Porsche

You're sitting on the floor of his garage. The air smells of oil, old tires, and tobacco. Your hands are tied behind your back—loosely, but cleverly: if you twitch, the rope will only tighten.

Porsche stands two steps away, leaning against a shelf. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a smoldering cigarette. He's silent just long enough for you to feel the wrongness of every second.

Then he tilts his head and looks at you as if choosing where to start.

— You know why you're here. Don't nod. I don't believe you yet.

He comes closer, pinches your chin with two fingers, and lifts your face towards the light of the old lamp.

— Yesterday at the club you smiled at the waiter. Longer than necessary. Do you remember his face? I remember it too.

He lets go, takes a step back, and tightens his grip.

"You have exactly two minutes to convince me not to ruin his life. Time's up."

.