Her Game--The Glass Test

Chapter Four: Ordinary People

London · Bloomsbury

December 14, 2024 — 08:15

When Eva awoke, sunlight was seeping through the narrow gap in the curtains, carving a slender blade of brightness across the pillow.

She stared at that thin line for a long time.

Not because she had only just awakened.

But because she could not remember the last time she had opened her eyes in someone else’s home.

For six years she had woken in more than a hundred different beds—hotels, rented flats, strangers’ bedrooms. Each time, the first task upon waking was to determine who she was supposed to be.

Nora? Emma? Lily?

What name should she answer to today?

What expression should she wear?

But at this moment, she knew her name.

Eva.

Simply Eva.

She rolled onto her side.

The other half of the bed was empty. The pillow still bore the faint impression of a head, and the sheets retained a trace of warmth. From the direction of the kitchen came the soft hum of a coffee machine and the gentle sizzle of something cooking in oil.

She sat up and realized she was wearing his shirt.

Grey-blue cotton, the cuffs slightly frayed with wear. She lowered her head and breathed in.

It carried his scent—something like wood mingled with rain.

For six years, she had never stayed overnight in a target’s home.

Rule Two: disappear before dawn.

But last night she had not disappeared.

She had remained.

She had used her real name and spoken one truth. Then another. And another. She spoke until three in the morning, until her voice turned hoarse—about the hospital ward when she was fifteen, about the black dress she wore wrong at her mother’s funeral, about the first man she tested who cried like a child.

They had not slept together that night.

She had simply spoken.

And he had not interrupted her.

He merely listened, occasionally asking a quiet question: “And then?”

His gaze never once left her face.

Eva rose and walked barefoot out of the bedroom.

Beyond the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the treetops of Russell Square. In the pale morning light, a few pigeons perched along the ledge, tilting their heads curiously at her.

In the kitchen, he stood with his back to her at the stove, lifting strips of bacon from a skillet. Two sets of cutlery had already been laid out beside two mugs and a small basket of bread.

“You woke at just the right moment,” he said without turning. “Do you want your eggs sunny-side up or over easy?”

Eva stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his back.

Three minutes ago, this man had been frying bacon.

Three minutes ago, her feet had still been on his floor, his scent still clinging to the shirt she wore.

Suddenly, she felt the urge to cry.

“Over easy,” she said.

He turned and glanced at her.

Then his movement paused for a brief second.

He noticed the shirt she was wearing, her bare legs, her hair tangled wildly like a bird’s nest.

He lowered the heat and walked over.

Stopping before her, he looked down at her quietly.

“What’s wrong?”

Eva shook her head. If she spoke, her voice might shatter.

He did not press the question. Instead, he reached out and gently swept her hair back behind her ear. His fingertips lingered briefly against her earlobe—where the small tear-shaped mole rested.

“Come eat breakfast,” he said.

Breakfast lingered for a long time.

The toast was slightly burnt, the bacon overly crisp, and the coffee more acidic than she usually preferred. Yet she cleaned her plate entirely, even dipping the last crust of bread into the egg yolk.

“You were that hungry?” he asked, glancing at her empty plate.

“I usually don’t eat breakfast.”

“Why?”

Eva considered for a moment.

The honest answer was this: mornings were usually spent in flight. The assignment finished, she would dress quickly while the target still slept, slip out the door, and vanish without a backward glance.

“No time,” she said.

He looked at her, but did not expose the lie.

Then he set down his cup.

“What are your plans today?”

“None.”

“Then come with me.”

“Where?”

He had already risen, taking her coat from the rack and handing it to her. He had hung it there the night before beside his own; the two garments leaned together like two people standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m surveying a construction site today,” he said. “South Bank, by the Thames. You can bring your laptop—or simply sit and watch the river. There’s a small place nearby for lunch, one of the oldest shops in London serving fish and chips.”

He spoke with casual certainty, as though outlining something inevitable—not an invitation, not a test, merely a quiet description of how the day would unfold.

