I Went In With The Plan Of This Being Marc - Blog Posts

Dark curls bounced as Layla strode into the coffee shop, an air of confidence that didn't match the way her stomach churned the whole journey there. She knew the risks of meeting with people outside of her contacts, people she didn't know let alone trusted. But a friend of sorts knew someone that was suited for her needs, and Layla couldn't exactly be picky right now.

Not when Marc had just up and left. Disappeared completely, turned off his phone and cut contact with both her and Duchamp. Layla could feel in her gut that something was wrong – and she wasn't going to stop searching for her husband. Not even after the divorce papers had arrived in her mail. At their home, of all places.

She easily spotted the man she was there to meet, but allowed her dark gaze to drift by him. Instead strode up to the counter, ordering some sweet syrupy latte from the friendly barista. When Layla finally sat down, it was with a steaming takeaway cup in her hands and a determined look on her face.

" I've been told you're good at finding people, " the words leave her mouth immediately, not caring for introductions or small talk. This was important. " And I've got someone who needs to be found. Interested? " She raises her eyebrows, taking a sip of her drink.

@fracturals

Frank sat alone at a small table in the corner of the bustling café, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee surrounding him. He absently stirred his drink, his eyes scanning the entrance for any sign of the person he was supposed to meet. Micro had hinted that this individual either held critical information or had a job for him, one that could potentially change everything. As he waited, an uneasy feeling crept in.

Frank was well aware of the risks involved; if the meeting felt off, he would leave without hesitation. He casually adjusted the collar of his jacket, feeling the reassuring weight of a knife in his pocket and another concealed in his boot. Typically, he wouldn't venture out without his gun, but he opted for the knives this time. They were more discreet and would allow for a quicker getaway if things turned sour.

He took a careful sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him, and watched patrons chatted and laughed, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension that sometimes filled the air. Frank’s instincts were sharp; he knew to trust them. He focused on the door, every passing moment stretching his anticipation, as he waited for whatever—or whoever—might come next.