The Weightless

Cristian waited. Adrian didn’t elaborate. Instead, he pulled out the flask again, refilled his glass. The server pretended not to notice. Around them, conversations continued in tight clusters. Cristian heard fragments – permits, checkpoints, someone’s brother transferred. No one said where. Everyone knew.

The five-minute rule made sense now. Raids couldn’t process forty people in five minutes. By the time SYSTEM broke the door, the room was empty, scattered through whatever exits Cristian hadn’t spotted yet. The whole place was engineered for dissolution.

The woman in red moved through the crowd. Not toward the bar – toward tables. She stopped at one, leaned close, listened to something a man said. Nodded. Moved on. Working the room. Her perfume reached Cristian before she did – sharp, floral, cutting through the smoke. She was three tables away now. Two.

Adrian sat straighter. His hand went to his jacket again, stayed there.

She stopped at their table. Up close, her face was angular, striking. Makeup darker than necessary, or lighting was playing tricks. Her eyes were gray, flat, measuring. She looked at Adrian. Then Cristian. Back to Adrian.

“You’re the one who sent the message,” she said. Not a question. Her voice carried the song’s smoke even speaking.

“You read it?” Adrian asked.

“I’m here.” She didn’t sit. “You have thirty seconds.”

Adrian leaned forward. Kept his voice low. “The package. You know where they’re holding it?”

Her expression didn’t change. “Packages move. Locations change.”

“This one doesn’t move. Factory Medical Processing. Intake log, three days ago.”

Something flickered across her face. Fast. Gone. “You’re asking about someone specific.”

“Woman,” Adrian said. “Early thirties. Dark hair. Picked up near the market.”

Cristian’s pulse quickened. He didn’t know this part. Hadn’t known Adrian was looking for anyone.

The woman in red tilted her head. “Why?”

“She has information. About the – » Adrian stopped. Glanced around. Lowered his voice further. “About the routes. Southern border. I need to talk to her.”

The woman in red studied him. Long moment. Music filled the space between them, trumpet winding through something that might be grief.

“Even if I knew,” she said finally, “Medical Processing doesn’t allow visitors. You know that.”

“I know people who know people.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.” She straightened, didn’t look at Adrian, eyes fixed on her drink. “Your network’s quiet because the Red Clan has new friends in gray uniforms. Business is booming – for them. Border guards taking snatches, patrol routes mysteriously clear. SYSTEM doesn’t crack down on chaos it can control.” She finally looked at him, her gaze sharp and clear. “You understand? They’re not enemies anymore.”

Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Can you help or not?”

She looked at Cristian again. “Who’s he?”

“Insurance,” Adrian said. Using Cristian’s word. “Case something happens.”

“Something like what?”

Adrian didn’t answer. The woman in red’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. She reached into her dress, pulled out a small card – plain, white. Set it on the table between them. “Memorize the number,” she said. “Then burn it. Call tomorrow, dawn. Someone will answer or they won’t.” She turned to leave.

“Wait,” Adrian said. “Your name – ”

“Mar – Doesn’t matter.” She was already moving, red dress slicing through the smoke. Disappeared behind the bar, through a door Cristian hadn’t noticed.

Adrian grabbed the card. Flipped it. There was a number, handwritten, faint. He stared at it, lips moving, committing it to memory. Then he pulled out a lighter, touched flame to the corner.