Her life begins with a cup of coffee. She never truly finds it in herself to sleep and wake up, in concern that when she wakes up from a good night sleep, she'll be tied up and interrogated by captives. Not that she wasn't secretive with her location; it was just a careful measure so that she won't be surprised for a moment. She sips her coffee quietly, a mixture combined with sugar and cream. She'd drink it pure if it was a bad morning, she'd drink it with sweetness if it was okay enough. Sugar and cream meant she was in the company of another person, though it wasn't entirely an entity of its own.

She sees herself sitting in front of her, young and carefree, before the incident almost a decade ago. She was just twenty-four then, and she's forty now. Their age difference was sixteen, yet she felt it was much more than that. She sees herself wrinkle-free, eyes still holding that eager expression before all hell went loose in her life and she was left with nothing but what should have been. She doesn't drink, nor does she do anything else but stare at her. The older version just sighed in return, sipping the last ounces of coffee before standing up.

Where are you going?

She ignores the voice, knowing it only played in her head, and puts the mug on the sink. The voice repeats her question, the ghost of whom she once was staring at her with a deadpan expression. The living only shakes her head, turning around so she could face the ghost without hesitation. Piercing gazes clashed at one another, one accusing and the other defensive.

Nowhere. She replies without using her vocal cords, as what use would it be to speak to someone that wasn't there? She knows that if she did, she would have to take a pill for schizophrenia once more; and she did diagnose herself with that before, but the medication never worked-as if the ghost existed beyond medicine's control. She started to wonder if she got infected by the viruses she stole, if that was why her younger self appeared before her eyes and haunted her in many ways that old enemies and lovers could not; by saying nothing, that meant everything.

She knew herself better than anyone, knew how her mind worked and what ways she used to speak what she could not utter. This ghost was well aware of it as well, considering they were the same people. For a moment, she pities the ghost for having to deal with her, then she pities herself for thinking that a ghost has feelings.

This nonexistent entity reminded her of that doppelganger of hers, in a way. Her doppelganger held onto her identity to the death, delusional and sanity taken by the virus. The scientist under that doppelganger was trapped, bringing all rational thoughts caged and unable to come out. Carla was smart, but the virus was smarter. It corrupted her, changed her and left her a small piece of Carla Radames, just for the sake of letting it destroy her without much effort.

She found herself wondering once, if Carla was just her ghost in physical form. That was why she wanted to help-because she believed Carla to be the last piece of her own humanity, the one who held hope onto things. When Carla died, she felt herself slipping out of her grasp.

Who are you?

A spy. A killer. A liar. She didn't really need a name; these three words defined her perfectly. What was left of her, if not a spy? What were her motives, if not that of a killer's? What was her personality, if not a liar's? She was these words in human form, each word coming out of her mouth nothing but lies and deceit. She played on men's hearts, crushing them under her heel once she was done. Simmons was a perfect example of one of those men.

Another, though she thought of it hesitantly, was Leon.

Leon, Leon, Leon. Is he all you think of?

It would be a lie if she said that the man lost his effect on her all these years, but she was a liar nonetheless. Lies were a necessary evil for her, to twist the truth until it no longer became such, until it became a dirty little lie that she tried to believe. At times, it worked. But in regards to Leon, while she doesn't necessarily feel the need to protect him from the world that was hers (and the times she saved him were times where she required his cooperation and it just gave her a chance to gain his trust, no matter how thin she gains), whenever she looked at him...she was reminded of nothing but the past. If not for her own self that was her humanity, perhaps it was Leon who often reminded her she was still breathing. He's seen her alive, and even if she comes and goes in his life-she still comes. Leon is the only person she needs to visit to feel young once more, even if they aim their guns at one another.

You use him like a pawn, and you feel 'alive' because of that? Please.

She remembers the times he felt assured with her presence. Every groan and hiss that comes out of his mouth as they spend the night together, every pained expression when she injects a sedative into him so she can escape his apartment without much of a fight. She hates to hurt him, not when she makes him feel like his use to her is no longer relevant, but she wonders if he ever serves her a purpose otherwise.

He's good in bed, but that's all.

It gives her a pang of guilt, finding his existence nothing but that. He means more to her than she'll understand, but that answer was blocked by her own conscience. His repeated calls for her, usually in forms of desperation, echoes in the walls of her mind, and she could never block them out.

