She lay down a single white lily on the stone, bowing her head. It only took seconds for snow to cover the blossom in a fine coat. Wendy brushed her gloved hand over the flat headstone at her feet, smiling softly. It was a beautiful, glossy granite, but Wendy’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Her fingers traced the letters slowly.

Son Seungwan
1927-1953
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

She stood, taking a moment to brush snow off her black overcoat. Faking one’s own death was one thing, but attending the funeral was truly another. It was an odd sight, and it should have been heartwarming—and it wasn’t as if she had that many connections to begin with. A close friend here and there and extended family whom she had barely known; ultimately, a somber event, but otherwise forgettable—which was, she supposed, the purpose of the entire ordeal. She moved to leave—people were dispersing, attending to matters more important than the loss of a once-familiar name.

"Shakespeare?" came a voice to her left. Gentle, but unexpected. Unexpected was never good.

Wendy kept walking. She felt around the pocket of her coat for a tissue, pushing aside her knife. Who on earth would make small talk at a funeral? “I suppose so,” she murmured, dabbing at her dry eyes.

"A bit pretentious, isn't it?" the stranger said, jogging for three quick steps to catch up. She moved in front of Wendy, partially barring her path to her car. Wendy stopped, eyes fixed to the ground, keeping the brim of her hat over her eyes.

When the woman did not move or speak, Wendy forced herself to glance up.

Wendy prided herself on many things (although she would only admit it to very close friends). She was very good at her job--both her daytime one and night--and she was very good at adapting. This time, though, Wendy could not stop herself from the tiny step back she took, blinking a few times to ensure her eyes were not playing tricks. There, against the trodden snow, clad in a pristine white peacoat with frozen flakes atop her crown:

How could she forget?
Bae Joohyun, former intelligence operative.
Eliminated--by Wendy herself--three years ago.

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A/N: The film noir aesthetic gets me every time. Hi hello friends, I am back with a new story.

Title from Mr. and Mrs. Smith ("You don't dance." / "It was just my cover, sweetheart."). Let me know what you think! (also here is my twitter, feel free to talk to me/follow me/remind me to update!)