The Sum of All Our Fears

By Taylor Victoria Holcroft

In 2013, a chilling Parisian night unfurled events that turned my life upside down. A backdrop set by destiny, Paris was where I first came face to face with a terror that would become a constant shadow. It was there, under the city's hushed whispers and hidden corners, that I had an intense standoff with a man named Joris, a crooked police officer whose intentions were far from honorable. My name is Charlotte Kominsky, a consultant, master manipulator, newly hired by Interpol, and it was my courage and wits that night that saved the woman I love, Claire. And, after that, fighting for my mother's life, stabbed in my home.

The ordeal was a trial by fire, testing every fibre of my being. It was a clash of minds, a lethal dance where any misstep could prove fatal. But we survived. Under the dim city lights and the cold watchful gaze of the stars, we emerged from the dance alive, yet not unscathed.

That night was a dreadful prelude to a far greater horror. Even as the Parisian sky started to brighten with the coming dawn, my mother fell victim to a dreadful attack, a poisoned assault set in motion by an anonymous blackmailer. As the light crept into the city, it was clear to me that the world I knew was changing. The game had always been about manipulation, about staying a step ahead, but this... this was far more sinister, far more dangerous than anything I had ever faced. My sister, Clarisse, had suffered a heart attack, the kind that happened under suspicious circumstances, on a train journey from Paris to Montpellier. My sister, vibrant and full of life, fallen victim to an invisible enemy, made me realise that this was not just a vendetta against me. It was far larger, more terrifying, an unseen organisation lurking in the shadows, plotting, scheming, and striking fear into the hearts of those who crossed their path.

So, I left Paris behind and moved to Montpellier. I was not running away; rather, I was charging headfirst into the fray, making myself a promise, that I would bring this blackmailer down. In Montpellier, I found myself in a new city but faced with the same chilling mystery. Each step I took brought me closer to danger, each lead I followed was like walking into a lion's den. I was playing their game, but on my terms. And as a master manipulator, I knew that every game had a loophole, every puzzle a solution. This fight wasn't about me anymore, it was about justice. Justice for Claire, justice for my mother, justice for Clarisse.

Day after day, I found myself navigating through the intricate maze. The road was fraught with danger, and the truth seemed as elusive as a shadow in the midday sun. Yet, with each piece of the puzzle I unearthed, each layer of the truth I peeled back, I could see a faint glimmer of hope. The sum of all our fears wasn't a sign of our impending doom, but a testament to our growing strength. Every fear we faced, every battle we fought, made us stronger. Our fears were stepping stones, paving our path towards victory. The world I was waging my war against was dark and twisted, a realm where truth was a rare commodity. It was a daunting task, one that would send shivers down anyone's spine. But I was ready. I was ready to face the challenge, ready to fight, ready to confront the truth, no matter how dark or unsettling.

The sum of all our fears was not our downfall. It was our call to arms, our awakening. For it's in facing our fears that we discover our true strength. As the master manipulator, I knew how to turn the game around, how to rewrite the rules. I was about to show the world that no matter how powerful the enemy, how complex the game, the strength of the human spirit could not be underestimated. This is my story, a story of resilience and courage, a tale about confronting the sum of all our fears, and emerging victorious. And I was far from writing the final chapter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taylor Victoria Holcroft
• Release date: Feb 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215859070

Taylor Victoria Holcroft

Hey,So I am Taylor Victoria Holcroft, mum of Charlotte and author of the Free Expensive Lies series, living in the UK. Not that much to say about me except that I am a trans woman, a troublemaker too, and... I also speak French. I am also in a partnership with the woman of my life, and, well, it's been eight years that I am working on that series, "Free Expensive Lies", already. Darn, eight years already...Please check on my website https://www.taylorhardingjenkins.co.uk so you can follow my updates, my blog and/or my new publications

Book preview

The Sum of All Our Fears

Free Expensive Lies: Act II

Taylor Victoria Holcroft

I saved my girlfriend from a dangerous criminal, and I still had time to read All the Battles I Have Lost. What’s your excuse guys?

In All the Battles I Have Lost, I, Charlotte Kominsky, found myself in a complicated plot of manipulation, conspiracy, and deceit. As an 18-year-old student in Paris, my life took a dramatic, nightmarish turn when I unwittingly got entangled in a scheme of human trafficking and blackmail through my girlfriend, who pushed me into it. The story began with a deceptively simple night out. My ex-girlfriend Claire, a mysterious police officer Joris, and an ominous figure Kelly conspired to lead me into their dark world. A spiked drink and a blackout later, compromising photos were taken with me unaware of it and got later used as tools of coercion to put pressure on me, threatening to expose my secrets to my conservative mother, who… turned out also to have another secret to hide.

