I stare at him. I'm more focused on holding myself up more than the gun. It's fumbling in my hands and I know I might drop it. But if I grip it tighter, I'll slide from my slick palm. Frank looks at me scared, as he should. There's a gun to his head. I've shot him before. I'll do it again if I must. I don't want him to die but he chose to come back to this place for whatever reason. That's his own fault. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Frank says slowly. 

I glare at him. "Meds," I croak. His eyes click with remembrance. "So you do know where they are."

Frank slowly steps back toward the kitchen table but doesn't take his eyes off me to look behind him. He reaches back, his hand patting around the edge when he slides his fingers out from the draw and pulls. The orange bottle catches my eyes. He did move it. Frank feels around in the drawer, refusing to break eye contact like I'm a dangerous animal. I don't blame him for thinking that of me. "I noticed you were discreet about having these," he says, holding him in his fist, "so I hid them in here before we went to the agency that morning the agents came in.

It was right there. I've been looking for nearly an hour and it was right there. "Give me bottle," I say firmly but it comes out as a whimper. 

Frank tilts his head and he looks at me. "You're not going to shoot me," he says. 

I shift my jaw. "Do not test me."

"I know you still love me."

This catches me off guard. I look at me amused. "You are foolish to still believe in love."

"Oh, I'm not saying this as that foolish college study who was in Austria," he says. He breaks eye contact to glance down at the bottle. He turns it in his hand a few times, the pills rattling inside. "And I'm not saying it as that foolish nobody who saved your sorry life and fell for your pretty, artificial face in the hospital." He stares at me and I'm slightly concerned I will have to shoot him. He's not how I thought he was. He looks at me and smiles. "I'm saying it as the person you shot three times in the chest yet didn't kill. Whatever you are, I understand you're programmed to kill. It's the one thing you're good at. So there's no way you possibly missed me. Three times. At point blank." He takes a step forward toward me and I try to get the shaking to stop but it won't. Frank is right in front of me, the gun inches away from his forehead. "You didn't miss at all."

"Give me bottle," I say. I swallow, trying to focus. 

He ignores me. "You then called 911. Not only did you not want to kill me, you didn't want me to die." He leans forward, tapping his forehead against the barrel of the gun and resting it there. "So I know you won't hurt me now."

"Give me it," I say again, staring at him harshly. 

He turns his head to the side, still resting against the gun. "What happens when you run out?" he asks. I tense up, hating hearing that worry brought up. "You can't get a refill. No, you'll have to live with your condition. So why come back."

My chest is hurting and my knees are tearing from standing this long. My head was already thinking about these factors. I don't need him telling me about them too. "I am not going to ask again," I say. 

Frank chuckles. "If you were going to kill me, you would have at the safe house."

"You were innocent," I snap. "I gave you second chance. Do not make me regret it."

"You still care about me."

"Stop it." I push the gun against his forehead and his head tilts back.

I stand over him, pushing the gun down. He just looks up at me. "You still love me."

"Niet," I say. He looks at me unconvinced. It's in his hand but I can't get it. In my condition, I won't be able to fight him. A simple push will knock me over but I can't let him know. "Give."

"It won't make a difference in the long run," he says. "You know that so you wouldn't have bothered to risk your life to come." He narrow my eyes at him. "You came to see me."

"That is where you are wrong," I say. 

"You still love me."

"Niet."

A bright smile plays on his face. "And as much as I shouldn't, I still love you."

"I-" I can't speak. "What?" How could he still love me? I shot him. I left him. I lied to him. I hurt him. How could he still care? He shouldn't. And he just admitted he knows he shouldn't. But why does he still?

He glances down. "You say you don't love me," he mutters. "If that's the case, prove me wrong." I look at him. "You say you don't love me so just shoot me. It's all right here. Just pull the trigger."

"What is it with everyone?" I mutter. Why do I have to kill someone in order to prove myself? Zoya, Mother, now him. Why do people only believe me when I take lives? I stare at him. "You are not noble to do this. You are selfish idiot."

"What if I don't give you the bottle?" he taunts. 

"I will not hesitate to shoot obstacle. But I will not waste bullet to prove truth."

