IRENE

In these beige walls, the scent of coffee is constant and nearly threatening to engulf her senses — though she dislikes the drink, she hasn’t much objections to its smell. Irene stares at the mundane decorations littered across the walls with mild interest, wondering what the owner’s thoughts were when she looked upon each individual piece. They don’t even look like they’re part of a set, she muses. Yet, together, they fit like they belong side by side. Maybe she lacks the artistic flair to comprehend such decision making.

A waitress approaches her quietly, and she nearly bangs her knee against the table in a startle. “I’m sorry,” the waitress says sheepishly, an apologetic smile on her lips. Irene takes the opportunity to calm her racing heart with deep breaths. “Your order, ma’am — green tea latte. Do you want anything else?”

“That would be all, thank you,” she responds once she feels the fright reduce itself to a tingling sensation. She’s always been such a jumpy person, and much to her chagrin, no amount of maturity nor experience has granted her better control over her reflexes.

The waitress nods and leaves her be once more, probably taking note to come up to her louder next time.

A sigh. Wandering thoughts aside, she reminds herself that she came to this establishment with a purpose — purpose being fifteen minutes late, and Irene knows it’s going to set her off for her following appointments set today. We agreed to meet last week; how hard is it to commit to being punctual?

She checks her phone. No messages or missed calls. Nothing to tell her whether or not the meeting was cancelled or even postponed. Irene purses her lips in mild frustration, but wills herself to wait longer. If the person doesn’t show up in half an hour, then she’s done her part. She takes a sip of her drink.

Again, her attention drifts to her surroundings. One of the traits she’s felt proud of is her keen sense of hearing — even from afar, she hears conversations better than the average human being, able to distinguish vowels whereas her peers can only make out muttering. It can be a burden when she’s outdoors in noisy streets, where sounds of car engines and shoes clacking on pavements overwhelm her, but in a place like this mundane, not-quite-popular cafe, she can concentrate easier.

“About the Choi case, Park-ssi,” a man three tables north from her begins, slamming his cup of coffee too harshly for her liking, “when can we expect a response?”

“Honey,” a woman coos at a child two tables to her left, feeding them a piece of cake. “Don’t spit it out, okay?”

“You never notice whenever I make actual effort to be affectionate,” a man hisses at his boyfriend, “I’m just sick and tired of — ”

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic and stuff.”

Her people watching comes to an end when a tall woman walks up to her table and pulls the vacant chair out. Irene glares.

Joy, her newly assigned (and hopefully temporary) partner, is fashionably late. She can tell from the near flawless curves of her brows and lipstick, the impeccable clothes that snugly wrap her body, and the nonchalant air that she wasn’t sorry at all.

There isn’t even a single bead of sweat on her face! The nerve of this girl.

Irene calms her ire and tries to reclaim the minutes wasted. “Let’s talk shop. What does the agency want this time?”

“I sent you the target’s profile. Check your e-mail.” At the beginnings of a protest, Joy coolly adds, “relax. I made it look like some shady dating app company hooked you up. I know how you are about not trusting the Internet.”

The older woman grumbles under her breath, grabbing the phone she’s placed on the table to check her mailbox and see — ah, yes, an e-mail boring the subject, “We Found Your Match!” She opens it with an angry tap. Irene prefers printed paper over digital copies — it’s easier to organize in a case file. She’ll have to manually print this fake dating profile as soon as she gets the chance.

A portrait of a youthful woman (her profile states her as thirty years of age) smiles neutrally up at her, eyes sparkling underneath artificial lights. Her name is Kang Seulgi, blood type A; she is taller than Irene (though not as tall as Joy, and that soothes her sore pride), and she works as a photographer for a decently known fashion magazine that Irene has seen every now and again in bookstores. In her free time, she likes late nights walks and watching films.

Nothing in her profile screams “criminal,” so Irene stares hard at Joy, demanding an explanation. “What do you want me to do with her? She seems like a civilian through and through.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention the catch in my profile, did I? Silly me.” Joy cackles mockingly, and Irene’s temper flares for the third time in one afternoon. “Kang Seulgi is also a former industrial spy — worked for her father since she was a teenager or whatever. Think child actor but of the espionage kind. Anyway, she quit a couple of years back after flunking a psychological evaluation, and went to pursue her actual interests instead of hiding in the shadows.”

“Okay? And where do I fit in?”

“Here’s the fun part!” Joy has a fondness for the theatrics, and Irene wishes she would just cut to the chase already. “Remember our much beloved Agent Son, bless her soul wherever she went?” Irene tries to keep her face neutral at the mention of their former colleague, and nods. Joy points at the older woman’s phone with a purse of her lips. “They were university roommates. And IT traced a suspiciously big file transfer from Son’s computer to one miss Kang Seulgi just hours before