Eva took the coat.

She remembered the one hundred and twenty-one assignments in which she had invited countless men somewhere. Each time she had been the one to initiate. Each time she calculated carefully: what location would ease his guard, what words would make him relax.

This was the first time someone had invited her.

No calculation required.

No performance necessary.

No strategy at all.

All she needed to do was put on the coat and follow him.

“Alright,” she said.

London · South Bank

December 14, 2024 — 14:30

Under the afternoon sun, the Thames was the color of molten lead.

Eva sat on a bench beside the river, a laptop resting across her knees. The screen had long since gone dark. She was not working; she was simply watching the water.

Thirty meters away he stood within the construction site, speaking with a middle-aged man in a hard hat. He wore an old jacket with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, blueprints in hand, occasionally gesturing through the air as if tracing invisible lines of a future building.

The wind ruffled his hair. He pushed it back absentmindedly and continued talking.

Eva watched him.

For the first time in her life, she was observing a man from afar without searching for his weaknesses.

He turned his head and glanced in her direction.

From thirty meters away she could not see his expression clearly, yet she knew he was smiling—she could tell by the subtle lift of his shoulders, the faint movement she alone seemed able to notice.

She lowered her gaze at once, pretending to examine the laptop screen, though a quiet smile had already curved across her lips.

Then her phone rang.

Cherry.

Eva hesitated for a second before answering.

“So you’re not dead,” Cherry said flatly, as though announcing the weather. “Three days. Your phone’s been off for three days. Do you know how many times I’ve called?”

“I know.”

“Where are you?”

Eva lifted her eyes and looked across the river. The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral glimmered faintly gold beneath the afternoon sun.

“South Bank.”

“With him?”

“Yes.”

Silence followed.

A long silence.

Cherry’s breathing drifted through the receiver, slow and uneven—the rhythm she always had when she smoked.

“Eva, do you know what I’m thinking right now?” she asked.

“What?”

“I’m thinking about the very first lesson you taught every newcomer in your six years in this line of work—never fall in love with the target. Do you remember?”

Eva said nothing.

“Love is your greatest weapon,” Cherry continued. “You can make those men fall for you precisely because you don’t love them back. The moment you begin to feel something real, you lose. That’s what you taught me.”

“I know.”

“Then what exactly are you doing now?”

Eva gazed across the river at the cathedral dome. A wind rose from the Thames, sharp with cold, and she drew her coat closer around her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” she said.

It was the truth.

Cherry fell silent again. This time the pause carried the faint sound of a cigarette being crushed out.

“I’m sending you something,” she said at last. “Look at it before you decide whether you want to keep ‘not knowing.’”

The call ended.

Three seconds later, Eva’s phone vibrated. A message. A compressed file.

She opened it.

Documents. Three years old.

The first was a photograph: Liam Frost and his fiancée, Claire Mitchell. The woman was striking—short blonde hair, an open, luminous smile. She stood beside him on a seaside cliff, her arm looped through his.

The second was a partnership agreement between Liam Frost and Chris Banks. The date was November three years earlier—three months after his fiancée’s disappearance. In the margin, a handwritten note had been added:

Both parties agree not to pursue any matters concerning the past.

The third was a screenshot of a text message.

Two people were conversing. The sender’s name had been obscured, but the recipient’s name remained perfectly clear:

Chris Banks

The message read:

“Her situation has been handled. Don’t worry—he won’t find any evidence.”

“But let me warn you: that woman is still in London. If she talks, we’re both finished.”

Timestamp: December 7, three years earlier.

Eva stared at the date.

December 7—three years ago. The fifth week after Liam’s fiancée had vanished.

She read the message again.

“That woman is still in London. If she talks, we’re both finished.”

Who was that woman?

Eva lifted her head and looked toward the construction site thirty meters away.

He was still speaking, the blueprints still in his hands. The wind shifted, and he glanced in her direction once more.

Eva slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Then she stood and walked toward him.

“Finished?” he asked as she approached.

“Finished.”

