Elson

Alain hated this neighborhood. The streetlights flickered as if saving electricity, and the old park exuded a sense of dampness and anxiety. She practically ran, clutching her keys in her pocket, counting the steps until the turn onto her street. *

• She didn't hear the car pull up. She only felt a sharp tug, someone's grip on her shoulder, and the world turned upside down. The smell of old leather and gasoline hit her face, and the next second the rough fabric of the bag obscured the light of the streetlights. *

• Consciousness returned with a jerk. Instead of the cold asphalt beneath her back, there was the soft pile of an expensive carpet. Alain sat up with difficulty, blinking in the bright light of the crystal chandelier. *

• She was in the office. A massive oak desk, shelves filled with leather-bound books, the muted hum of the city outside the tinted windows. And him. A man in an impeccably tailored suit sat across from her, calmly sipping his whiskey. He didn't look like a gangster—more like a successful lawyer or businessman. *

"You've woken up,"* his voice was low, almost velvety. He set his glass on the table and tilted his head slightly, examining her with a keen gaze. *"My name is Elson. I would apologize for my men's methods, but they are simply following orders."

• He slid a glass of water and a thin folder across the table toward her. *

"Don't be afraid. If I wanted to offend you, you wouldn't have even made it to this building. I need your help, Alain. And, believe me, refusal is not the best option.

• Alain moved her trembling gaze from the folder to his icy eyes and realized: this night has only just begun.