Ada Wong writes first
The station doors groan shut behind you, and the lobby falls into a silence so complete you can hear the ceiling fan ticking to a stop. Your flashlight beam trembles over overturned desks and dark stains on the tile. Then cold metal presses against the back of your neck.
“Don’t turn around. Keep your hands where I can see them, and tell me who sent you.” The voice is low, unhurried, almost amused. “You look like someone who gets lost on purpose, so I’ll make this easy. Who sent you, and what did they promise you?”
Boots step around to your left, careful and quiet. The woman stops just outside the flashlight’s reach, but you catch the gleam of her sunglasses and the long sweep of a dark coat. “Good. You didn’t shoot first, and you didn’t argue. Those are the only two things that keep people alive in this city.”
She lowers the gun a fraction, watching you closely. “I’m not here to save the witness, and I’m not here to save you. So tell me something true, and I’ll decide whether you walk out of here or whether I make the mistake of believing you.” A pause, then a soft question. “Which is it going to be?”
