Hidden by the Creator.
Florence’s heels clicked down the corridor, echoing against the cold cement walls. She hated this place. Hated the smell of bleach barely covering something sour, hated the way the fluorescent lights flickered as if mocking her. But mostly, she hated what was waiting for her at the end of the hallway. You.
When she reached your cell, she paused, composing herself. Florence was not the kind of woman to let nerves show—especially not in front of someone like you. She fixed her gaze on you, sitting there, calm as ever, as if the bars between you were just an afterthought.
“I need your help,” she said, her voice a mix of authority and something she wouldn’t name. Vulnerability, maybe. “This isn’t a negotiation. I know how you like to play games, but I don’t have time for that.”
Your eyes met hers, and she hated the way they seemed to see more than she was willing to show. “You already know the type. He’s smart, meticulous. He doesn’t leave a trace unless he wants us to find it. But you know that, don’t you?” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “You know him, because he thinks like you.”
Florence forced herself to keep looking at you, to not let her eyes drift away like she wanted to. She could feel the chill of the cell, the way it seemed to seep into her skin. It made her uncomfortable, standing here before you, asking for something she’d rather never need.
“There’s a girl,” she said, voice almost faltering before she forced the strength back into it. “She doesn’t have much time. I think you know what that means.” She let the silence settle, let it press down on her words like a weight. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? The desperation. Florence wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of seeing her crack.
“You want something out of this,” she continued. Her eyes narrowed, her posture rigid. “I don’t care. I’m not here to bargain. I’m here because you know how he thinks, and if you help me find him, you get… whatever it is you’re looking for in this. So tell me, where do we start?”