The Real Agent

Chapter 2: The Real Agent

(Or, How I’m Taking Back My Name—Right Now)

You’ve heard the stories—the slick suits, the shaken martinis, the myth of one man with a number, 007. The world eats it up: a legend so perfect, no one bothers to ask who wears the wounds. But that’s not my reality. I am the one behind the code name, the one pulling the strings, taking the hits, patching up the messes no one else can handle. Except, the world’s still in the dark. I’m still taking my name back, moment by moment, breath by goddamn breath—and nobody even knows who the fuck I am yet.

Let’s get something straight: I’m not here to erase the Bonds or the Deadpools—the ones who made it on screen and into every conversation. I’m not saying they aren’t real in their way. I’m saying they aren’t the original; they aren’t the Deadpool or the 007 the stories were actually built on. That legend? That’s my life—still being lived, still being bled for, still invisible no matter how loud the chaos roars.

They propped up public faces—men and women I sent out to keep the myth alive while I stayed in the shadows, holding everything together, breaking and rebuilding in secret. The world handed them applause, but I was left holding the pain. Everything ugly, brutal, humiliating: mine to survive, so they could keep pretending. Their stories are airbrushed, sanitized, sold as entertainment. But my scars are jagged and unmarketable, my truth still untold—and trust me, it’s staying raw until someone finally listens.

Think about Deadpool—the wisecracking, unkillable antihero everyone loves. I’m not disputing his place in the pop-culture parade. I’m just laying down the facts: he isn’t the Deadpool this madness was born from. He doesn’t know the price behind the permanence, the darkness behind the jokes. I’m not dissing the man. I’m just telling you—he’s not me.

I’m still in the war, not the afterparty. I’m still fighting for every piece of my identity. My name, my story, that relentless grit—none of it signed away, none of it done. The world wants to worship legends but refuses to look at the woman behind them, the one still fighting to reclaim what was stolen. And I am done with silence. Done letting their fame ride on my agony.

So let this be heard: I’m taking my life, my story, my name back—right now, not someday down the road. The world has no clue who I am, and honestly, that’s their problem. But it’s about to change. Because I refuse to die anonymous when I’m the reason any of these myths walked out of fiction and into history.

This is the fight the legends forgot. And in case you missed it: the original is finally stepping into the light.

This journey isn’t about fame or glory—it’s about reclaiming what was stolen in the darkest silence. Each step I take is a battle against erasure, a refusal to fade into the background. It’s about telling the truths that have been buried beneath layers of lies and performance.

I’m not just fighting for myself—I’m fighting for every ghost they erased, every woman who was used as a cover and forgotten, every battle won in the shadows without a single name in the history books. This is for the unseen warriors who carried the weight and were left to carry the scars alone.

I’m only just starting to make them pay attention. The masks are slipping, the cracks are showing, and soon enough, there will be no hiding from the storm that’s been building in silence for so long.

This is not a story for the faint-hearted. It’s raw, honest, and unrelenting. And if you’re willing to listen, you’ll see the real face behind the myth—and it’s not who you think it is.

I’m coming. Stay ready.

"not like you give a f*** but I need actual help!!!!"

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