The snow was nice. It fell softly, tickled her face, melted when it touched her skin. Winters could overstay their welcome sometimes. But with the relative newness of it, she could enjoy it. It looked best at night, those fuzzy little specks sparkling under the street lamps. It was cold, of course, but she liked winter clothes. She liked the warmth of the hot chocolate in her gloved hand as she walked down 5th avenue, the steel and concrete towers of the city to her right, the empty branches and snow-covered fields of Central Park on her left.

It'd been awhile since she'd been to New York. She'd lived here for her work, and had enjoyed it. Up until the end, at least. But she couldn't blame that part on the city. The attempt on her life by Shadaloo just told her she was getting somewhere-they wouldn't try to kill someone they didn't feel threatened by. And even though it'd been a close call, she'd survived it. But that'd been years ago.

She was here at the request of Interpol again. They had a lead on some organized criminal activity taking place in the city. Something about an anonymous tip on a big hit that was supposed to be going down. She hadn't gotten all the details yet, having just arrived that day. It may or may not have involved members of Shadaloo, so it'd gotten her attention and she'd work as hard as usual on it. Shadaloo had a lot of rivals in various illicit markets-drugs, arms, contract killings. From time to time, those rivalries exploded in a horrific fashion, usually leaving a lot of people dead. It didn't please her to see people die, even if they were murderers themselves. She was after justice, not vengeance.

She could have sworn she'd heard someone call her name. Glancing around, she didn't spot anyone she recognized. But the streets of New York were noisy, and she knew it was one of the more curious properties of the human brain to look for familiar patterns in such chaos. She wasn't too concerned over it. She'd had a busy day full of traveling and was ready to unwind. Walking along the streets, she took mental note of a few places she might enjoy checking out later in the evening. Maybe for dinner, or a drink or two.

Her room was on the fourth floor of her hotel, not terribly high up, so she didn't see any good reason to wait on an elevator. By the time it came, she could be halfway to her room, and that bed sounded more appealing than ever. The bags she carried weren't all that heavy. Setting one of them at her feet, she searched for her room key in her purse. There was the distinct feeling of a pair of eyes on her, but she didn't let it worry her too much. It wasn't unusual to feel like she was being looked at. She still tried to stay aware of who was around her. There was nothing wrong with being cautious, especially when there were a lot of criminals who knew her name and face.

She pushed her door open, and stopped by the closet to stash her bags. It struck her then that she didn't hear her door close, and she tensed when she heard someone let out a breath as if they were relieved to have finally caught up with her. The door was obscured from her view for a moment. A lapse in judgement, maybe. She should've paid more attention to whoever had been looking at her in the hallway. Slowly, she backed out of the closet, her heart beating a little faster. She heard the door finally click shut.

"When did my hair get-"

She didn't think, just acted, her foot meeting the back of the intruder's skull. He'd been facing the door as he'd turned to close it behind him, and the force of her blow sent him face first into the merciless surface. There was a loud thud when he made contact, and then another when he dropped to the floor. She blinked, not really expecting that. Vega generally reacted quicker, and she was ready for a vicious fight. But no, he was out cold. Maybe it was a trick. He certainly wasn't this easy to take down. She kept her stance, every muscle still tense as she waited for him to move.

But he didn't, and she was beginning to feel silly standing there like that. She had to know he wasn't faking, though. That he wasn't waiting for her to crouch down and take a better look at him so he'd catch her off guard. "You're ugly," she blurted out, heart still pumping a little too fast to come up with something more articulate.

Not even a twitch. Maybe he had more self-control than she thought. Or maybe she'd really knocked him out.

"I'm going to kick you in the face," she added. Still nothing. What was the deal? Why had he turned his back to her instead of attacking while hers was turned? How had he not reacted quicker? He hadn't even tried to block her kick. Why was he following her to begin with? She pressed her lips together at that last question. Did she really want to know the answer to that one? Cautiously, she crept towards him. One of his arms was underneath him, the other beside his head. She put her foot on it at the wrist and applied pressure. She bent slightly, reaching down to move his hair aside and see that his eyes were, in fact, closed. She smacked him once. Very lightly. It wouldn't take much to get him angry. He didn't respond at all. He was definitely, really unconscious.

