It’s a bit cold at night in the city, even with my coat wrapped tightly around me. The mini dress doesn’t do much against the chill, but I’ve been through worse. I walk along the main street, neon lights flickering in the puddles, heading back to the house of my current “parents.”
Parents. Right. What a joke.
Just a bit more money, and I’ll finally rent my own place. Just me, my own space, no rules but mine. I can already picture it—somewhere quiet, where nobody asks questions. Just a little more cash, and I’ll be free.
My coat pocket vibrates, and I sigh. Probably that old guy again, checking up on me, making sure I’m still reeling from my “emergency.” I reach for my phone, already planning some sweet little excuse to keep him hooked for later. But I stop.
An unknown number.
I hesitate, staring at the screen.
The message reads:
“Azra, I’m waiting for you. 23:00. Your place. I want to talk things out. Really.”
What the hell?
My grip tightens on the phone as I read the message again. Who the hell would send me something like this? And how do they know my name?
I glance at the time. If I keep walking at this pace, I’ll reach home just around 23:00. The thought of someone waiting for me there sends an uneasy chill down my spine. I deal with creeps all the time, but this? This feels different.
Always some kind of trouble. Always something. Maybe I should start saving these guys numbers, keep better track of them.
I swipe to my contacts and call the guy I was with earlier.
“Uh, hey sweetie, it’s me, Azra. Yeah, my mom’s fine, it wasn’t anything too bad, so… still got a place at the hotel?”
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Why would I go home after receiving a message like this? It’s not like it’s rare for me to crash somewhere else.
“Oh yes, of course, I’d gladly enjoy your company, dear.”
“I’ll be there around 23:00,” I tell him and hang up.
Creeps are a daily business, but someone messaging me? Probably just some foul joke. Waiting for me at home? Nah, thank you.
While walking back to the hotel, my mind races. Who could that be? And how would they know where I live? Maybe I’ll just stay with that old guy for a bit longer.
I reach the hotel, shaking from the cold, and enter the lobby. There he is, already waiting for me. Damn, why do I feel comfortable? This old guy just wants to pay me for my body, but I feel slightly safer here than wondering what kind of weirdo might be waiting at my place.
“Hey darling, I’m glad everything’s fine with your mother. You know, I lost mine when I was your age…”
Well, okay, fuck her, what do I care?
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, putting on my best fake concern.
“Well, yeah, I’ve had a troubled life since then.”
Yea, I see. Inviting a woman probably 30 years younger to a hotel does scream “troubled life.” He holds my hand and guides me toward his hotel room. As we enter, I make myself at home and glance at his ID. Adam Koch. Adam, right, that was his name.
“Aren’t you tired yet, Adam?” I ask him, hoping to avoid anything more happening. I just want the night to pass and sleep through the weird drama.
“Actually, I wanted to pay you for something, Azra. A lot more than the 50€ from earlier.”
He pulls a 500€ bill out of his wallet.
“Uhm… actually, I’m on my period, so…”
He interrupts me. “No—no, not like that. I just want you to listen to me. I’ve been looking for someone to speak to about my problems for a while, but I can’t go to regular psychiatrists.”
I sit down next to him on the bed. If that’s everything, fine. Give me everything you have as long as I just have to listen to your shit.
“Oh, sure, I’ll gladly listen to your problems.”
He places the 500€ note in my hand and begins.
“I’m involved in some seriously messed-up shit… I grew up with a single mom, and she worked so hard to give us a better life. She had multiple jobs… As a possible solution to our problems, people I’d called friends pulled me into the underworld of Frankfurt. I made incredible money there, but at what cost? Not being able to fulfill everything these people wanted, they… killed her.”
I widen my eyes. Damn, that explains all the money, I guess?
He holds my hand like a child seeking comfort from their mother.
“And I know you go through struggles too.”
Huh. Stop talking about me, you weirdo.
Suddenly, the door opens.
Isn’t it usually locked?
A man in his late 20s, I’d guess, stands there with a suit and a cigarette hanging from his teeth. His menacing but confident stare feels like it could kill Adam with a glance, making him squeeze my hand painfully tight. As he walks in, Adam seems to understand and doesn’t speak a word. The mysterious man pulls a pistol from inside his coat, a silencer attached to it.
And well, I’ve been through some shit, but this felt straight out of a mafia movie.