"So you've changed a lot since I last saw you, huh?"

I glanced at him sideways, but otherwise didn't respond. A delicate breeze glided over me, like the one of the sun's remaining breaths as it edged further down the horizon.

"And I'm not sure if you look much better in" - he swept a dismissive hand over my outfit - "this."

I raised my shoulders a fraction and let them fall again. True, my appearance is not what it was seven months ago. At the time I had no idea of who - or even what - my foes were, so I had needed a drastic transformation. I used to have long, charcoal-black waves of hair that fluttered around the small of my back. I had always found its length impractical and unnecessary, especially when I lost time binding it out of the way during assignments. It would have been too easy for the loop to come free, allowing a stray hair to fall out unnoticed and remain at the scene. My personal records are not on any database in the world so officially I don't exist, but it wasn't a risk I was willing to take. As a result, I became even more careful to ensure my hair stayed tight in its bun. I have little use for vanity, and in a life of secrecy I do not want a man's burning eyes on me when discretion is vital to a mission. Eventually one day I'd had enough and chopped it off without remorse. Yet my mother's eyes after she caught sight of my spontaneous trim had not been anywhere near approving. We only saw each other at a distance and did not exchange any words, but even so, the lines around and etched into her temple had brought me close to something like regret. So I grew my hair out again and it tickled my waist like feathers against bare skin, but I still preferred that to any hint of disappointment in my mother's expression. That is, until I fled the academy. At that point I needed a fresh identity. My dark tresses were too noticeable and they had to go.

Now my hair was cropped short and close to my scalp, but still long enough to cover the length of my neck. My skill with scissors is almost non-existent when it comes to styling, an aspect that was painfully obvious in the jagged, choppy layers after the initial snippings. It wouldn't have bothered me either way, except that society tends to single out those with any kind of eccentricities in appearance. It is more acceptable now as it rippled haphazardly in the breeze and drifted over my eyes. The tips now brush the nape of my neck and the layers are somewhat improved after they grew out. In addition, I'd dyed the black locks to a chocolate brown, the kind of colour I often saw in coffee cups and fallen leaves in the autumn. Perhaps my current hair is more unusual than the previous, but at least in this way it lends a certain ambiguity to my appearance.

I have been told by people - and hinted at by many others - that I possess many unusual facial features. Growing up, it wasn't strange to have a mismatched appearance, as most of the children had mixed blood from many different ethnicities. Generations of relationships had somehow blended seamlessly over time to give a slightly alien effect to an infant. No, what made me unique was that I knew better than most as to where - or whom - I had inherited my genes from. My mother's soft cheekbones and arched nose. Pale, translucent skin and full lips from my father, along with the same jet-black hair.

But perhaps those are not my most interesting features. They say that the eyes are the windows to your soul. If so, then what have all those men and women seen as I slid a blade across their throat? I do not know, and maybe I do not want to know. The eyes that I see in the surface of my knife are a stormy, turbulent grey, hence my codename. Ashen, like the remnants of a blazing trail of fire, scorching everything it touches. I suppose the similarity is fairly appropriate, and it has been one of my labels since birth. All the agents had a codename, each with a sort of abstract and personal origin to it. I have never been sure why I am called Ashen, as I have never been curious about the back story to such a menial thing, nor has anyone ever offered any details on it. It was just the term I grew accustomed to hearing as I grew up. Similarly, I have long accepted my eyes for being the colour they are due to my diverse blood.

A mixed appearance can be useful, as it has made it more difficult for others to ascertain my family history or birth country, as it were. People often resent peculiar behaviour and looks, so they tend to stay aware from those they consider alien. As a result, I have been lucky enough to be left alone for the most part as I roamed Europe for the last several months. Paired with my short haircut and slim frame, it was easy to manage an androgynous appearance. It was less unusual for a young, male student to be travelling solo rather then a girl to be trekking through various countries unaccompanied. My façade seemed to satisfy most people, if not all, and those who were suspicious about my gender kept silent for fear of causing offense or embarrassment. All but one, evidently.

"Seriously, it weirds me out to see you dressed like a guy. You're making me cringe." At this Minho wrinkled his nose and rubbed it with a calloused finger.

"I can't help it if you insist on cringing."

"Well I'm pretty sure the other two had goosebumps as well. Even I couldn't recognise you at first."

"Then the disguise is successful."

"It's too successful! You can't be a guy forever, and I'm not gonna help you when someone figures it out."

"If that is what you want."

The ensuing silence was not uncomfortable as a blanket of twilight descended upon the cliff, softening the jagged outcrop into a few rolling slopes. The enveloping darkness settled around my shoulders like an insubstantial shroud of feathers, as comforting and familiar as a child's blanket. Besides me Minho sighed and tapped wood with lazy fingertips.

"I've been busy for the last few months, busy searching."

The tapping increased and he hesitated momentarily before continuing.

"I came across a few leads, people who I think know about what happened that night."