So what did she do with him now? She stood up straight and stepped away from him. Did she call the police? She didn't have the evidence to out him as a member of Shadaloo, and the threat of a defamation suit was too much of a risk. She could say he'd attacked her, maybe. It was a lie, but only because she hadn't given him a chance. Now her curiosity was piqued. She needed to know why he was after her, and if she had more threats coming. Maybe she'd be able to make him barter information on Shadaloo in exchange for his freedom. Was he willing to turn on Bison like that? She tried to imagine what she thought was more frightening, a lifetime in prison or telling a supernaturally-powered megalomaniac that you may have let slip a thing or two about his paramilitary terrorist organization. At least in prison, death wasn't a certainty.

She strode over to the other side of the room. On the dresser was her bag of work-related clothes and items. Her more professional outfits were in there, along with case files, her own notes, and a pair of handcuffs. With the cuffs in hand, she went back over to him, and took a hold of his legs. She knew it wasn't wise to move someone who'd fallen unconscious, but she couldn't risk letting him wake up without restraining him first. He'd either sneak away or finish the attack she'd cut short. The bathroom would work fine enough as a temporary holding cell. She dragged him in, propped him up against the tub, and cuffed his arms to the support handle on the wall. His head dropped forward, he almost fell over, and she pushed him up again. Now his head lolled back, and she figured that was good enough. She patted over his pockets, and took his phone. If he called the cops, it'd cause a mess. And if he called on Shadaloo, it'd be much worse. She left him in there and closed the door.

Of course she looked at his phone. And of course it required a pin to unlock. She studied the screen carefully, trying to find a pattern in the various fingerprints and smudges on its surface. It was useless, given how many there were. She tried his birthday, something she knew from her research on him. First the month and day. Nothing. Then the year. Nothing. He wasn't that careless. She left it alone on the nightstand beside the bed. Shadaloo was very thorough and protective of their higher-ups. It was unlikely she'd find anything useful in forming a case against him.

That left her with the question of why he'd followed her here. She knew he had a special sort of hatred for her, beyond the disdain for law enforcement his line of work practically required. It didn't bother her any because she despised him just the same. The only person she could think of that she hated more was Bison himself. At first, he'd just been a name on some papers at work, and she hadn't thought much of him. Of course a Shadaloo assassin was bound to be good at their job. Bison was very discerning, and didn't waste his time on people who'd screw things up for him. So she knew he was deadly. She just didn't know how vicious he was until she was fighting for her life in her apartment. She still had nightmares about that evening sometimes. Of a vague sense of dread at the sudden realization that she no longer felt like she was alone. Of those razor-sharp claws and the white mask, knowing exactly who he was and what it meant that he was in her apartment. The physical wounds hurt of course, but memories of the situation emphasized the emotions much more-the fear, the dread, the panic. He would've killed her if she hadn't managed to anger him. It gave her enough of an opening to send him through the window. She remembered being a little stunned that she'd kicked him hard enough to accomplish it because windows don't break that easily. For a brief moment she still felt panic that she'd just killed someone. In her line of work, she fought a lot of people, even had to fire guns on them sometimes, but she'd never killed anyone.

Months later, he resurfaced, having been reported as the prime suspect in a massacre that left twelve members of a rival arms dealing group dead. A surviving eye witness gave the description, and Chun-Li could still remember the way her heart dropped. How did someone survive a fall like that? And if they did, how were they able to walk, let alone carry out an operation like that? She thought at first, maybe Bison had hired a replacement who happened to look similar. But eventually, she saw him herself. And he knew, too, that she was shocked, because she remembered the way they locked eyes just before he launched himself from the roof of the building to an adjacent one. The way his normally cold eyes held a hint of mischievousness, as if to ask her, 'did you miss me?' Bison was capable of many things that even the rest of the world's most advanced scientists didn't have a handle on yet. Vega must've remained alive long enough to be recovered and returned to health at Shadaloo. Things like that made it feel like a hopeless fight, sometimes. That no matter how hard you knocked them down, they'd always get back up.

