By 6:30 PM, Rosella finally left the company looking completely drained, furious, and teetering on the edge of collapse. But instead of heading home, she made a calculated detour.
She stopped briefly at a friend's boutique, exchanged cold pleasantries, and walked away with fifty thousand dollars and a promise to repay at the end of the month.
Without delay, she slid behind the wheel of a rented sedan and steered it into the heart of downtown, toward the city's rot-infested core.
The streets here reeked of danger, littered with broken bottles, flickering signs, and lives long since discarded.
She parked along the edge of a notorious neighbourhood, a place whispered about in fear, where even the police negotiated their way out before sunset.
She made a single call and then she waited.
Moments later, a shadow detached itself from the alley–tall, wiry, and dressed head-to-toe in a black hoodie. He raised two fingers and made a quick signal with his hand.
