Realistic or Modern “ 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 ! „

[mother of sorrows]

𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚘𝚎
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚎
𝙰𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨, 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘪.

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝗪𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸.

Let's hope your ride here was as smooth as it could be. Not that it matters if it wasn't; because even if you have a leaking bullet wound or not a scar to see, you're still here and that's all that matters at the end of the day.

You are here, alive and breathing and standing in front of your destination, the one that has dragged you maybe an hour away or across state lines.

Resolution Tower might not be what you have expected.

It is very plain and very big. It looms over the other buildings like a watchful dog, eager to report back to it's owner - all steel-colored walls and high rise windows, shining down at you like sharp eyes. It's tucked in between office building after office building, in the busier part of town that's filled with towers just as this one. You could have easily mistaken it for the HQ of some or other law firm that does vaguely lawful things, the ones you see and forget before you even cross the block. Perhaps you imagined it to be more fancy, or maybe a warehouse in the middle of the woods; but it's name is etched surely on the doors, in bold letters that remind of those medieval scriptures.

The glass doors slide open when you enter.

A lot of people in suits, a lot of people talking on the phone, a lot of people walking to and fro - a lot to take in at once. Polished marble floor shines beneath you and a discreetly fancy chandelier above you. Manicured coffee tables, Egyptian carpet. A greeting desk of dark wood, capped with gold leaves.

You approach it, cautiously.

An average person might be suprised that there was no security check, at a place like this; it was rich in a way that did not need to be told. But, well, you're not an average person, are you?

Is it just you, or do those tailored jackets seem rather heavy? Are their eyes following you, or is it just you nerves? If you counted those cameras, you'd see there are too many for just an office.

Is there too much teeth in the secretary's smile, too much darkness for it to be genuine?

You're a criminal. You already know the answer.

An elevator is sent for you without you even needing to explain much; you were expected. The thought is not a comforting one.

The ride is a short one. If anybody has joined you on it, everybody has left you before you reach the top floor - your destination. A long hallway greets you, one of white walls and rich carpet and classical paintings of begging men and sneering angels, There are no windows and the artificial light hums above you. You could have sworn you heard a voice in it, a gentle whisper somewhere around - but you are alone and there is nobody to do so.

You approach the great oak doors at the end of the hallways. The men watch you and the angels continue grinning.

It is a meeting room; a rather plain, if expensive looking one. No windows, no other doors, cameras at every corner to watch as you step inside. Black leather vowen chairs, a long meeting table that shines in the dull light of a chandelier's crystals. Similar paintings to those outside decorate the walls, the sound of a waterfall resounding from somewhere inside the room - a speaker, perhaps, though you do not see any.

On the table, a single note, written in strict elegance.

𝗪𝗔𝗜𝗧 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘.