Let's Look at Journal Entries - That are not Marinating
Date: April 15, 2025 Location: Lisbon, Portugal Local Weather: 19°C (66°F), sunny with a light sea breeze, clouds teasing the horizon
Dear Diary,
Olá from Lisbon, where the trams rattle like they’re auditioning for a horror flick and I’m pretty sure I’m the one being watched. I’m supposed to be tailing Viktor, our charming double agent—6’2”, scar on his left cheek, partial to cheap cologne and cheaper lies. Fact: Lisbon’s got 7 hills and about a million cobblestones trying to break my ankles. Observation: Viktor’s not just dodging me—he’s mirroring me. Saw him at the pastel de nata stand in Belém, pretending to fumble with euros while eyeing me over his custard tart. Amateur move, but bold.
I ducked into Alfama’s maze of alleys—narrow, laundry flapping overhead like surrender flags. Thought I’d lost him, but there he was, sipping espresso at a café I passed 10 minutes later. Coincidence? Please. My cover’s a bumbling tourist, camera and all, but my lens caught his smirk. Humor’s my lifeline: I’m a spy being spied on by the guy I’m spying on. If this gets any loopier, I’ll need a flowchart. Off to lose him in the nightlife—wish me luck, or at least a stiff drink.
Yours, slightly twitchy, Agent K
Date: April 16, 2025 Location: Lisbon, Portugal Local Weather: 17°C (63°F), overcast, a damp chill rolling in off the Tagus River
Dear Diary,
Day two in Lisbon, and Viktor’s sticking to me like a bad rash. Weather’s gone gray, matching my mood—clouds heavy, air thick with fish and suspicion. Fact: The city’s got 3,000 surveillance cameras, but none where I need ‘em. Observation: He’s not even pretending now. Caught him trailing me near the LX Factory—artsy spot, old warehouses, hipsters galore. I was snapping “tourist” pics of graffiti when his reflection popped up in a window, two blocks back, lighting a cigarette like some noir villain.
Tried shaking him on the 28 tram—yellow, rickety, packed with pickpockets and pensioners. Hopped off at a random stop, doubled back through a sardine shop (yes, I smell like lunch now), but there he was, lurking by a fado bar, humming off-key. The guy’s got nerve—I’ll give him that. Humor’s all I’ve got left: I’m the hunter turned hunted, and my prey’s got better hair. Tonight, I plant a decoy—fake meet-up, wrong intel. Let’s see if he bites or just keeps breathing down my neck.
Yours, plotting and pungent, Agent K
Date: April 17, 2025 Location: Lisbon, Portugal Local Weather: 16°C (61°F), torrential rain, wind howling through the streets
Dear Diary,
Lisbon’s a wet mess today, and so’s my mission. Rain’s pounding the tiles, turning streets into rivers—perfect cover for chaos. Fact: Viktor’s not just tailing me; he’s closing in. Observation: Last night’s decoy flopped. Left a burner phone pinging a fake drop point near the docks—thought he’d chase it. Instead, he ambushed me in Bairro Alto. Came at me from a side street, knife glinting under a busted streetlamp. Peril’s here, and it’s personal.
I dodged—barely—slipped on wet stone, rolled into a gutter. He’s fast, but I’m faster. Landed a jab to his ribs, heard him grunt, then bolted through the downpour. Lost him in the storm, but my cover’s toast. He knows I’m onto him, and he’s not playing coy anymore. Resolve’s my anchor now: I’ll turn this around. I’ve got one shot—lure him to the safehouse, flip the script, and end this. Rain or ruin, I’m done running.
Yours, soaked but steady, Agent K