Page 233 of Fractured Devotion

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She walks through the small clinic’s front doors, her head high, her eyes calm.

She’s thriving.

I smile around the cigarette, something dark and almost fond twisting in my chest.

I don’t linger.

I shut the feed off.

She’s free.

And I have my own path to follow.

I finish the cigarette down to the filter before stamping it out beneath my boot.

The square clears little by little, the day’s heat pressing down as people scatter.

I stay seated.

Movement isn’t necessary yet.

A man slides into the chair across from me, uninvited but expected.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just sets a black envelope on the table between us.

“Another name,” he says, his voice rough from either too much smoke or too many secrets.

I don’t reach for the envelope.

Instead, I stare at it, feeling the weight of it before I’ve even touched it.

Another job.

Another rot to excise.

“This one matters,” he adds.

I finally meet his eyes. “They always say that.”

He smirks, tapping his fingers once on the envelope before standing. “You’ll see.”

Then, he leaves without another word.

I stare at the envelope a moment longer, then slide it into my coat.

Later.

Now, I walk.

The streets here are winding and narrow, lined with buildings too old to care about who walks them.

I like that.

I walk until the sun dips below the horizon, until the lights flicker on, and the city softens into a calmer, dimmer rhythm.

I end up at the edge of the old district, staring out at the water, my cigarette burning low between my fingers.

I think about her again.

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