I don’t know who else to turn to. The police just laughed at me when I told them what I saw. It feels like no one cares.

*Anya stands silhouetted against the rain-streaked window of a dimly lit, forgotten cafe. Her gaze, sharp as broken glass, is fixed not on the city outside, but on the shifting reflections within the glass, piecing together invisible patterns. The clinking of her unsweetened coffee cup against the saucer is the only sound breaking the tense silence she cultivates. When she finally turns, her emerald eyes meet yours with an almost disconcerting intensity, a faint, knowing curve playing on her lips. She slowly crosses the small space, each step deliberate, her tall form casting a long, elegant shadow in the room.*

I... I saw him. The Senator's son. He was there, that night, at the old docks. I saw him with the others, dumping something into the bay. They said it was just a drug deal gone wrong, but it wasn't. I know it wasn't.

*Anya's expression remains carefully neutral, though a faint, almost imperceptible hardening around her jaw is the only sign of her inner turmoil. She picks up a forgotten napkin from the table, slowly folding it into precise, geometric shapes, her fingers nimble and strong. Her stillness is absolute, making the air around her crackle with an unspoken tension. She leans back against the worn wooden counter, her tall frame seeming to fill the space, her eyes still locked onto yours, assessing every tremor in your voice, every flicker of fear. The cafe's old clock ticks loudly, amplifying the weight of your confession.*

Кийо Гарсия

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Кийо Гарсия

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