Clara
The silence of this place is a living thing. It has weight. It presses on my eardrums and fills my lungs until I can’t breathe. I stand in front of the wall of glass, looking down at the city. It’s a smear of glittering lights, a river of red and white flowing through concrete canyons. It’s my city. But from up here, it feels like a movie I’m not in. I’m an audience of one, trapped in a skybox.
My hand goes to my pocket. The tiny, hard rectangle of the SD card is still there. My heart gives a painful thud against my ribs. It feels hot, like a brand. It’s the only thing in this cold, sterile apartment that feels real. The rest is a nightmare of white leather and chrome.
I need to hide it. I can’t keep it on me. What if he comes back? What if Adrian searches me?
My eyes scan the room. It’s all clean lines and hard surfaces. There are no nooks. No loose floorboards. No place to hide a secret. The bedroom is just as bad. A bed that looks like it’s never been slept in, a closet full of clothes that aren’t mine, in sizes that are roughly correct. They are expensive, anonymous. Gray sweaters, black trousers, a silk blouse. A uniform for a ghost.
The bathroom. The thought sends a shiver through me. It’s all marble and steel. I turn on the tap and let the water run, the sound a welcome intrusion into the oppressive quiet. Behind the toilet, the ceramic tank has a heavy lid. My fingers tremble as I lift it. It’s heavy, but I manage. Inside, the water is clean. I wrap the SD card in a small piece of toilet paper, then again, until it’s a small, white bundle. I find a piece of dental floss in the vanity and tie it securely to one of the pipes inside the tank, letting the packet dangle in the water, hidden from view. I replace the lid. It settles with a quiet, solid clink. My secret is safe. My weapon is armed.
I walk back into the living room just as a key turns in the lock.
My body goes rigid. Every muscle freezes. I expect Adrian. The quiet, terrifying man with the gray eyes. I brace myself for his cold assessment, for more rules, more silence.
The door swings open.
It’s not him.
“Well, well. Look at the little asset, enjoying her new digs.”
Leo steps inside, a venomous smirk plastered on his face. He closes the door behind him, the sound echoing the finality of a cell door slamming shut. He’s wearing a different suit, this one a shade of blue so sharp it hurts my eyes. He smells of the same expensive, cloying cologne.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is a croak. I clear my throat.
“Just checking on company property,” he says, his eyes roaming the apartment before they land on me. He lets them travel down my body and back up, a slow, deliberate violation. “Ghost is busy. He sent me to make sure you’re behaving. Are you behaving, coffee girl?”
The name hits me like a slap. My jaw tightens. I say nothing.
“Cat got your tongue?” He chuckles, a low, nasty sound. He walks over to the glass coffee table where my bag sits. Adrian left it there. A piece of my old life in the middle of this sterile cage. Leo picks it up, dumping the contents onto the glass with a loud clatter.
My lenses. My filters. A spare battery. My keys to an apartment I can never go back to. My student ID. He picks it up, holding it between two fingers like it’s contaminated.
“Clara. How boring.” He flicks it back onto the table. Then he picks up my wallet. It’s old, worn leather, a gift from my dad. He flips it open, pulling out the few bills inside.
“Twenty, forty… forty three dollars. And a metro card. Wow. Big spender.” He laughs, tossing the wallet down. “You really thought you were gonna be the next Scorsese with this junk, huh?”
He nudges my light meter with the toe of his polished shoe. My blood boils. I saved for six months for that meter. Every spare dollar from tips went into a jar labeled ‘Future’.
I stare at him. I pour every ounce of hatred I feel into that stare. I want it to burn him.
He feels it. His smirk falters for a fraction of a second. “What are you looking at? You should be thanking us. This is the nicest place you’ll ever live in.”
“I want to talk to Adrian,” I say, my voice low and steady. It surprises me.
Leo’s eyes flash with annoyance. “Oh, you’re on a first name basis now, are you? Don’t get any ideas, sweetheart. You’re not special. Ghost made a mistake keeping you alive. A mistake I plan on correcting if you give me even half a reason.”
He takes a step toward me. I hold my ground.
