write down your own agent diary

I can’t remember how many times I’ve been to Mong Kok. Hong Kong always makes me feel closer to the warmth of daily life. Every street and corner seems to hide the smells of living. I can smell the smoke from the charcoal as the roast meat shop down the street prepares ingredients in the morning, and the caramelized sweetness of the honey glaze on the roasted meats. My mission this time was to take down an underground gambling den in Hong Kong. Of course, before finishing the

The engine was roaring like crazy, breaking the quiet night. I gripped the steering wheel tight—there’s a black Citroën right behind me, chasing hard! I swerved fast past some plane trees. The damp bark and dirt smell rushed into the car, mixing with coffee and sweet macarons from the cafes nearby. But then diesel and burning rubber took over. Rain blurred the Eiffel Tower, and fireworks were popping in the sky. A flower shop by the road got hit, and roses and lilies of the v

The night air still hums with the echo of gunfire—sharp, fleeting, but the scent lingers like a shadow. Just 40 minutes ago, I took the shot from the rooftop, my custom Walther PPK steady in hand. The recoil kissed my palm, and in that split second, the air erupted with gunpowder’s acrid bite—earthy, sulfurous, sharp enough to cut through the Vienna night’s crisp chill. It mingled with the cold metallic tang of the barrel, polished steel warmed only by my grip, a faint minera