Frank tense up and he stares at me. "You came back!" he cries. "Why else would you come back unless you cared about me."

I look at him. I sigh and speak in a way he's familiar. "I came back for the meds, I swear," I say in my American accent. He softens up hearing my voice. My voice is lighter, not as deep, not as sharp and blunt. "I can't stop the shaking. I can't function." I glance down at my body and huff in frustration. "My hands, my legs, my vision, they don't work. I don't work." I look up at him and my eyes start stinging. "And if I don't work, then I am broken. And they don't have time for broken." I bite my lip, giving my head a small shake. "I came back for the meds because it would give me enough time to function and work to stay alive. And I was hoping you wouldn't be here. Because I knew I wouldn't have the strength to leave you again." I remove the gun from his head and lower it to my side. My shoulder socket creaks from the movement, elbow stiff. "So please, just give me the bottle, Frank."

He looks at me wide-eyed. "You don't have to leave."

I look at me sadly. "I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do," he says. "This is your life."

I scoff at him. "You don't know what my life is. I don't even know." He stares at me, waiting for more. "I don't know where I came from, what my last name, Vasilyevich, where it came from. I don't know if Dmitry was something my parents gave me or if the orphanage did, which makes me also question my last name. Because I never met anyone in the 27 years I've been alive with that same last name." I cave and frantically grab a stool from under the counter and slide it under me to sit. My joints finally relax and I take a breath. "Like you said, I am programmed. The last 20 years, I'm living as Gerard Way, the life taken from a child 20 years ago. I am not real." I trail off. "I am not alive nor was I ever. I'm not a person. I'm a program."

Frank steps over to put a hand on my shoulder but I glare at him threateningly. He stops. "You don't have to leave," he says again. 

"You don't get it," I mutter. "Yes, I have to. I am a traitor to this country..." Frank starts shaking his head and I lose my train of thought. 

"No," he says flatly. I raise an eye brow. "The CIA is looking for their agent. They're worried it's too late to save him but I can tell they still hope."

I stare at him in shock. "What? You didn't...you didn't tell them?"

He shakes his head. "They questioned me for a couple days. Brought me to the conference room today and finally gave up." I can't wrap my head around this. "They gave up this morning. Figured my memory wouldn't come around." He lied. Frank...lied. I thought he would've given me up. Maybe he's not the person I thought he was. "You're not a traitor. At least not yet," he says. "You still have a chance. They don't know anything."

I stand up from the stool and look at Frank. I keep my hands at my sides. "And what do you know?" I ask. 

"I know your real name is Dmitry...Vas-Vasilyevich," he says slowly. I can't help but smile hearing him say my real name. "You are Russian. As Gerard, you are a CIA agent and you were in Austria to stop a bioattack." His eyes flicker. "The same bio attack you are now supporting as Dmitry," he mutters. "I know the disease will kill a lot of people. Including me. I know if I give Dmitry the bottle, I'll never see you again and then soon, everyone will get sick and we'll all die. So...if you're Dmitry, then you might as well shoot me and take this yourself." I wait for him to continue. "But...if I give this to Gerard, then he'll fabricate another clever lie and he can stop the attack and save everyone. And...if you are Gerard, then I will forget everything and hand the bottle to my boyfriend." Frank looks at me very seriously, gripping the bottle tightly in his fist behind him. His shoulders rise and fall as he tries controlling his nervous breathing. "So what's it going to be? Are you going to shoot me or am I going to give it to you?" I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I have to give him an answer, whether he likes it or not. And the truth is, I need to give myself an answer too. I need to accept that I cannot be both. "Who are you?" Frank asks. 

I open my eyes and look at him, taking him like it's the first time. The way his dark hair falls over his face, how soft his facial features are, the shallow sounds of his breathing. But I fixate at his eyes. They aren't brown. Or blue or green. They're all of them at once in a hazel. "Some things are not meant to be forgotten," I sigh, forcing myself to look down at my side. One hand holds the gun. One hand is empty. I have to decide. And the decision I make is permanent. It cannot be undone so I must live with it and all the consequences that ensue. 

I look back up at him as I raise my hand. I tell him my name. ​​​​​