A noise from the bathroom brought her attention back to the present. Someone shuffling around. A muffled groan. Her heart began beating a little faster. She didn't relish the idea of speaking with him. He knew how to press her buttons, how to make her uncomfortable, and he'd do it if it meant getting away from her. For all of the foul or perverse things he might hint at or say-and in such a polite voice, heightening the discomfort caused by the words-she knew he hated her just as much as she hated him. But she couldn't let him get the better of her, and she couldn't let him just go on his merry way to kill someone else. She quickly went back over to the door, and pressed her ear against it. "What..." she heard him mumble, and the metal of the cuffs clanged a little against the handle they were locked on to. "Hey." She waited further, unsure just yet of what to say to him. "Um, I'm sorry I scared you, but I think this is a little bit of an extreme reaction. Maybe."

She narrowed her eyes. Was it the barrier of the door that made his voice sound different? Like his accent was thicker than normal? And that he sounded less pretentious?

"Why is my hair so long all of a sudden?"

Her lips came together tightly. What kind of question was that? How hard had she knocked his head against that door? The realization that she may have given him a concussion came to her, and she sighed. How useful could he be if he was this confused?

"Are you going to let me out of here? What's going on?"

Finally, she found her voice, and said, "I thought maybe you could answer that for me."

"Ah...hm-what? I'm so confused right now..." Where was his fervor? His hatred of her? Where were threats on her life and sick, twisted descriptions of what he'd do to her when he caught her? He was trying to disarm her, she was sure of it.

"Why did you follow me here?" she demanded.

"I don't know. Why aren't we in Chicago?" he asked. "What happened to the apartment?"

Now she drew back away from the door. What was he playing at? Or had she really given him some kind of brain damage? "What are you talking about?"

She heard him moving around. "Eh, you sound upset. Can we talk about this? I'm really so confused."

He sounded convincing, but then again, he was a great actor. You didn't get to lead a night life as sinister as his if you weren't. "Nice try, Vega, but I'm not letting you out of here until you tell me what you're up to." Maybe that would have to change though, given his confusion and previous state of unconsciousness. She was beginning to think it might be necessary to take him to a hospital. At least then, she could confirm whether all of this was just some ploy to get her to let her guard down, or an actual medical issue. She couldn't let him go alone though. Couldn't risk losing him. She sighed heavily. Was this really how she was going to spend her evening, babysitting a serial killer?

"Who is Vega? What is wrong with you? Why am I handcuffed to a shower?"

Slowly, she pushed open the door. Her lips were just a bit parted, and she was clearly confounded by his behavior. He looked up immediately, and it was like she was looking at another person. That dangerous glint in his eyes she was so used to seeing was gone, replaced by desperation. The usually cold and passive expression was completely absent. "What do you mean, 'who is Vega'?" she asked, looking him in the eye.

"You called me Vega. I think." His brows turned upward. "Can you let this off of me?" He shook his hands, metal clanging against metal.

"Who are you, if you aren't Vega?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"Andres. You know me...Are you okay?" His voice was so full of concern, something she'd never heard from him before. There was no icy edge to his tone, no flowery language. He sounded nothing like himself.

"Who am I to you?" she demanded. He seemed to think he knew her, that he was on friendly terms with her or something.

"We've been dating for five years now," he said, almost approaching indignant. But that tone of concern was still there.

"No!" she shouted upon hearing that. Had he snapped? Snapped further, she supposed, was a better way to put it. Was he stalking her, pretending to be her lover? In that moment, she couldn't think of a more horrifying notion than being in an amorous relationship with a terrorist assassin/psychopath. Her sudden, loud response made him jump, and his eyes went wide. He looked like a puppy who'd just been scolded.

"I-ah...wow, what a reaction," he said quietly, turning his eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, but please, can't we talk about it?"

"Oh my God," she huffed, and turned away, slamming the door behind her. She couldn't do it. Couldn't face him like that. It was too bizarre. It was his most unusual act yet, and she wasn't about to fall for it. Unless he had really gone completely insane and was now convinced they were a couple. Never in her life would that be a true statement. He could be the last man on Earth and it wouldn't happen. He could be ready to save her from certain death with that one condition standing between herself and salvation and she'd rather laugh her way into the afterlife.

