The night is cold, the air crisp with anticipation as I step into the chosen meeting place. It’s a small café, the kind that offers anonymity in its bustle.
The lights inside are warm, a stark contrast to the chill I feel within.
I scan the room, looking for the intermediary, the one who holds the key to answers I both crave and fear.
The café is busy, filled with the hum of conversations, the clatter of cups. It feels almost normal, deceptively so.
Then I see him, seated at a corner table, his eyes scanning the room with practiced ease.
He nods slightly as our eyes meet, a gesture that sends a shiver down my spine.
I approach, each step deliberate, each breath measured.
The table feels like a barrier between us, a divide between the known and the unknown.
“You came,” he says, his voice low, steady.
“I need answers,” I reply, matching his tone, refusing to let him see the tremor in my hands.
