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The sound of rapidly approaching high heels echoed across the empty street. It was nearly twilight. The woman in the long, cream-colored coat navigated her way quickly but cautiously, consulting a small piece of paper in her hand. She didn't fit in here, her unstudied elegance clashing with the gray squalor of her surroundings. She skirted a foul-smelling puddle, stepped over a broken pair of glasses on the asphalt and ignored the leers of a few vagrants. She looked up at a building number, then back down at the paper in the hand. Slipping the paper into her pocket, she pushed open the door and went inside.

Her nerves were stretched past the breaking point. It had been weeks - nearly three weeks since she had seen him, since she had known where he was. In the beginning, he'd called a few times, his voice too richly reassuring for comfort. Then, came the long days when she didn't hear from him at all.

And then came that terse, unsigned note directing her to an alarmingly dilapidated building in one of the city's most "interesting" neighborhoods, on this date, at this time. She wasn't even certain the note was from him. Enclosed with it was a newly-cut brass key. The lock on the apartment she'd been directed to was also new and gleaming, a contrast to the battered, peeling door. She climbed the dark stairwell and looked around the filthy second-floor hallway, feeling uneasy. God, who the hell lived around here?

...

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