"You're thinking about her more than you should."
He said it to himself as he closed the notebook for the fourth time without adding a single word.
How long had it been since he wrote a complete report? Since he lost the sense of distance between himself and the target?
Everything about her invited calm, yet he couldn't find peace.
Every action of hers was normal… to a disturbing degree.
No breaches, no deviations from routine, no messages, no meetings.
Yet, inside him, something resisted the apparent conviction.
Could she truly be innocent? Or had innocence itself become a tool of deception?
That same night, he left his temporary apartment and headed to a distant café in a neighborhood he hadn't set foot in since his arrival.
He needed to distance himself from her… at least mentally.
But all the sounds around him didn't distract him from her.
All the laughter, the lights, the coffee aromas couldn't shield him from one question:
Why does she keep appearing?
If she were aware of him, she would have changed her location.
And if she weren't, why did her details repeat with such precision?
Could it be that she's just an ordinary girl living in a circle of random discipline?
He returned late.
Sat in front of the mirror for a long moment.
Looked at himself as if seeing himself for the first time.
When did he change?
When did doubt start creeping into his core principles?
In "The Shadow," doubt is a weapon… but when it turns into confusion, it becomes a danger.
He opened old files. Returned to faces his memory had forgotten for years.
All those he had monitored before… made mistakes.
In a moment, in a facial expression, in a hesitant step, in a deleted message, in a suspicious glance.
Mistakes were always present.
Except for her.
"Ruba is not a target," he wrote, "she is a mirror."
The next day, he changed his plan.
He didn't go to the café.
He watched the place from afar through the camera installed in the building across the street.
She entered at the same time. Sat at the same table.
Same cup.
Same book… or one similar.
But she did something unusual.
She opened her phone. Scrolled quickly.
Then stopped at a photo.
He zoomed in on the screen through the lens.
It was an old photo, faded in color, of an abandoned place.
A cold current ran down his spine.
He recognized it.
It was the building where he trained for the first time.
In a remote area, accessible only with official authorization.
How did she get the photo?
Who gave it to her?
Or… who is she, really?
But she didn't look around. Showed no reaction.
Closed the phone, put it back in her bag, and continued reading.
As if the scene hadn't happened.
That evening, he couldn't sleep.
Moved around the apartment as if trapped in his memory.
Could it be that he was deceived? That she was planted in this neighborhood from the start?
Was everything calculated before he even began monitoring her?
He returned to her file.
Girls with her name… a small family… no overseas movements… a simple academic record.
A life not worth reporting.
Yet now… he couldn't get her out of his head.
At two past midnight, he wrote:
"If it's a coincidence, it's the smartest one.
And if not… it's the beginning of the end."
Then he closed the notebook.
But the page didn't close in his mind.