•••••

3-hours earlier—

"Hey, my services don't come cheap."

These words come sternly out from Konstantine's lips. Sitting in an hotel room coated in smoke, the broker finds himself sat in an uncomfortable, wooden seat as he looks to the woman sitting in front of him. This lady couldn't have been more than 25 on a bad day. Cloaked in a beautiful white dress and flowery black dress shoes, it was hampered slightly by the militaristic green hoody that hid most of the top half of her stunning dress underneath. Nevertheless, the cleanliness of her clothing didn't match the rest of her youthful appearance. Through all her natural beauty fell upon a messy cluster-bust of sleep deprivation and unkempt black hair. What's more were her 'dying' eyes.

Avoiding all eye contact she can, there lies a collection of papers on the complimentary table between them. The room lacked any personality. Composed of little more than the one queen sized bed, black mini-fridge, an extra seat, and small table. With an ashtray packed to the gills of ash and cigarette butts, the mysterious dealings come to a close. Peril clouds the parts of her face not masked by the smoke. Fear gripping at her tightly, but not from the broker that sits before her. Her eyes are trained towards the shuttered window at the room's furtherest corner. Her hands clench at the back of her arms with a strength of death in the rearview. The paranoia couldn't be clearer to see—even through the heavy cigarette smoke clinging onto the air—but the sight doesn't change a thing. The suit does not care.

"As the legal documents dictate, 'the C.D. will hold for 10 years for your daughter as the money will gain interest. No one can break this limitation, unless you—or your daughter—opts to do so prematurely at any point.'", Konstantine quoting the paperwork before noting something of his own, "When your daughter is old enough to do so. If and/or when, of course."

The matter-of-fact nature coming from his tone mixes well with the surrounding smoke as they drain the heavy atmosphere from any humane heat that could survive before their meeting. This coldness, his nonchalant demeanor, chills the air between every syllable he speaks. The woman's eyes take notice.

Konstantine continues his required legal spiel unaware of the woman's line of sight has redirected to him, "As I must make you painfully aware, 'business policy notes that a penalty will be charged if the C.D. is broken before the registered time allotted. Thank you, again, for your business. As always, Bughress Unlimited is that any investments in us are safe investments.' If you have any complaints in the pesky future, just call the number on my card. And, as soon as you initial those papers, we're golden."

The conclusion to his words breeds an uncertainty into the cramped room. The lady fidgets at the end of the bed. Unsure of her decision, she taps the pen closest to the papers onto the small table they lay upon. While the room should be quiet from the lack of talking, the rowdy sounds of surrounding hotel guests bleed on through the hotel's thin walls. Notably, these people mostly being visitors from out of town for the city's notorious celebrations, this was the biggest red flag to finish this dealing up now.

Red alarms blare inside Konstantine's head as the barely muffled cheers grow. If he doesn't leave now, there is no telling when he will be able to make it out of the city today. Unable to remain patient anymore, "Hurry it up, girl! You know what today is. I ain't getting caught up in this crap until the wife makes me. Sign the papers, pay me my visitation fee, and buzz off— I've gotta go!"

She stands to her feet in an instant. The lady becomes visibly frustrated and upset as water forms at her left eye's edges. This enough was easy to tell, if but a bit peculiar of a shift. Standing to meet her halfway, Konstantine grabs the papers stating, "Either sign'em or I'm g—"

*Whapp*

A fresh, red print decorates his face. The lady had slapped Konstantine across the cheek. "How dare you," the lady shakily declares, "You see me shaken, scared, and afraid. But, all you can care about is skimping out early. Do I look like I'm doing this because I was bored one day?"

Konstantine touches where the slap left a throbbing imprint. The surprise being far more jolting than the shocking lack of pain from it. He finally takes notice of his client. Replying bluntly, "Ms. Olson. I honestly do not care as to why you're doing this. But, if you're making me guess, I'd assume a lot of bad bets have placed you into some... unsavory crosshairs. And, there's no one coming to save you this time. How close am I?"

Undoubtedly having gotten under her skin, the look of visceral ire is what comes to meet him halfway. Disgust and a filling hatred of this man fuels the woman. Raising from declaration to fury, "Oh. Oh...! You're very familiar with that, aren't you, Mr. Konstantine? You definitely sound like it. Explains why you're working such a dead-end, emotionless job like this. Heh. I'd much rather be dead like this than be like yo—", before being cut-off by the broker.

"Oh, honey,", Konstantine interjects, "we can flirt any other time. Promise.", cheekily breaking away from the hole the two were burying themselves into. Partially a break away and a antagonistic jab, daylight was burning away while the cheers began to fill the streets right outside. Time to leave was shrinking dramatically. Handing the policy papers over into her personal space, Konstantine cuts to the chase, "Regardless, we gotta get these papers signed. Just like you want anyways."

Begrudgingly as it may be, he was right— and she knew it. Unfortunately having to bite her tongue, she disingenuously signs off the paper work before violently rushing out of there. After picking up the papers from off the floor, he quickly flips through for a double-check before heading out himself. As he exits the relatively nice looking hotel, he reaches to where the faintly red imprint remnants etch into his cheek. He rubs the spot with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia before looking both ways of the sidewalk as makes his way onward.

Nearly an hour had passed since as the hustle-and-bustle of the evening weekday rush transitions into something more akin to the French Quarter during Mardi Gras. The 'Anniversary' celebrations, while but an excuse for most to let loose, has begun to outstretch the older, touristy district of the city and into the fringes of the business district. As streets become more and more blocked off, the number of cars start to infest every square inch of the streets around. The chances of getting a ride home were slim— much less his destination. His destination, this meet-up, pecks at the precipice of his brain; the 'reward' at the end of this meet-up has his body flaring from all corners. The anticipation of something less than savory lies beyond his reach.

Ah, seriously? A sweet lagniappe is all I needed after a day like today. A little extra is all I wanted.

The suit, Konstantine, mentally whines as he passes by, shoulder-to-shoulder with, other sidewalk pedestrians. Loosening his decorative, custom-made tie, he comes to a stop at a equally packed intersection. At this crosswalk waiting area, awaiting for the green, he lets out a sigh. Coming to terms with the time of the year it is, all he can do is let his vices go for the day.

Fine, fate. Fine. You win. I'll go straight home. Let me just call her off and—

His train-of-thought gets cut short. In the corner of his eye, Konstantine spots a man coated in dark, baggy clothing turned to him. The sight was enough to lend to a knee-jerk conclusion. If the dark, blanketing clothing wasn't enough to give it away, it all being worn in the dead of August couldn't make it any more obvious. And, as someone that tried to look as high-class as possible, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out who would be a primary target for a robbery. As Konstantine turns his head to confirm anything, the eyes behind the hoody's shadow were staring directly back. Their eyes lock as time stands still. Sending shivers down Konstantine's back, a strange sense merges along with it. A sense of familiarity. Eerie as it might be, nothing comes to mind for Konstantine. Through all the sound that encompasses them, neither reacts to a peep.

"What's up with 'Mr. Wall-Street' back there?"

"Guess he's never seen a loiterer before. Must be new to this city."

A blond wallflower says to the chain-smoking clerk as they clutter up the crosswalk waiting area. Chatter amongst many walks of life liven up the miserable evening trek back to their homes through glamor and neon. As soon as the pedestrian light flashes green, the wave of screeching sounds off. The collective line of traffic screeches to a halt. Breaking the drowning concentration from the stare-off of the two prior, Konstantine twists to see what had happened. And, so did his potential robber. The aging brakes of a familiar cab taking the forefront of the mass's attention. As the cab came to a stand still in the midst of the crosswalk and the comedic commotion happening inside it, something catches the potential robber's attention.

"Huh? John?", the words mumble from the potential robber. The perfect opportunity.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Konstantine snaps out of the collective awe before speed walking down the opposite direction of the sidewalk. Little time is up to be spared. Even if it's a taxi trapped in traffic or illegally loitering elsewhere safe, he must find a way away from the hooded 'robber' that may follow. Left to right. Up the street and between the buildings. The ways out had all disappeared with the rise of celebrations and what that has brought. He looks behind for he may be lucky enough to lose the reason to do so. Still, there walks a hooded man following behind. Gradually catching up, there comes Konstantine's 'assailant'.

