3:00 p.m. Wednesday.

One week after Victoria's birthday.

A young beauty rests her pounding head on top of a rugged, Chemistry textbook. A soft groan escapes from her glossy, pink lips the moment strands of her lengthy hair swipe against the diagonal cuts on her left arm. Her fingers twitch unpleasantly. They yearn to scratch the very wounds agent 47 gave her four days ago. Four days of pain, of soreness, and of disgust.

"Hey, Vicky!" A tall boy with dirty-blonde hair pounds his sweaty palm against the table. "Wakey, wakey, beautiful girl!"

Victoria groans louder in an attempt to show her extreme disapproval over her lab partner's childish antics. Since her birthday, the semi-friendship she had formed between herself and Roderick had taken a serious plunge to oblivion. Running away from your lab partner on a study date proved to be a terrible decision on Victoria's part. She sighs loudly, feeling sorry for herself.

"Hey, Vicky!" Roderick chuckles. He slightly taps her shoulder with the back of his hand. "So, how about you tell the rest of the class about that dead guy at the café, huh?"

Victoria cringes in pain the moment her cool, smooth fingertips rub against the cuts on her arm. She lusts at the idea of scratching, and her nails trace the deep wounds in anticipation. Still, the idea of scratching is better than listening to stupidity. The young girl continues to ignore her ridiculous lab partner and his constant bragging about seeing a dead man. If Roderick thought bragging about seeing a murder in action was cool, then Victoria had no idea how to deal with her lab partner. It is one thing to brag, and it is another to think murder is some sort of ticket to popularity at high school.

Such fascination with stupidity … Victoria thinks to herself while attempting to hide her obvious smirk. This kid is such a loser!

"Vicky, come on!" Roderick yaps.

Victoria sighs and lifts her head from the Chemistry textbook. Without turning to face Roderick, the young beauty simply stares at the whiteboard ahead of her.

"Yeah, Vicky …" Claire, the high school's black-haired bombshell, mocks. "Tell the class about your experience with a dead man …"

Claire's icy, sapphire eyes scan Victoria thoroughly. They study the young beauty's emerald, gem-like eyes and her sleek, perfect hair. Everything about Victoria's face is perfectly shaped and formed. Claire frowns once she notices Roderick and the rest of her classmates ogling the new transfer student. Understanding the popular bombshell's need for affection and acceptance on a daily basis, Victoria simply pretends as if she does not notice the curious stares of her classmates around her. The green-eyed beauty knows better than to make enemies with Claire, the wealthy, likeable student who can somehow persuade more than half the student body to do her bidding.

Victoria sighs, still exhausted over her fight with the assassin four days ago. Her fingertips still trace the tender outline of her scars. The young beauty slightly lifts her wounded arm to rest on top of the lab's table she shares with Roderick. Unable to pull her sleeve down in time, Victoria reveals the deep wounds to her nearest classmates for only a few seconds.

"Wow!" Roderick coos. "Those cuts! Are you okay?"

Victoria feels her cheeks flush. She whispers, "I'm … alright …"

She hears the nearly-silent gasping of her classmates around her. Were the wounds really that disgusting to others?

"I—I—" Victoria croaks. She hates being the center of attention but attempts to speak more confidently. "I'm alright."

"Are you sure?" Roderick frowns. He slowly extends his index finger towards a few stray strands of hair which covered Victoria's left eye.

She hesitates, feeling desperate for class to start. Her mind floods with possibilities and questions. The first major question disturbs her deeply:

Why is Roderick, a very well-liked and accomplished student of her high school, trying to push strands of her hair away from her face?

Victoria slightly slides her chair away from her lab partner in an awkward, unsteady manner. Claire smirks, and Victoria cannot help but feel awful about her sudden actions. The young beauty quickly shoos away Roderick's lingering hand and shoves the loose strands of hair behind her ear. A muffled giggling can be heard from the back of the classroom. Both Victoria and Roderick stare at their closed textbooks in shame.

Being the last class of the day, Chemistry certainly felt like an eternity to the young sixteen-year-old. She hated the subject. She hated her teacher. She hated her snobby classmates. She hated the know-it-all attitude of everyone around her. She hated Claire. She hated Claire's loyal fan-boys and fan-girls. She hated Roderick.

