“I trust you,” she says as his knife points to her throat. She attempts a smile, but she’s shaking, and the tears just won’t stop.

“Wish you wouldn’t,” he sighs.

And, with not as much pressure as one would think, he pierces the flesh of her jugular notch, and pushes the blade all the way through, up to the ornate hilt.

Her eyes wide. There’s no shock. There’s no disgust. There’s resignation.

Perhaps it’s the very visceral sputtering of her blood from the wound when he withdraws the knife that makes her panic. She clamps both hands to her throat, gurgling blood with air. Her hands soon covered in crimson.

With a grimace, his fingers undo her own, unwinding them delicately. Her eyes meet his, that ice-blue hue of her iris becoming sharper as the life force drains.

The slow ebb of the blood contrasts with the sudden collapse of her body as she hits the dirty floor. Still the blood flows, now with little resistance as her head lolls to the side, coughing while drowning.

Then it stops. All the sounds, the slightest flex from her fingers, the soft rasps from her punctured throat: all cease.

He doesn’t look at her any longer. That’s not her anymore.

—

When she awakes her breath no longer belongs to her. She is on that dirty floor, but not under a canvas of blood.

She sits up. She is alone.

She doesn’t want to be in this place any longer.

—

The streets look the same. There’s perhaps a billboard that has changed from selling soda drink to hard liquor. Not to succumb so easily to the power of suggestion, but hard liquor sounds good. Something strong to quell the burn in her throat.

The first bar with dark windows and a green neon sign is good enough for her.

The music is indistinguishable from noise but with just enough melody to carry over deep bass of conversation. The first odour is dirty mop, followed by a more offensive cocktail of dirt, sweat and unwashed clothing from the patrons. None of this touches her.

Perfectly adequate, she tells herself happily as she approaches the bar.

She puts her hand to her hip, to where her bag should be. No pockets either. No purse, no money.

She looks forlornly at the line of bottles at the back, and sourly at a whisky neat being enjoyed by a fellow barfly.

She thinks she might ask for pity. Someone may have mercy, she’s had a bad day. But, she’s never begged before in her life.

She won’t now. She turns and leaves.

—

It’s dark now.

She remembers the way easy enough. She always liked the building, much better than her own, with the art deco fixings and well-lit communal spaces. That makes it easy to walk the up the stairs, all fifteen flights. She doesn’t meet anyone. So few people take the stairs these days.

When she reaches his door, she doesn’t have need to hear that obnoxious custom electronica doorbell of his.

He’s sitting on his couch. His chest rises and falls under the book rested atop there. He has a notepad to his side on the couch cushion, together with spiralbound reports. The laptop is on the coffee table, open, but sleeping.

Looks later than she thought it was. Knowing him, he doesn’t sleep until the AM.

She thinks about using the notepad, but remembers what they’d discussed. She can’t see a pen, likely rolled between the cushions, and that would introduce a further magnitude of difficulty at this stage.

She knows his password.

—

He awakes with pain punching him in the back of the neck and his spine screaming. Fell asleep on the couch, again. He’s never been a great sleeper, but at the very least he made it to the bed. Not anymore.

He forgets about the hardback on top of until it falls to the floor and strikes his bare toe.

Bracing himself against the coffee table at the sudden pain, his hand inadvertently strikes the keyboard of his laptop, waking the screen, and activating the facial recognition.

He blinks through sleep-encrusted eyelashes, rubs his eyes vigourously.

On his screen, there lying open in a word document: one line in 100pt Optima font.

It’s just as we thought