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He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering with doubt. A sip of vodka did nothing to steady his nerves, but I held his gaze, knowing my charm was as intoxicating as the drink in his hand.
"Why should I trust you?" he rasped, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.
I smiled, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second winding him tighter. "Because, darling," I whispered, leaning closer until he could feel the warmth of my breath on his ear, "I'm your only way out of this mess. The Silesian is a ghost, but I can make him real. You just have to give me what I need."
His resistance crumbled, as I knew it would. Men like him were all the same—hardened on the outside but soft where it counted. He sighed, defeated, and the truth spilled out like a confession. I had what I came for.
As I walked him to the door, his hand brushed mine, lingering. I gave him a smile—a cruel, sweet thing that promised nothing—and watched him vanish into the night, just another shadow swallowed by the city.
The name he gave me was scrawled on a slip of paper, now tucked safely in my coat pocket. Tomorrow, I’d chase the lead to Silesia. Tonight, I had another cigarette to light. The game was far from over, and I always played to win.