I cast my mind back to my last investigation. I had not discovered much, only to hear what I already knew albeit altered by rumour and speculation. But I had suspected that I wouldn't find out much, for what would a pampered, naïve Frenchman know about a hidden society of assassins? It was just another fruitless endeavour in my search for clues, for answers. But I have - and will - persevere. Even if I only moved forward one single inch for every throat I slit and every neck I snapped, now my sole motivation was to discover the truth locked away behind closed doors. I knew Minho felt it too, a burning urge to dig up the clues of the academy's destruction. I saw it in the rapid drumming of his fingertips and as the smouldering flame that flickered in his eyes.

"Any names?"

"No names, but I got hold of a couple of photos."

Delving his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, Minho brought out three snapshots, each slightly crinkled around the edges from the numerous times they'd been examined. He cast a final cursory glance over them before placing it down on the empty space of the bench between us.

"Father and son right now living in Seoul, South Korea. They're pretty rich, with a huge mansion in the Seongbuk district near to Korea University where the son is currently studying. The father used to be an international diplomat, but for some reason got laid off a few years ago. It seems like the money he got from the higher ups made sure that he kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. I heard he couldn't get used to not having power and his own bunch of lackeys, so he turned to the world of crime to - well, make a new name for himself. So far he's been playing it safe, only doing independent trade with illegally imported electronics or whatever. Lately though, he's been trying out the European market, and through that I think he had a hand in supplying the fire power to whoever attacked us.

The son is pretty clean - just like a regular rich kid. Here's the thing though: Daddy has ordered his precious son to be surrounded by guards twenty-four seven. Now this guy's been protected since birth, but in the last month he was seen going out with his father more often and the number of armed suits have at least doubled. I figure he's learning to follow in his old man's steps - and not the kind of path you'd put a five-year old on."

I ignored the last comment and examined the first photo that lay on top of the pile. Taken during the night time, it depicted a man's back from the waist up and filled the whole frame. He was dressed lightly, in a full length cardigan that bunched loosely across his back, with the neckline forming an erratic curve as it hung from his arching shoulders. The back of his shirt collar jutted up sharply and hid the ends of his ruffled hair, thrown messily to one side. I decided that this was the son due to the relatively casual outfit, looking like he was making his way home after a particularly exhausting night out at the student union. There were no bodyguards present, at least any that I could detect in the half-light of the street lamps and ripples of moonlight.

Putting that to one side I contemplated the next photo, this time of a somewhat worse quality, as the man's face was blurred like a painter had swept a careless thumb over the surface of his canvas. The stocky, middle-aged man was caught in action getting out of a luxurious black sedan with tinted windows. He wore a grey suit, the tie pointing back over his shoulder from the various traffic on the road behind his vehicle. His right hand clutched what appeared to be a laptop or briefcase, and the other hand was clamped down firmly on his ear, cupped around a black mobile. Twisting to one side he appeared to be yelling at someone still seated inside the sedan, although his suit jacket flapping crazily in the cross-current of air obscured them from view. The setting appeared to be Seoul at its busiest point during the day due to the hordes of people in mid-stride across the pavement.

The final photo was of the young man; now facing the camera and giving the photographer the full view of his posterior. The day was at its peak during the afternoon, with the sunlight shining full on above his head. His stance was relaxed as he strolled along under a canopy of bare trees. Here he wore a pair of steel grey skinny jeans that hugged his calves and thighs, tucked into some chunky hightops. A logo t-shirt could be spotted beneath a creamy cropped jacket, sunlight glinting off metallic chains that adorned his throat. A thumb was hooked into one of the belt loops on his waist, and the other hand was splayed out over the moss-green fedora on the crown of his head, showing off a pair of pale forearms. A spray of hair peeked out from under the lip of his hat in numerous shades: ashy brown, warm earth and even a delicate auburn in the dappled sunlight. His gaze was directed at something beyond the camera's view and his expression held an exaggerated grin as if he kept a perpeptual smile on his face, a mask to conceal his true emotions. Otherwise he appeared carefree and content, enjoying the luxury and exuberance of his forefathers without remorse. In this photo two other figures stood further away in the background, too blurred for me to ascertain anything apart from one blond and one brown head. I assumed these to be some of the assigned bodyguards, though I would not have been surprised if there had been more lurking in the shadows or surrounding the perimeter of the trees.

After watching me for a few for minutes, Minho leant forward to place an elbow on his knee and cupped his chin with his corresponding hand, the other dangling loosely into his lap. His eyes were directed towards the black depths of the sea before us, but they were focused inwardly as he outlined the details for his plan.

"The father will be the one who knows the most, so he'll be the true target. But his experience in dodging investigation and the years of manipulation means he's as slippery as hell. We'll need to be close to him for some time, so we can't risk targeting him directly or he'll sniff us out. That's why we'll focus on his son first; he's likely to be involved with the shady side of his father's business and he's closer to our age so he'll probably trust us easier. Plus no one could raise their eyebrows at a couple of new students in town, right? Just some other wide-eyed kids trekking across the globe, looking for a bit of fun here and there..."

I closed my eyes and blocked out at the roaring ocean waves as I considered his plan. Weighed the risks and possibilities. Examined the minute details. Processed it in my mind. After several minutes I emerged from my routine contemplation and looked at Minho's confident expression.

"We'll need to have gathered all the information and have left within the month."

The wolfish grin returned as he sat back and folded his arms against his chest. I closed my eyes and shut out the world once more, until I felt the first rays of sunlight warming my legs.