And most importantly, she hated herself for hating everyone. Maybe she did deserve those cuts on her arm …

Victoria snaps back to reality the moment her classroom's door slams shut. Her teacher marches to the front of the class, picks up a marker, and slams its tip into the spotless, spacious board. He begins scribbling messy and lengthy chemical equations for the class to solve. The teacher writes, "Pop-exam" in enormous letters at the top of the board. Victoria rolls her eyes—the pop-exams were incredibly lengthy, and they were very easy to mess up on. Her only hope was attempting to get half-credit on some formulas. Everyone shuffles through their notebooks slowly in a lazy attempt to begin class.

Suddenly, an insignificant shred of notebook paper is passed to Victoria behind her teacher's back. Roderick, if anything, is incredibly swift. In messy, smudged pencil, the note reads:

"I hope your arm heals soon, Vic! I'll buy you ice-cream later, okay? And then, you can tell me all about what happened to you! Those are wicked scars!"

Victoria crumbles the shred of paper between her fingers. If the teacher caught Victoria and Roderick passing notes, they would fail the test completely and be reported to the office. The last thing she wanted was agent 47 coming to school to find out she cheated on a test or was being punished for passing stupid, childish notes. Still, the young beauty smirks at such a silly idea. Agent 47—the world's best assassin—having to deal with parental issues like disciplining a kid for note-passing.

And yet … Victoria did not want to tell Roderick what happened to her. She did not want to talk about it with anyone. Her scars begin to tingle with burning frustration, and soon, she has trouble focusing on her lengthy pop-exam. Victoria also fears replying to Roderick. What would she even write him? How could she explain her current situation with 47, anyway?

Hey, thanks for worrying about me, Roderick! I got these "wicked" scars because my caretaker is a professional assassin who tries to train me in any way he can! Victoria cringes internally at her sarcastic thoughts.

Right … Victoria smirks. Roderick would probably report me to the school's counselors.

The young beauty sighs, picking up her mechanical pencil. She gently places the tip on the first question of the test. Her cloudy thoughts linger to chemical equations and random elements. She taps the pencil against the desk. Once, twice, three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Victoria's mind clutters with information. She thinks of equations—of math. Her thoughts then linger to chemicals and their properties. Chemistry. One word, several meanings. And then, in a fit of sudden boredom, her thoughts linger to Diana.

Surely, Diana would know how to solve chemical equations. Diana knew everything. Her library stood as a testament to her intelligence. And most importantly, Diana knew how to deal with a coldblooded assassin like agent 47.

Victoria sighs one final time before jotting down answers on her lengthy test. In her mind, chemical equations scramble in-between floating images of her scars—the scars 47 inflicted upon her three days after her birthday.

It was a Saturday which she will never allow herself to forget …

11:00 a.m. Saturday.

Three days after Victoria's birthday.

"Keep your eyes on me—" he lifts the broomstick handle once more and faces its broken edge towards Victoria. "You don't have time anymore."

47 thrusts his homemade weapon towards the right shoulder blade of the sixteen-year-old girl. She nearly escapes the broomstick handle's broken edge by quickly ducking. Victoria catches herself before completely losing her balance. She bounces up and nearly misses another of 47's brutal swings. The beautiful teen nearly panics as the handle's sharp, broken edge comes a little too close to her face. Victoria urges her body to loosen up and fall backwards. She instantly collapses into the couch and rolls onto the dusty, wooden floor. 47 once again nearly misses his target, but Victoria knows better. A skillful assassin like 47 never misses his target. He was simply going easy on her.

Even so, Victoria cannot help but slightly panic at her weekly trainings with 47.

"I—I can't!" she squeaks as she sees her caretaker stand before her. The broom handle lowers slightly in pity of the tired, young teenager.

47 sighs, "Victoria …"

Recognizing his tone, she was in for a usually short-lived but brutal lecture.

"I—I just can't. I don't know how to avoid your—your attacks!"

"Victoria, get up—"

"No, I'm sorry …" Victoria pants. "I can't do this anymore."

