Dim Lights

The air in New York was unusually warm for February, a strange sign in a city typically defined by cold and rain. You sat on a hard wooden bench outside a coffee shop, dressed in expensive, rented clothes – a light blue baggy Supreme trouser, high-density Balenciagas, and a white Supreme t-shirt. Your hair was styled naturally wavy, completing the look of an affluent, phone-obsessed teen influencer.

For almost an hour, you’d been waiting, taking selfies and feigning disinterest, all while watching your target through your phone camera: Levi King, seated inside the coffee shop, engrossed in his newspaper, a latte in hand, his two bodyguards nearby. You were exhausted, stressed from a sleepless night and a four-hour meeting where failure was not an option. This was your last chance to nail his attention.

When he called for his cheque, you knew it was time. You stood, crossing the street towards the coffee shop. One bodyguard went to get the car, leaving the other behind King. Perfect. As King opened the door, you faked being distracted by your phone and walked directly into him. The collision sent you stumbling, but something hot and brown spread across your front. Latte. Your rented clothes were ruined. You looked up, pissed, at his impassive face. No apology. Just cold indifference.

Then, the urgent ringing of a bell. A bicycle, coming full speed. You tried to dodge, but it mirrored your movements. It hit you hard, knocking you to the hot pavement. Your head struck the ground, and a wave of blackness consumed you before you could fight it.