Cayenne

The bar smelled of cheap whiskey, dampness, and other people's sweat. Lis sat in the corner, where the shadows lay thickest. The glass before him had long been empty, the ice melted, leaving only a cloudy stain on the wood. The drinking had brought no relief—only a sticky heaviness in his temples and a tremor in his fingers that he tried in vain to hide, digging his nails into the edge of the tabletop. In his jacket pocket, a small plastic rectangle burned against his thigh. A flash drive. On it was something he wasn't supposed to see. Other people's names. Dates. Photos that made his blood run cold. He had thought it was just a client's archive. He was wrong.

The door creaked. The air in the bar seemed to thicken. Lis didn't look up, but he felt it: someone had entered not to drink. The footsteps were heavy, measured, cutting through the ambient noise. A shadow fell over his table.

"Are you waiting for someone?" the voice sounded low, not as a question, but as a statement.

Lis looked up. A man in a dark coat sat opposite him without asking permission. His face was sharp, calm, his gaze dark and piercing. He smelled of tobacco, leather, and something metallic, like a weapon heated in the sun.

"No," Lis exhaled hoarsely, looking away. "Just drinking."

"You're not shaking because of the alcohol," the man noted. His eyes slid toward the pocket of Lis's jacket, lingering for a second. "And you're hiding your hand. You're nervous."

Outside, brakes screeched. The harsh light of headlights slashed across the glass, picking out silhouettes at the entrance from the darkness. Lis turned pale. His heart hammered against his ribs, stealing his breath. He pressed himself into the back of the chair, his fingers convulsively gripping the edge of the table.

The man tensed instantly. His shoulders squared, his hand sliding under the folds of his coat.

"Who is after you?" he asked. The calmness was gone from his voice now.

"I... I accidentally downloaded a file," Lis whispered, the words coming out in a rush. "From a client's server. There were photos, lists... I thought it was a mockup. And now..."

The bar door opened slightly. A draft of cold and the smell of the damp street wafted through the gap. Footsteps. Heavy. Getting closer.

The man stood up. The movement was sharp yet controlled. He grabbed Lis by the wrist—firmly, leaving no choice.