"Get up," the assassin demands. He continues to firmly grip the broom handle with both hands. He faces the broken edge of the handle towards Victoria's face.

The young teenager shudders lightly, careful not to show any signs of fear. She sighs and obeys the assassin. She pushes herself off the dusty floor and feels her legs wobble beneath her. The moment she fully stands up, 47 quickly and gracefully swings the broom handle towards Victoria at an alarming speed.

"I still—argh!" she ducks beneath his swing and scurries to his blind spot. "I still have a few years left before I leave to college! And I already know how to fight!"

"You don't need to learn how to fight …" 47 frowns. "You need to learn how to think."

"O—Okay." She waves hesitantly, urging her caretaker to stop. "I'm—I'm tired. I get it."

"No, you don't understand. You still can't think straight," the assassin continues. "Under extreme aggravation, you lash out. If you allow your anger to take over, you might kill someone even without wanting to."

Victoria giggles, "Wow! Is this what all this training is about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You still think I'll kill someone? I handled myself very well back in London, remember?" the teenager groans and crosses her arms.

"No, you got into a fight and faced expulsion."

"Well, I did the right thing! Isn't that what counts?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You got into trouble. That's what truly matters …" the assassin cringes internally at the whole parent-principal meeting he would never be able to fully forget.

"But you said that I did the right thing, remember?"

"Yes, you did alright for not killing anyone."

"So? What's the problem now?" Victoria pouts.

"The problem is you fighting in general. You need to stay out of trouble and out of the spotlight. Don't draw unnecessary attention to yourself."

47 realizes this advice would be hard for Victoria to follow. It seems the girl draws attention to herself unwillingly due to her beauty.

"Well then, what am I supposed to do? I didn't ask to be this way. I didn't ask to be—" she sighs in frustration. Instead of voicing her concerns, Victoria simply shakes her head.

47 frowns, glaring at the tall, frustrated beauty before him.

"Never mind. Forget it …" Victoria sighs, still rubbing the bruising area on her lower back.

"No, continue. You didn't ask to be what?" the assassin persists.

"I said nothing …" Victoria's sass only makes 47 further glare at her.

Regardless of her age, the assassin continues to mentally judge Victoria. Sure, the young beauty may be a rebellious sixteen-years-old, but surely, she should show some respect to the person who adopted her. 47 ponders immediately on everything else he could be doing right now instead of training some teenager with anger problems.

"Look—" 47 begins to lecture Victoria as calmly as possible, "I already explained to you why you need this training. Everything angers you, and you can't keep—"

"I know! I know … it's just—" the teenager snaps and rolls her eyes. "I didn't ask to be—"

Victoria sighs and tugs on the hem of her shirt awkwardly. 47 sees the intense frustration boiling in her already maroon cheeks. She is clearly exhausted by everything around her.

"I just want to be normal …" Victoria croaks, still tugging at her shirt. Her cheeks feel warm and sticky.

Normal—a word which causes 47's memories to stir. Painful memories. A time when the assassin tried to escape his life—tried to escape what had defined him for so long. Years ago, he had found himself a peaceful Catholic church miles away from the life he used to live before his past had finally caught up to him. He had been normal, too. He had tasted normality, and he craved it every day only to be disappointed by the failures of reality.

And still, 47 remembers his talks with Father Vittorio over his salvation. He remembers his questions word for word. They scream at him while he sleeps every night as he rests his sore soul. 47 could no more escape from his past than Victoria could claim she was a "normal" teenager. Just as 47 had confessed to Father Vittorio many years ago, there truly is no room in the world for people like himself. There is no room in the world for people like Victoria, either.

"There's no mercy in the real world for people like us …" 47 whispers to himself. An unusual and foreign soreness begins to build within his chest.

The teenager sighs, "Can we stop now? I have Chemistry homework …"

"Fine …" 47 mutters. "Just ten more minutes and then training is over."

Victoria nods approvingly as she waits for the assassin's next swing. She tried to remember the point of the training without seeming too unenthusiastic about it.

Don't get mad, she thinks. Keep calm and stay focused. No anger is allowed …

47's mind clutters with thoughts of Father Vittorio now. The assassin remembers his friend's plea before he left him all those years ago.

