"Toast! Burning toast!"

A woman in her late-forties ran out of the room, almost tripping over the loose carpet, and got into the kitchen to switch the toaster off. She used the hand towel on her shoulder to stop the smoke from the appliance gathering around the kitchen and suffocating the entire house. "Got it!" 

It was a sunny morning in the lovely city of New York. The people of the city were making their way to work while complaining about Monday coming all over again in the week, and in lower Manhattan was one particular apartment with another burnt toast morning.

A woman in her mid-twenties walked out of the room that she called her humble abode and hurriedly made her way around the house to gather her last minute supplies. Her long black hair was braided and fell below her tailbone. She picked up the black leather jacket that she always wore from the back of the couch, which always complimented her brown skin. She swung it across her arm and quickly drank the once hot coffee that she held in a mug in her hand.

"You can't be leaving for college, are you?"

"Boohoo, Aunt Jean! I have to leave now!"

"Oh, come on! You spend all your time studying."

"That's my job!" The young lady laughed as she gathered up her books from the kitchen counter and dropped them inside her bag. "As yours is to go downstairs for work." She walked back into the kitchen to kiss her aunt on the cheek. "I'll see you tonight."

Her aunt patted her back as she got her half-burnt toast onto her place. "I will make your favourite ramen, Zara," she said, filling her niece's mug with water which she always forgot to do, always being in a hurry. "Because that's the only thing I can make at this point." She chuckled. "I'll get some muffins from work." 

"And I'll try to get some fries from my work," said Zara, bowing her head in a sweet manner. "Alright, wish me luck!"

"All the best on the project!"

⧪

Zara Medina, a sincere and hardworking student studying in New York University. She was one of the many enthusiasts that studied the best course that the college could offer. Having grown up knowing the value of money, with her aunt as the only family that she had who worked two back-to-back jobs to support them, she was worried when she had gotten accepted into her dream college as the question of paying the term fees in time loomed over them. But young Zara had gotten a full-round scholarship until the final year of college, which she was currently in. Maybe that had something to do with the Criminology course that she had taken, maybe it didn't. All she was grateful for was that she had gotten to study what she was interested in without any barriers.

Until one day.

Walking into the university after admiring it in the morning like she always did, she headed to the History of Crime's Professor's office. The oakwood panels that lined the hallway with the familiar smell of the honey perfume that the receptionist wore, Zara felt right at home at the university. She reached the door with the half glass panel with the name of her teacher written in bold letters - Professor Harry Dmitrev. 

"Professor?" She knocked on the panel and moved her ear closer to it.

"Come in." She heard his voice in return.

Opening the crystal-like door knob in the shape of a broken square and walking into the small rather comfortable office of the Professor, Zara felt self-conscious about her assignment. She hadn't known what she wanted to base her final report on. "I see that the pressure of final marks has gotten to my brightest student." The man in his late-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair spoke. He held his trimmed glasses with black ridges in his hand, a cigar resting on the ashtray near his right hand.

"I wish," she said as she slumped on the chair opposite to his. She had known him well enough over the years to be a little informal around him as the Professor believed in taking all his students out for the occasional lunches. "I swear that I want to write it. I really do. It's just...." she sighed as she leant forward in her seat and rested her elbows on the cold surface of the Pottery Barn's oakwood table. "I don't know how to do it justice. It's like you always say. Never do something until you can finish it right."

"Ah." He raised his eyebrows, his mouth almost twitching into a smile, which complimented his pale skin with the hue of the room. "I see that my own words are being used against me," he spoke in a thick British accent, having grown up in London in his early life before moving to New York to become a teacher. "I would suggest you to go with your heart. The drafts that you submitted earlier this year with everyone else is a good start. Work on that."

"Do you really think that writing a report on the past gang wars would be useful in any way?" The Professor's eyes widened at that particular reveal. "I know that I hadn't revealed this particular topic in those reports but-"

"Can you change your topic?"

Zara's mouth fell open. "I could write about 'The Bishop' but I want this to be my project. I know that it is risky but that's what I've been working on. This is what I was meant to write, Professor." 

'The Bishop' was a phantom in the underground world. No one knew who it was, but they always left behind a clue that only people part of the gangs would be able to decipher. It could be anyone, even Zara herself, and nobody would find out. That was the myth behind the chess piece, which left her wondering who it could be.

The Professor took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "Fine," he leant back in his leather chair. "If that's what your gut is telling you, go ahead with it. But be careful. Don't go too deep into the practical investigations and do not get yourself into trouble," he said, pointing a finger at her in an accusing manner because of past experiences. "Don't cross a line that you won't be able to come back from."

Zara joined her hands together and bowed at him. "Namaste, sir. I will make sure of just that."

⧪

To support her aunt from the life of working for her, Zara started to work in a bar a few streets from her house. It was quite a reputable place, although like any place in the world, it had its own shady secrets. The Ale House may have been the only bar in the radius, but it was a prisoner of its mistakes.

And it wasn't long until one of those mistakes would reveal itself.

It was good money, and that's what mattered. She was treated respectfully and she enjoyed working there for as long as it was needed. The owner was an elderly man who was waiting for the bar's deed to get finalised so that he could pass on the family business to his son, Leo Kadumba, who was the manager there.

Zara knew that it was time to say goodbye to them. She had enough money to get through college and a few months after graduation. Her aunt wanted her to stay at home because as every mother would be concerned, their daughter staying out late was worrisome. And that's who Jean was to Zara - a mother. The neighbourhood they stayed at could be shady if it wanted to be because the shadows of some streets seemed to swallow a person whole if you walked through it without knowing where you were going.

Zara had never seen her parents, not remembering much about them, and when asked to Jean about them, she would get vague answers. It was clear that it hurt for her aunt to talk about them and as the responsible one, it was her job to not trouble her.

The speciality of the bar as the name suggested was its ale. People from all over the city would come for it. It wouldn't have been surprising to see someone who wasn't from the neighbourhood walking through the front door.

But that day was the beginning of everything.

Zara was refilling the ale glass of one of the workers at the construction site at the end of the street when the bell of the front door rang. Instincts took over her and she stole a glance at the door, which was also the source of light on that bright afternoon. A man wearing a light grey suit walked inside, wearing a derby hat, looking as though he had committed a crime of sorts. He held a briefcase in his hand that he placed on the seat next to him as he sat on the stool, one hand on the case all the time. He pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face with it, making the bartender curious as it wasn't a hot day.

"What would you like, sir?" Zara asked as she stood before him behind the counter. The man looked at her and his eyes widened. She could only take that for it to be surprising that she had addressed him when it looked like he was waiting for someone. "I'm sorry, sir. You can't sit on the counter if you don't order something," she said, politely.

The man nodded, still struggling to talk as if he had seen a ghost of an old friend. "I'll have two sandwiches, two fries and two chocolate milkshakes." 

She nodded, noting down the order. "Certainly. It will be out in ten minutes."

"I'll wait." His shoulders seemed to relax at the soft smile on her face, but he kept glancing over his shoulders, making the bartender look around in curiosity. Zara could only see the regulars and a few other people she hadn't seen before, but none seemed to be suspicious. Master Kanumba had given her identifying spotters to find out who would be the dangerous people and none seemed to fit the categories.

Zara shrugged to herself. Maybe it was just her imagination after all.