Chapter 2: The Alternative Option

Brian stands in front of the council block, breath frosting out in slow, deliberate loops. The entryway reeks of cat piss and a kind of chemical lemon, as if someone had tried to fumigate the building and then given up halfway. The lights in the hallway are timed on motion—most have burned out, so only every third or fourth fixture coughs on when he ascends the stairs. His shoes stick to patches of linoleum and then clatter on bare concrete. In the gloom, the walls are painted a mint-green that must have seemed optimistic once, now exfoliated by decades of hands and furniture, the undercoat showing through in ragged pocks.

He stops outside Nadia’s door. The number—5B—has been Sharpied onto a warped plastic plaque. He checks his phone. 21:00, and a new message from Katie: “Call if you’re running late. Don’t make me wait up.” He deletes it, then presses the bell, which emits a flat mechanical squawk.

The door opens before he has time to compose his face. Nadia stands backlit by a weak lamp. She’s gone for maximum cliché: black camisole tight across her chest, skirt no longer than a dish towel, legs splotched from razor burn. Her makeup is immaculate but heavy, a mask of high cheekbones and cat-eye liner, only the bruising under one eye betraying the real shape of her face. She blinks once, smile rubbery, and gestures him inside.

“Take off shoes, please,” she says. Her accent is Bulgarian, soft but stubborn. The corridor is narrow, just enough space for him to shoulder past her. She smells of coconut shampoo and a lower note of disinfectant. She closes the door behind him, the chain dragging as she sets it.

The flat is smaller than he pictured. There’s a lone velvet armchair—cushion sunken and threadbare—pushed against the far wall. Opposite it, a sagging futon covered in an argyle blanket. The rug is maroon, ancient, pilled into constellations of lint. On the windowsill, next to a cracked pane, sits a stick of incense burning in a chipped mug: dragonsblood, the label proclaims, but the scent is mostly sweet ash.

Nadia hovers behind him, adjusting the strap of her camisole. “You want water, or tea?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, moves straight to the kitchenette—a sink, mini fridge, and a single hob, the surface blackened by a hundred bad meals. She fills a chipped glass from the tap, sets it on the low table.

Brian stands in the centre of the room, unsure where to anchor himself. His eyes skate the space: a calendar of Orthodox saints on the wall, a pile of glossy gossip mags, a roll of duct tape on the counter. She returns, sits on the arm of the velvet chair, knees pressed together, one bare foot tracing invisible lines on the rug. She looks past him, toward the door, as if someone else might enter at any moment.

He runs a thumbnail along the seam of his coat. “You said Yaseen prefers cash up front. I brought it.”

She gives a tiny nod, more to herself than him. “He trust you now. Is good.” Her hand shakes as she picks up the glass, water sloshing over her fingers. “You want to do business, we do fast, yes?”

Brian takes in her posture, the way her shoulders tense and then melt when she exhales. He wonders if she’s on something—her movements too precise, eyes glassy but unblinking.

He clears his throat. “After, I want to talk. It’s important.”