The steady speed didn't match his closing distance. It didn't make sense. It broke all logical and reason. Or, at least, it did for an increasingly paranoid Konstantine. Step after step and place after place, all were packed to the brim as their individual commotions blended anything, and everything, into an indistinguishable blob around them. Disappearing into the crowd was going to be equally as consequential as it would be advantageous. Regardless, Konstantine needed a way out.

He pushed through the grazing outliers of each establishment in hopes all the same. Looking, panning lesser buildings for a swift escape. Nevertheless, his assailant was still hot on his trail. Albeit, slowed by the same outliers that affected Konstantine, their line of sight never wavered. The aroma of alcohol and gasoline coated the air as the two transitioned districts into a blocked off street from traffic. With a police—city—series of barricades stationed at both ends of this street, the road quickly began to fill with locals and tourist looking for a fun evening. It was the best chance for an escape. Flutters of hope encapsulated inside Konstantine's stomach.

Just then, a hand grasps tightly upon Konstantine's shoulder. Squeezing hard, the rest of what that hand was attached to comes into view. His hooded assailant had caught up. Eyes pierced through the black hood's shadowy veil. They meant business. Yet, the sound of celebrations muffled whatever sounds came from under that man's hood. Encumbered by adrenaline and his rising paranoia, Konstantine elbows the assailant and makes a mad dash towards the crowd. Sadly though, the distracted sea of people were too tightly compacted to break on through. Thus, with all immediate options dismantled, Konstantine runs to the first open building he sees: a vacant, foreclosed apartment building.

Standing a single story tall, it's windows were covered by rotting wood and it's paint chipped. The apartment building was held by it's sole bastion of support from a bygone era: a brown and red brick foundation. Seemingly having changed hands on many occasions, the building was still decorated by a mismatched variety of aging business signages and homely, living remnants. As Konstantine rams through the weak, waterlogged front door, he too comes to realize this mismanagement as well.

He looks around. Little makes sense from inside either. Walls broken down and others partially erected in the middle of some rooms. Window seals visible, but the openings sealed shut. The contradictory wallpaper between connected walls; nothing had ever finished inside before those hands were switched. The city, and—now—Konstantine, had found themselves condemned to a maze of failures with no way out.

Seeing only an unobscured winding staircase in front of him, things have gone from bad to worse. His paranoia catches up to the confusion the building's architecture gave, the urge to look back became too strong to ignore. Maybe there was time to find another way, another chance— even as desperate as he had now become. To the surprise of none, his assailant had caught up for the last time. Close enough for the two to touch, Konstantine makes a break for the staircase. He pushes pieces of unfinished walls and tears foliage down as he struggles to make it to the stairs. While minor in their effect at first, these pesky annoyances were obstacles enough to grab ahold of his assailant's attention for a few spare minutes. The staircase was as shoddily designed as the rest was; spiraling upward into the dark, damp unknown with just creaking to accompany their guests. Bumping and slamming into the slim, circling walls of the staircase, Konstantine's hap-hazardous climb didn't bother him through the pumping of his adrenaline and the hope of escape from such a individual following him. He wants to think, to logically process the 'whys' or the 'whoms' behind specifically him having to deal with this— and today, of all days. Reasonably so, the comfort of hindsight isn't available to those amidst the conflict in question.

Konstantine reaches to heights beyond the staircase's ascending darkness. Thus, he encountering a metal-like door, he lunges shoulder first into it with all his might. To his surprise—and detriment—he pushes through with a modicum of resistance and plummets face first into the concrete-like flooring on top. He had reached the building's roof. And, unlike the rest of the building, the roof had seemed to be the newest—and most finished—part of the previous renovations. Not one to waste a second, Konstantine launches himself back to his feet with a fiery speed as he slams the metal door closed and barricades it with the miscellaneous leftovers occupying the roof's professional-appearing exterior. As sounds of banging and bumping get louder and louder leading to behind the metal door, the suit—Konstantine—goes over to the edge of the building's roof. The roof's fencing seeming to be the only thing left incomplete, this left the most dangerous section of it's edges wide open. This was the section directly parallel to the roof's entrance. In his last particles of hope—or denial—Konstantine looks over the edge in the possibility that a scaffold, or something, was leftover to escape onto. Unfortunately, there was just solid cement ground in the alleyway down below. With no one that could be seen down below and the metal door banging growing louder, a single thought crosses his mind: I don't want to. I don't want to use it! Don't make the pain worth it, guy!