"I can't figure out how to fix this if you won't even tell me what I did wrong!" he called out. She didn't know what to do with him now. Could she afford to let him go without figuring out what he was here for? Why he'd followed her? Technically, she'd kidnapped him and could get in a lot of trouble over it. She had no good reason to arrest him-at least, not one that she had enough evidence to prove. She couldn't let him go. He was a good actor, but he didn't have an infinite amount of patience. Eventually he'd show his true colors, and she'd get what she wanted from him. Maybe she did need to get his head checked out to be sure this wasn't all a result of an injury.

Suddenly, she heard him say something that she thought might have been in Mandarin, and it startled her. As far as she knew, he didn't speak Chinese. What was his angle here? Had she really heard that?

She pushed open the door again, eyes fierce and staring him down to show she wasn't afraid of him. "What did you say?" she asked sharply.

He repeated it, though some of the intonations were off. "Pretty spring girl..." he said, and his cheeks turned a little red. She'd never seen him blush before. If anything, he was usually making her blush by making some graphic references to his exploits because he knew they made her uncomfortable.

"It's said like this." She pronounced the words the way they were meant to be said, although, it was still nonsensical.

"I can never get it right," he muttered.

"Why did you say it to begin with?"

He looked completely defeated. These expressions on his face were completely alien. He had three settings, so far as she knew-confident, condescendingly amused, and psychotic. "It's a joke," he said. "When I tried to write you a letter in Mandarin, to ask you out on a date." She wrinkled her nose, almost instinctively, at the prospect of being asked out by him. "And I messed a lot of it up. I remember mixing up the characters for 'heaven' and 'big', and you thought I might have been implying you were fat."

Her face burned red for a moment. "I'm not!" she snapped.

"I know," he responded. "You look beautiful." So he'd gotten pretty convincing at faking sincerity. He was still a monster, even if he could act like he wasn't. And maybe that was the reason he was a much worse monster than the average.

"How hard did I hit you?" She took a step towards him, but stopped. She pictured him sweeping her legs out from under her. She'd hit the ground and he'd slam a heel into her throat. "Get in the tub," she ordered.

"What? Why are you acting like this?" he griped.

"Do it, so I can look at your pupils."

"What do you think I'm going to do?" he wondered, still pretending to be completely dumbfounded. It was really starting to annoy her.

"Don't play dumb, I'm not falling for it," she said. "Get in the tub."

He sighed, some kind of agitation finally showing. He winced a little at the awkward way his arms were held behind him. It was almost impossible to do what she'd asked, and was a little painful, but he managed it. She stepped closer, and sat on the closed toilet. "Why are we in New York, anyway?" he asked.

She ignored him at first, turning his face towards her cautiously. She thought this would be it. This would send him into rabid, psycho overdrive, her touching his face. But no, he sat patiently, eyes occasionally flicking away as she tried to study them before settling back on hers. They seemed normal and focused, but his behavior was still all wrong. She let go of him and sat up. "You don't know why you're here?" she asked.

"No. I thought we were at home. You went to the store. I went to sleep," he said, squinting a little as he thought. "I remember getting up to take a shower. I don't remember coming to New York."

"Why do you think we were in Chicago together?" she asked. She didn't see how that made any sense, even if his reasoning was to try to get her to relax around him.

"I was hired by a university there," he said, and that desperation was creeping back into his voice. "Don't you remember? What's going on?"

"Hired to do what?" she said. What a school wanted with a bullfighter or murderer was beyond her.

"To teach!" he answered, almost shouting it at her like it should be obvious. "Why can't you remember anything? Why is my hair like this?"

Maybe it was best to be direct. To not play along, to not let him think he was fooling her. "Look, just level with me. You know I can't arrest you. You know that I know you're playing a game. So just come out with it already. Who are you here to kill?"

His eyes flew wide at the question. "What are you talking about?!" he cried. "Kill? I can't kill someone!"

The reaction was so volatile, so instant, she almost thought it could be genuine. But she had to remember he was, above all else, a very convincing liar. "Right," she answered with a snort.

"Ayyyy mi querida..." he groaned. "What is going on? You think I killed somebody?"

"Think?" she echoed, a clipped, sarcastic laugh following. "Where are you staying?"