"Promise me you will follow the right path—" the Father's voice echoes in the darkness of 47's mind. "Promise me to live your life the right way …"

The assassin shakes his head and clenches his eyes shut. If there is no way to redeem himself from all his past sins, how can the assassin truly find the right way to live?

"Are—are you okay?" Victoria tilts her head curiously as she studies her caretaker's conflicted expression.

47 nods slowly. "Ready for the last part of the training?"

"Sure, I guess—" the teenager states, feeling rather uneasy. "Are you sure you're feeling alri—"

Before she can complete her question, 47 jabs the broken end of the broomstick handle towards Victoria's left arm at an incredible speed. Victoria hardly has time to move before the wooden fragments find a new home in her flesh.

"Ow—" Victoria whimpers, immediately reacting to the new, deep cuts on her arm. Her fingers trace the edges of open flesh as she tries to stop blood from dripping onto her white shirt.

47 hesitates, stepping backwards in surprise. He must have miscalculated that jab—it was too far in. But for the world's most renowned assassin, mistakes like this should never happen, right? So … what did happen?

The assassin pauses. Taking a deep breath, he clenches the broken broomstick in sudden frustration over his actions.

Victoria pouts slightly, and 47 notices the dim sparkle of newly forming tears in the teenager's eyes. She turns her back to him quickly, fearful of crying in front of her heartless caretaker.

Hold it together, Victoria … she attempts to mentally console herself from sniffling too loudly. You're sixteen—you're not a kid anymore.

Without a word, Victoria begins walking slowly to the bathroom down the hall, fearful of showing her true emotions to 47.

I can take wounds like a woman, she thinks. I can't disappoint him more than I already have …

47 hesitates, unsure of what to tell a heartbroken teenager. How does an assassin apologize to someone they wounded? Victoria begins to slowly walk towards the hallway leading to the kitchen and bathroom.

"Victoria—" the assassin whispers, unsure if she could hear him.

Suddenly, the heavy tears which had formed within Victoria's eyes begin rolling down her rosy cheeks with great speed. The enormous tears cling to the edges of her face momentarily before sliding down her neck and soaking into her t-shirt's ill-fitting collar. Unable to hold back her sniffles, Victoria makes no attempt to hide her sorrow any longer. Images of Diana flash quickly through her mind. And then, the young teenager begins to internally question herself. Is it the wound that hurts her so? Or, is it the fact that the only man she trusted and respected has completely betrayed her?

Victoria swirls around quickly to stare into the icy-blue gems of her caretaker in an attempt to bring him sudden shame.

"I thought you said once that you—that you'd never let anyone hurt me …" she croaks softly, finally succumbing to her sorrow. "Bu—but you're the one who hurt me this time …"

47 immediately drops the broken broomstick now tainted with a sixteen-year-old's blood. He reaches out for her arm. "Let me help you …"

Victoria slips away from the assassin's grasp and sprints to the bathroom. From a short distance, 47 hears a door slam shut. The sound of flowing water echoes from the shower now. Shaking his head, the assassin debates on whether or not to knock on the bathroom door …

And then it hits him—Victoria would never open the door. She would never answer him ever again. 47 would not be surprised if she refused to talk to him for the next two or three years. He rubs a free hand over his bald head, still confused as to what had transpired moments earlier.

The assassin looks around the barren living room. Small droplets of Victoria's blood are scattered all over the wooden floor leading to the hallway. Sudden shame overtakes the usually-emotionless assassin. The feeling is so foreign to him, it is almost painful.

"Promise me you will follow the right path—" Father Vittorio's voice rings in 47's mind once again. "Promise me to live your life the right way …"

47 had decided a long time ago he would choose his own path—his own truth. But now, he realizes doing so is not as straightforward as he previously believed. The assassin chose his own path. And his choice led him to adopt a sixteen-year-old teenager who is on the verge of following in his corrupted footsteps. There is no mercy in the world for people like Victoria and 47. The only salvation both have from a cruel world is each other.

And even then, the trust Victoria had for 47 has been silently severed.