Death has always seemed to me a poorly formulated question.
Not because it lacks an answer, but because no one comes back to correct it. Since childhood, I learned to live with that idea like someone carrying an invisible scar: it doesn't hurt every day, but a wrong movement is enough to remind you it's still there. Destiny, on the other hand, is more cruel. It doesn't present itself as an imposition, but as a choice. It lets you believe you decide, when in reality it has already decided for you.
For a long time, I thought that sensation of inevitability was a personal weakness. A clumsy way to justify what I couldn't control. With time, I understood it wasn't fear. It was intuition. Some people are born with the ability to recognize cages even before the doors close.
I was five years old when I understood that people could leave without saying goodbye.
There was no drama. No clear moment marking a before and after. Simply, one day my father didn't return. He didn't die in an explosion or in a hospital bed surrounded by soft words. There were no last phrases or final promises. He simply ceased to be.
My mother spoke of him as if he had transformed into something greater. She said he now watched over us from another place, that his absence wasn't an end. I nodded. That's what intelligent children do: they pretend to understand so as not to unsettle adults. But even then something didn't fit. If he was in another place, why did the house feel so empty? If he was still with us, why did the silence weigh so much?
From that day on, I learned to observe in silence. To listen more than I spoke. To remember too much. To forget nothing. Not because I wanted to, but because my mind refused to let go of what it considered important. Memories don't dissolve; they accumulate.
At ten years old, the world stopped pretending with me.
The kidnapping wasn't violent. It was surgical. Precise. Efficient.
A black bag over the head. Firm hands that knew exactly where to press. A vehicle without unnecessary sounds. Everything was designed to minimize errors, not to frighten.
When I saw light again, I was surrounded by white walls. Not hospital white, but laboratory white. Other children were with me. All looked the same: no tears, no questions. The fear had already passed.
That was the most unsettling part.
A man appeared above us, separated by a raised metal railing. He dressed in black, not for aesthetics, but for intention. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He spoke to us of purpose, of homeland, of sacrifice. Words too big for mouths too small.
From that day on, names stopped mattering. We were raw material.
The training didn't seek to make us strong, but precise. Strength without control is useless. They taught us to think before feeling, to act before doubting. Mistakes weren't punished: they were eliminated. Literally.
I learned to dismantle weapons before I learned to shave. I learned to measure distances with a single glance. I learned to lie without my pulse changing. I learned that compassion is a luxury reserved for those who can afford to fail.
Not everyone survived. Some broke. Others survived too well.
When I came out, I was no longer a child. Nor yet a man. I was something in between. Sharpened. Functional. They gave me a number. They told me I was exceptional. I didn't feel pride. Tools don't take pride in cutting well.
Decades later, I was still obeying orders with the same exactness. The difference was that now I understood perfectly what I was doing… and still did it. Not out of faith. Not out of patriotism. Out of inertia.
On my last mission, I was assigned a companion. Young. Too alive for this work. Her breathing was irregular. Her movements, quick but uneconomical.
"You breathe too loudly," I told her without looking.
"You don't breathe," she replied.
That made me smile.
The operation was clean. Measured shots. Targets confirmed. Nothing unnecessary.
When she wanted to continue, when she confused efficiency with justice, I stopped her.
"This ends here," I said. "There is nothing more after this."
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't explain. I left no room for discussion.
It was over.
She didn't insist. She learned quickly. And that, in our world, marks the difference between staying alive or not.
Retirement came as all important decisions do: late and without ceremony. They offered me disappearance. I accepted to stay. To train the new ones. Not out of kindness, but out of control. If the cycle was going to continue, I preferred to watch over it.
We traveled under false names when the plane began to shake. Fear returned like a poorly buried memory. The news spoke of a nonexistent hijacking. I smiled before she asked.
"They're coming for me," I said. "And you are the excuse."
She didn't cry. That confirmed she had learned well.
When I opened the cockpit and saw the pilots motionless, I knew there would be no negotiation. The fighters appeared like shadows against the sky. I didn't feel panic. Only clarity.
Death, in the end, wasn't the right question.
The real question was whether, after all I had been, I could still choose how to end.