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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The city never truly sleeps. Its pulse hums beneath the surface, a rhythm of footsteps, engines, and whispers that echo through alleys and high-rises alike. Tonight, the air is thick with the scent of rain, the streets slick with its residue, reflecting the fractured glow of streetlights. Somewhere, a siren wails, distant but insistent, a reminder that the night is never quiet for long.
In a dimly lit room, a man sits alone, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of a flickering neon sign outside the window. His hands rest on the table, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate beat. The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should, each second stretching into eternity. He doesn't look at it. He doesn't need to. Time has already betrayed him.
A shadow moves across the room, and the man stiffens. The door creaks open, and two figures step inside, their faces obscured by the harsh overhead light. One carries a folder, thick and worn, its edges frayed from too many hands. The other holds a cup of coffee, steam curling upward like smoke from a dying fire.
The man doesn't speak. He knows better. Words are weapons here, and he's already unarmed.
The taller figure drops the folder onto the table with a dull thud. "Let's start from the beginning," she says, her voice smooth but heavy, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
The man exhales, his breath shaky, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. He tries to remember the beginning, but all he can see is the end.