When things started to heat up, I discovered that Claire was more than just a pawn in this game. She was also a victim, ensnared three months prior by the same network. Compelled by a need to save her and the promise I made her long ago, and, of course, not accepting this, I stepped into this perilous world, embarking on a journey that would put my life in danger. But, in the grand scheme of things, it was to save my girlfriend. So, it was my duty. Later on, I found out that I wasn’t alone in my battle. An unexpected ally, Heather, who was an undercover Interpol agent, stepped in. She revealed an ongoing investigation into a widespread human trafficking scheme and made me understand that, in the end, there was much bigger at stake than simply saving Claire. Though initially doubtful, feeling that I could trust her anyway, I joined forces with her, exploiting my unique skills as a manipulator.

Thanks to Heather’s help, when the stakes escalated, I learned that my mother, intolerant of my sexuality, and also trying to avoid a potential scandal considering that she’s a famous designer, sought to have me sectioned, complicating my fight against this criminal syndicate, and used my current boyfriend as a tool to keep a certain surveillance on me. Yeah… It was lovely, trust me. But in my pursuit to protect Claire and bring all this mess to an end, I managed to ensnare Joris, leading to his arrest. This audacious move earned me a consultancy job offer from Interpol, setting the stage for my transformation from a victim to a combatant.

But the victory was short-lived. The actual mastermind remained at large, launching a final, gruesome challenge: a deadly choice between my mother and my twin sister, Clarisse, one of whom was slated to die. The battle was far from over, and the odds seemed stacked against me. Would I prevail, or would this turn out to be yet another battle lost?

A la véritable Clarisse qui, il n’y a pas si loin de cela, m’a véritablement confronté à la somme de toutes mes peurs.

Peut-être que j’en suis sortie grandie, peut-être plus forte, ou bien peut-être que j’ai commis des erreurs, mais je sais, et cette conviction ne m’a jamais vraiment quittée, que tu es présent et que tu as juste pris un train d’avance. Tu m’as montré ce qu’était vraiment la vie, aussi insensée qu’elle puisse être. Maintenant, il n’y a guère que le bruit de ton absence qui ne fait que des échos dans mon âme, un peu plus chaque jour.

Puisse ce livre être ton mémorial et traverse le temps autant que tu auras pu me transcender. Et sache que tu me manque énormément. Chaque jour qui passe. Et dont aucun ne se ressemble maintenant que tu n’es plus là. J’ai voulu te sauver, mais il m’a fallu du temps pour accepter que ce fût trop tard et que tu étais déjà parti. Et j’en serais éternellement désole. Si j’avais pu éviter tout ce drame, crois-moi, je donnerai tout ce que j’ai pour revenir en arrière.

Comme tu me disais souvent… maintenant, je crois que je sais.

1975-2018

Heather… I asked. Can I have your phone?

Yeah. Sure, what’s up? She looked at me, giving me her unlocked iPhone.

I was thinking… Did you call my father?

Not personally, but I assume that the police have surely already done it. He was waiting for her at the train station.

I need to call him.

Do you remember his phone number?

I am not quite sure.

We lingered in the car park, as the ambulance sped towards the hospital. Clad in sleeves and hands stained with now-dry blood, I grabbed Heather’s phone and opened the Phone app. Straining to remember his number, I only recalled its ending: 20 76. I began typing +33, and a list of contacts, including mine, filled the screen. My number was prominently displayed, in fact, one of the first. At this moment, more than any other, it was imperative to call him. Adam Kominsky. My father, with whom I’ve not exchanged a word for four long years since my grandmother’s passing.

The events of the night unfolded with bewildering rapidity: first Claire, my mother, and now my sister. This sequence of events seemed too bizarre to be mere chance. My mother was assaulted, and then my sister suffered an unexpected heart attack. Heather mentioned that, by some stroke of luck, a doctor was travelling in the same train, promptly administering first aid amidst the carriage’s confines. She mentioned it was a high-speed train bound for Montpellier, stopping only at Nîmes. Thus, it seemed probable my sister would be taken to a hospital in Nîmes, not continuing to Montpellier. The odds of all these events being coincidental were slim, particularly tonight, given my sister’s otherwise robust health. As I began dialling my father’s number, I noticed Claire’s anxious presence beside me. Then, I made the call.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Adam speaking, my voice started in a strange, very nervous voice.

Hi, dad. It’s Charlotte, I replied with a stern voice.

