“Alas, what mockery of fate is this?” Agent Thompson muttered, examining the ordinary roll of toilet paper in his trembling hands. “That such mundane material should bear such grave consequence.”

The dimly lit safehouse bathroom seemed to close in around him as he carefully unspooled the first few sheets. There, encoded in nearly invisible microprint along the perforation lines, lay the names of deep-cover Soviet agents - a treasure trove of intelligence that had cost three good men their lives to obtain.

A sharp knock at the door made him start. “Brother dear, art thou finished with thy morning constitution?” came the affected voice of Agent Sarah Blake - their agreed-upon recognition phrase.

“Patience, sister mine. The spirits move slowly today,” Thompson replied, carefully rerolling the paper. The theatrical passwords had been Shakespeare’s idea - the old spymaster had always had a flair for the dramatic.

Sarah slipped inside, her elegant evening gown incongruous in the grimy bathroom. “The KGB knows. We have perhaps minutes before-”

The window exploded inward. Thompson shoved Sarah aside as bullets tore through the space where she’d stood. “Once more unto the breach!” he cried, drawing his Walther PPK.

“Really, James? Shakespeare at a time like this?” Sarah’s laugh was tight with tension as she produced her own weapon.

“If we must play our parts in this grand tragedy, let us do so with style!” Thompson grinned, the familiar banter steadying his nerves. “The coded paper-”

“Is worthless,” came a new voice - cultured, amused. In the doorway stood their handler, Shakespeare himself, leveling a chrome-plated revolver at them. “Did you truly think I’d let such vital intelligence be transmitted via toilet paper? Oh, my dear players, you’ve performed your roles admirably, but every show must end.”

“Et tu, Shakespeare?” Thompson’s bitter laugh echoed off the tiles. “Was any of it real?”

“The great game is always real, dear boy. And like all great dramas, it must cycle eternal.” The old man’s smile was almost gentle. “In your next life, perhaps you’ll choose your allies more wisely.”

Three shots rang out in rapid succession.

“Alas, what mockery of fate is this?” Agent Chen muttered, examining the ordinary roll of toilet paper in his trembling hands. The year was 2023, but the game remained the same.

In the bathroom mirror, he caught a glimpse of his reflection - and for a moment, saw another face superimposed over his own: a Western man from decades past, wearing a bitter smile.

The bathroom door rattled. “Brother dear, art thou finished with thy morning constitution?”

Chen closed his eyes. The wheel turned. The play began anew.

“Patience, sister mine,” he called. “The spirits move slowly today.”