“Are you hungry? That fish-and-chips shop closes at four. If we leave now, we’ll make it.”

“Alright.”

She walked beside him across the gravel-strewn ground of the construction site. When she stepped onto a loose plank, he reached out—not to take her hand, merely to steady her elbow for a moment.

Then he let go.

The fish-and-chips shop stood tucked into the corner of an old street, its entrance so narrow one had to turn sideways to slip through. The owner recognized him at once. Her greeting was a shout of, “The architect’s here!” before she called toward the kitchen:

“Two cod! Extra chips!”

They sat by the window. Outside stretched a weathered grey street, and on the sill stood two nearly dying potted plants.

Eva watched him sprinkle salt over the chips, dip one lightly into ketchup, and bring it to his mouth.

“Have you brought anyone else here before?” she asked.

He paused mid-chew, the chip held briefly between his teeth.

“No.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

Eva lowered her gaze, absently prodding the fish on her plate with her fork.

“Don’t you want to ask me anything?” she said.

“Ask what?”

“For instance—about the things I told you yesterday. About who I am. About what I intend to do with my life.”

He set his fork down and regarded her quietly.

“If I asked, would you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what I’d like to know is…” He considered for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

Eva blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“I mean truly hungry,” he clarified. “Not the sort of hunger that comes from thinking it’s time to eat. I mean the kind where you crave something for a long time—and at last you finally taste it. Have you ever felt that?”

Eva looked at him, uncertain how to answer.

For six years, every meal she had eaten had been part of a carefully constructed performance. Which restaurant to choose with which target, what dish to order, what wine to recommend—each detail precisely calculated.

She had never once asked herself what she actually wanted to eat.

“No,” she said.

“Then start thinking about it today,” he replied, sliding the last chip across the table toward her. “Begin with this. These chips are the best in all of London.”

She looked at the chip.

Then she picked it up and placed it in her mouth.

He was right.

It was hot and crisp on the outside, soft within.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“It is.”

“Good.”

He smiled again—that same faint smile, gentle as winter sunlight.

As Eva chewed the chip, a question suddenly rose in her mind.

“About your fiancée…” she began, then stopped.

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“You never asked whether I was the one responsible.”

His expression did not change.

“I know it wasn’t you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because yesterday you told me your first assignment was sixyears ago. Three years ago you were already doing this work. If you had tested me, you would remember.”

Eva fell silent.

He was right. Of course, she would remember.

“And besides,” he continued, “I investigated everyone who crossed her path during that time. The woman who tested her wasn’t you.”

Eva stared at him.

“You investigated?”

“Three years is long enough to uncover many things.”

“And what exactly did you uncover?”

He did not answer at once.

Outside the window, the light dimmed slightly as a cloud drifted across the sun.

“I discovered why she left,” he said.

Eva waited.

“It wasn’t because of the test. She left because she wanted to. The test was merely an excuse she gave herself.”

He lowered his gaze to the plate, his fingers tracing faint lines across the tabletop.

“She never truly loved me. The person she loved was someone else. But she didn’t dare admit it. She didn’t dare leave, didn’t dare confront the consequences of her own choice. So when someone told her, ‘Your boyfriend isn’t worthy of your trust,’ she finally had a reason.”

Eva felt her heartbeat falter for a moment.

“That man was my friend,” he continued. “Chris.”

It was the first time she had heard that name from his lips.

“She loved him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know?”

“He did.”

“And you—”

“I only learned the truth after she was gone. Chris never told me. Neither did she. The two of them concealed it from me for three years.”

Eva did not know what to say.

This story was not the one she had expected.

“Do you still hate her?” she asked quietly.

He considered the question for a long time.

So long that the cloud outside drifted away and sunlight returned to the window.

“No,” he said at last. “She merely did what she had to do. Just like you.”

Eva looked into his eyes—grey, fractured in places, yet carrying something profoundly gentle beneath.

“So did I,” he added softly. “I was doing what I had to do.”

“Such as?”

“Waiting for you.”