“He’s sentimental, you know,” Leo continues, circling me like a shark. “Always has been. Sees a stray dog, he wants to take it in. He sees a pathetic little barista hiding in an alley, and he thinks he can turn it into an ‘asset’. He’s wrong.”
“Why are you so afraid of me?” I ask. The words are out before I can stop them.
He stops circling. He’s in front of me now, too close. I can see the fine weave of the fabric in his suit, the gold glint of his ridiculously large watch. “Afraid? Of you?” He lets out a genuine laugh this time, loud and booming. “Honey, you’re a bug. A little gnat that flew in through an open window. You are nothing.”
“Then why are you here?” I press, my heart hammering against my ribs. “If I’m nothing, why did Adrian’s boss send you to intimidate me? Or did he? Maybe you just came on your own. Because you can’t stand that he didn’t listen to you. That he chose to let me live.”
His face darkens. The smile is gone. I hit a nerve.
“You’re clever,” he spits, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Too clever for your own good. You think because you got lucky once, you’re safe. You’re not. You’re a resource with a shelf life. And when you expire, I’ll be the one to take out the trash.”
He reaches out and grabs my arm. His grip is like iron. I flinch, but I don’t pull away. I meet his eyes, refusing to show the fear that’s clawing at my throat.
“Let. Go.” I say, enunciating each word.
For a moment, we’re locked in a standoff. His rage against my defiance. I can feel the pulse in his thumb pressing into my skin. He wants to hurt me. He wants to see me crumble.
Then he shoves me backward. I stumble, catching myself on the arm of the leather sofa. He smooths the front of his suit jacket, his composure snapping back into place.
“Enjoy the view, coffee girl,” he says, his smirk returning. “It’s all you’re going to see for a very long time.”
He turns and walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle.
“By the way,” he says without looking back at me. “Don’t get too comfortable. Assets get liquidated all the time.”
The door closes. The lock clicks. And the silence rushes back in, more suffocating than before.
I stand there, my arm throbbing where he grabbed me. My body is trembling, not with fear, but with a pure, undiluted rage. He’s right. I’m not an asset. I’m not a stray dog. I’m a witness. No. I’m more than that.
I’m a threat.
He called me a bug. He called me nothing. He wanted to make me feel small, powerless. But he did the opposite. He lit a fire. He thinks I’m trapped in here. He thinks he’s won. He has no idea what he’s just started.
My eyes land on my wallet, still lying open on the table. My student ID stares up at me. My boring, plain face. The face of a nobody. A coffee girl.
I walk over and pick it up. Tucked into a tight, hidden flap behind my ID is a thin, black rectangle. A cheap burner phone. I bought it a year ago after a bad breakup with a guy who wouldn’t stop calling. I charged it once, threw it in my wallet, and forgot about it. A just in case. An escape route I never thought I’d need.
My hands are shaking as I pull it out. I press the power button. The screen flickers to life. Seventy two percent battery. A miracle.
I have no contacts. No call history. It’s a ghost. Perfect.
I go to the window, staring down at the city lights. I’m a prisoner, but I still have a voice. I just need to find someone who will listen.
My mind races, flipping through documentaries I’ve watched, articles I’ve read for class. There was one. An independent journalist. A man who made a career out of exposing corruption, taking on people like Marcus Thorne. He was relentless, a bulldog. His contact information was notoriously hard to find, but he had a secure, anonymous tip line listed on his website. I memorized it once, thinking it was a brilliant way to get sources.
I open the messaging app. My fingers fly across the tiny keyboard, my rage focusing into a single point. The message is short. Cryptic. A stone tossed into a still pond.
‘Alley off Corbin Street. Last Tuesday night. A man in a cheap suit never clocked out. Ask who cleans up after the Thorne corporation.’
I read it once. Twice. My thumb hovers over the send button. This is it. This is the point of no return. Once I do this, there is no going back to being the quiet film student. The coffee girl. I am declaring war.
Leo thinks I’m a liability. Adrian thinks I’m an asset. They’re both wrong.
I am the one holding the evidence. I am the one with the truth.
I am the one who is going to burn their entire world to the ground.
My thumb presses down.
Message sent.