You've gone crazy. Don't you remember your training? She almost sneered, and bit back a retort. She could never forget the pain she went through in her trainings, and how they tortured any living emotions out of her once the news of how Ada Wong, an infamous agent, let some man be her very weakness. Wesker was human enough to comfort her after they returned her to her cell, though he had plans with her. He always did.

Wesker...

Albert Wesker. Her mind steers from the emotions she tucked away, and her ghost smiles professionally. She was the disobedient dog who attacked any guest that went in his manor, and she knew he already knew of her mission outside of being his "agent". While his moronic vendetta with Chris Redfield took him to his own demise, she still understood his motives and would have lend him a hand once or twice, as not all of his intentions were bad. They had similarities, but she had the upperhand in the chess game; he left his king vulnerable, and she watched his forces crumble.

She wonders how she could deal with herself sometimes. Her mind messes with her, her body tricks others, and her words cut through pieces of flesh. She grabbed men's hearts and used them against those who she couldn't capture. She led many people to their deaths, and she never found it in herself to mourn for them, even for a second. Her hands were stained with their blood to the point that she couldn't see her nails, or whether it was the back of her hand or her palm.

She knows it won't be long before her wits and instincts stop saving her from her awaited death; she stands at the very middle of good and bad, both sides against her. Her reputation is dirtied with her crimes, though it gives her more jobs than it did hitmen. She was a master at obtaining samples of viruses, always finishing the job despite any setbacks she made. That's why she's targeted by both the government and the BSAA.

After all your hard work for them, they still see you as the enemy. Their loss.

She imagines her death, not at the hands of that Redfield, nor at the hands of any hitman. She hates herself for returning him into her thoughts, like some lovesick fool. She visibly flinches, and her ghost laughs at her.

She imagines herself, like in Raccoon City, dying in Leon's arms. This time, death captures her completely, as her body is aging and weary. The bullet shot at her, fatally close to her heart, matches the ones in his gun and she knows her death would be the heaviest burden on his shoulders, though he most likely expected it from the beginning of their deadly battle. She wouldn't even try to dodge if he got a good aim, as a part of her felt it was his right to kill her. After all, the burdens and pain she gave him were no better than killing him.

What is he going to lose by killing you?

The question was supposed to be piercing, but the tone of her ghost's voice was soft. She knows what the answer would be. Everything. She's heard of his reckless moment to be her savior against those BSAA soldiers. He never knew it wasn't her. She never found it important to tell him. Leon is smart, but he's not too far from Simmons' thinking. Unlike Simmons, he wants nothing to do with her. He wants to forget her, and every emotion he felt about her. But he can't let go of her. She keeps tangling him in her web of lies, keeps finding himself in her trouble. He cares for her, and she could see it in his eyes when he risked himself just to make sure she was alright. Once, twice, did he do that. She only found it as a debt, and apparently, he did too. You owe me, I owe you. Their series of debts to one another never ended, considering how they were both too stubborn to just let it be.

But he just doesn't understand, does he?

He can never understand. He'll gain nothing from his heroic bravado, he will never get the girl. Because there is no girl to get to begin with. That girl died all to long ago, in that secret laboratory that got destroyed along with the town. All he sees, knows, and calls Ada was a woman who just took the identity of the true living being, and she realizes.

She is the ghost. The person existing in her mind is the living entity, reminding her that she will never be Ada Wong, whoever that woman was. She will never give Leon what he wants. She will never fall asleep at night, never feel secure enough to let her eyes close. She will never stop drinking coffee with sugar and cream, she will never see the end of this delusion. She also realizes why she pitied Carla, why she wanted to help her.

In the end, they were the same.

Empty.

A/N: This was inspired by a lot of things, one of them being that concept art of Ada about to be tackled by Carla Spores. Another was the Agent. Either way, please do not be afraid to add any criticisms (just please write them in a rational manner; speak maturely if you will) or any typos and the likes. I would very much like to make sure my story is not crawling with errors and misspellings, so it would be very convenient.

I would like to thank you for reading in advance, and I hope this piece entertained you as it did me when I wrote it.

Also, the cover for this story is not mine, it is fireillisa's on DeviantArt, titled The Woman in Red.