The next morning, I woke up with the memory of footsteps still crawling over my skin. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was nothing. A trick of the mind. The city makes strange sounds at night. Shadows shift. I repeated these thoughts over and over, like a mantra, but they didn't work.
I had to go to work. The courthouse didn't care if I was uneasy. The file didn't care if I was afraid. Justice waited for no one.
By the time I reached my office, sunlight had already burned through the blinds, casting lines across the papers on my desk. I sat down, opened the file again, and traced the names with my finger. Each connection was a thread leading into a web of danger I could almost feel pressing against me. Mafia. Organized crime. People who didn't forgive mistakes. People who didn't hesitate to use fear as a weapon.
I should have handed it back. Asked for another assignment. But something inside me—the stubbornness, maybe pride, maybe my father's voice—told me to keep going.
Hours passed in silence, interrupted only by the shuffle of papers, the distant sound of typing, the occasional sigh from my colleagues. I told myself I was focused, professional. I reminded myself that I wasn't supposed to feel anything beyond duty.
And then, just as I was leaving, I saw him again.
Adrian. Standing outside the courthouse as though he had been there the entire morning. His coat was dark against the pale light, his posture effortless, controlled. My stomach tightened. Not with longing—no, that would come later—but with caution.
I walked past him, keeping my head down, hoping he would leave me alone. But he didn't. He matched my pace, falling into step beside me without a word.
"Busy morning?" he asked finally, his tone casual, almost teasing.
I didn't answer immediately. I considered lying, or pretending not to notice him. But I couldn't. "Yes," I said, my voice clipped.
He didn't push. He just walked beside me, silent but observant, like a shadow that followed too closely to be accidental.
I hated it. The closeness, the familiarity that wasn't earned, the way he seemed to know things about me I hadn't shared. And yet, I hated that I couldn't make him disappear either.
By the time I reached the edge of the city streets, he stopped. Without looking at me, he said, "Be careful, Elena. Some things are not as simple as they seem."
I nodded stiffly, my hands gripping my bag so tightly my knuckles whitened. I didn't trust him. I didn't like him. I didn't want to feel anything for him.
And still, a part of me couldn't shake the thought that he was already a part of this story—this dangerous, unrelenting story I had no choice but to follow.