~Narrator’s~

“If they won't come for me willingly, then I'll make them.”

Adele is sitting alone on the edge of an old leather couch in a rented urban loft. The walls are half-painted and the windows fogged with morning drizzle. Her hair is twisted up in a silk scarf, and her nails are tapping against the burner phone in her palm. It’s silent. Still. Like the universe is mocking her.

She exhales sharply and clicks open the ransom message. One more revision. One more threat. One more lie.

“If you ever want to see her alive again, wire 1.2 million USD to the attached offshore account. No police. No calls....