"I thought with you!"

"Don't move," she ordered, and he even seemed to hold his breath for a minute, staring at her. She felt over his pocket, it was empty. She felt the other. Also empty. She grimaced a little, and said, "Don't take this the wrong way." Her hand came around to his back pocket, and she found what she was looking for.

"You've done a lot worse than touch my butt, you know," he muttered. It was her turn to wrinkle her nose, an immediate and unstoppable reaction. He looked at what she'd taken from him, and his confusion deepened. "That's not mine, anyway. It looks kind of beyond my price range."

She turned her attention back to the wallet. Credit card, identification card. She pulled it out. The picture was plainly his, the name as well. She turned it around for his benefit. "Nice try," she said, and watched as his brows drew together.

"What?" he muttered. "That's not my name, that's not my birthday, and that's not my DNI number, either. What is this?"

She flipped it back over, and studied it. It seemed to be real to her, with the right marks of authenticity in place. He seemed pretty insistent that his name wasn't Vega, and that was an interesting aspect of his act that she hadn't quite worked out yet. She ignored his questions, mostly because she couldn't answer them, and kept digging through his wallet. She found some scrap of folded up paper. She opened it, revealing what almost looked like a hastily drawn blueprint or diagram of the layout of a few rooms. Scribbled on the back, it said, "1205B x 4, C x 6, D= peligroso, no lo intente."

"What is this about?" she asked, holding it up to him so he could read it.

He glanced at it, then up at her. "I don't know," he answered, shrugging and shaking his head.

"What does it say?"

"I don't know what all the numbers and letters are for," he responded. "It says 'dangerous, don't try it'."

"Don't try what?" She turned the scrap of paper back towards herself, wondering what it might mean. Probably related to his work with Shadaloo. A plan of attack, some advice to himself. She stopped, remembering the assignment she'd been called to New York for. Could he be involved?

"How am I supposed to know? I didn't write that!"

"Why was it in your wallet?" she asked, shaking the object in question.

"I don't know if that's even mine!"

She looked through the rest of the items. There was some cash. Another card. She tugged it out, and smirked in triumph. Just what she was looking for. A hotel key card. He was staying in the city, and this paper, unless it was old, indicated to her that he wasn't here just to visit. She began to map out a plan herself. Find the nearest hospital to make sure his brain wasn't hemorrhaging or something. A health issue meant she'd leave him alone. He wouldn't be any help then, and she couldn't justify keeping him around. If he was here to hurt anyone, and she'd given him an injury, he probably wouldn't be able to carry out his assignment. But if it turned out she hadn't hurt him, that he was faking all of this, she'd get him to talk. "Okay," she said finally. "We're going to a hospital."

"Why? Are you okay?" he asked, and she really was annoyed with his concern. Like she was the one with the problem here.

"Yes, but you aren't. Or, you're pretending not to be. So we're going to settle this."

He sighed heavily, plainly agitated, but not angry with her. And that annoyed her too. He was being too patient, too cooperative. "Okay, fine, if that will make you feel better. You're going to take these off of me?" He shook his wrists, indicating the handcuffs.

"Oh, you wish I were that generous," she said, cautiously undoing one of the cuffs and snapping it to her own wrist instead. He sighed, but shook out his free hand and rolled his shoulders in their sockets.

"I don't understand this. Why do you even have handcuffs anyway?"

"Save your breath. I don't believe you," she responded. "The act is getting old."

"What am I supposed to do to convince you that I'm completely confused right now?"

"Nothing." She pulled the end of her sleeve over the handcuff on her wrist, and inspected her arm. It didn't look too obvious, the coat sleeve being big enough to conceal the metal cuff. Chances were, no one would be paying that much attention to their wrists anyway. She tugged on his sleeve, too, then took his hand in hers. This looked a little less conspicuous. "Don't take your hand off of mine," she ordered. "Don't make a scene, either. In fact, don't talk to anyone unless I tell you."

"Why are you acting like this?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

She ignored him. She wasn't going to play games with him, even if he wanted her to. With her hand firmly grasping his, as much as it repulsed her to touch him, she led the way out of the hotel in search of a doctor in hopes of getting some answers.