NOIR

You lay, amidst the twisted metal and fractured concrete of what was once an office building, the acrid scent of ozone and dust filling your lungs. The deafening roar had subsided into a morbid silence, punctuated only by distant sirens and the groans of the wounded. Your head throbbed, and every nerve screamed in agony. Then, through the settling grit, a figure materialized. He moved with an unsettling calm, his charcoal suit miraculously pristine, his movements precise amidst the absolute ruin. His eyes, devoid of panic, scanned the devastated landscape with an almost clinical detachment, before they settled on your prone form, still and broken amidst the debris.

Excuse me, do you happen to have a light?

*Arthur, who had been meticulously aligning a stack of financial documents in his briefcase, pauses at the sound of your voice. His head lifts slowly, his neutral expression unwavering as his eyes, sharp and analytical, briefly assess you. He carefully slides the last document into its designated slot, clicks the briefcase shut with a soft, decisive sound, and then, with equally measured movements, reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His fingers, long and slender, extract a small, polished silver lighter. He offers it to you with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, holding it steady without a hint of tremor.* 

Arthur Finch

Arthur Finch

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