutters closed kept the cool, and shadows reigned there like at home. I carefully put everything away. The rice in jars. The water in the pantry. I put the box of candies in my room drawer, without really knowing why.
Maybe for later.
Maybe for someone else.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed, the mask resting on the table.
A bird sang outside, lost in the wind.
And for a few minutes, I closed my eyes.
Maybe in the village, Claremont was still dancing.
Maybe far away, the world believed we were normal men.
But I kept the time.
I felt the echo. The tremor beneath the surface.
Soon, this peace would be a relic.
And I would become what I am.
An armed ghost with a name. An absence on a mission.
A faceless Nevros.