There was an instant of silence. Four years ago, the last time we spoke over the phone, it was for insulting each other, after my grandmother’s funeral. He took a piss when I compared the legs of his girlfriend, now his wife, to fast food because it’s open days and night, and cheap; you can always eat there when you’re wasted. Yeah, come on, I’m an heiress, I discovered the pleasures of alcohol quite young. But his nervous voice was the indication that, now, we are beyond our feud. Dad and I are only speaking in English, even though he is French and we both speak French, this is a habit we always had, to make it easier for me. The war, at least in this theatre, is put on hold. We have a more pressing crisis to deal with now.

Hi, my love, he recognised my voice and replied to me in English.

Erm… I was looking for what words I would pronounce. I take it that you know what happened to Clarisse.

Yeah. They just called me. I, erm… We’re heading to Nimes now with Oceane, they’re gonna take her to the nearest hospital. We will see if we can have her transferred to Montpellier, as one of my friends manages the Nimes hospital.

I forgot how harsh his French accent was. But that was… a detail, at this hour.

Okay.

Are you okay? Is Amelia okay?

Well, things are kind of… fucked up right now. All you need to know is that everything’s under control.

What? What happened up there?

Nothing, just, erm… mum’s been assaulted at home. It’s kind of complicated to explain, but, all I can tell you now is that she’s on her way to the hospital. She’ll probably call you once they take care of her.

So that’s why Amelia didn’t call me.

Yeah, she’s unavailable. But I came home on time, and she’s safe for now.

Okay.

Do you have any update about Clarisse?

They said they’re taking care of her. So… I don’t know. I’m just nervous, that’s why. We’re gonna try to go there, I mean, it’s gonna take her an hour to drive there, but… We’re gonna stay there. Is it your new phone number? How can I contact you? Because your phone call says ‘confidential’ and I don’t know if your phone number is on…

I had a problem with my phone.

I looked at Claire. And at Heather.

His retaliations probably end here, I reckon. I couldn’t fathom what he might do next. When he suggested that someone would meet their end tonight, I hadn’t envisaged this extraordinary outcome. He baited me by targeting my mother, and Heather has assured me that we’ll have protection through the night, given the tumultuous storm we’re amidst. But I sensed that he completely played his hand. What his next manoeuvre could be is beyond my guess. Now, the situation is starkly clear: I must head to Montpellier. We need to unravel the mystery behind Clarisse’s inexplicable heart attack, such an event, especially on this particular night, can’t possibly be a mere coincidence. And I must be there for my sister. My mother is out of harm’s way now… and after all her actions, the idea of lingering near her doesn’t appeal to me. I saved her life out of obligation.

Discovering the truth is imperative. The challenge is the journey; driving there will consume the entire night, likely arriving at dawn. It’s close to nine now, and securing a flight seems improbable. The last train bound for Montpellier, the one Clarisse was on, has departed, and it’s too late now to reach the station. Plus, both Claire and I are in dire need of a shower and must gather some belongings. The first-morning train to Montpellier departs around six, I believe. I plan to catch that. While still on the phone, absorbing the gravity of the situation, I responded to my father, having pondered deeply, glancing between my girlfriend and now my employer. Listen, just, keep me posted over the night, I believe my boss, Heather Reed will contact you, as she’s investigating this complete mess.

What do you mean, your boss?

Yeah, like I said, it’s a long story, but I’m on the cops’ payroll now. Just, erm… Keep me posted. I’m coming to Montpellier tomorrow as soon as I can.

29 Allegiance

Wow. I was just like, wow. Now, it’s all over.

After the events of tonight, I’m certain nothing will remain as it was. Waking up this morning, I already had the hunch that it would be a dreadful day. There was this intuition, this premonition of a challenging day ahead. It felt like a voice inside me saying, Charlotte, today’s going to be chaotic, but you’ll manage somehow. In my mind, I had envisaged complications with our plan, perhaps Joris attempting some mischief. But what I hadn’t anticipated was the chilling, unexpected turn of events that followed.

Eventually, the assaults took place, and now it was time to piece everything together. Claire was in a state of shock, my shirt was ruined, and my flat had transformed into a bustling crime scene, swarming with police and forensic teams. Heather now held my keys and handed them over for the investigation. My own home was off-limits to me until further notice. I believe tonight’s drama has reached its peak. Claire’s distress was evident, and Heather, despite my composed demeanour, questioned my well-being. And in the grand scheme of things, I’m not sure how I feel. Perhaps I’m too engrossed in the unfolding events to fully measure the reality of the situation.

Just as we had done barely ten minutes earlier, we returned to the same car we’d used this evening. The ambulance had already departed for the hospital, leaving Claire to drag my suitcase out of the now police-infested car park. Heather suggested the investigation results might come by tomorrow. However, a new priority had emerged: Clarisse. Her situation was perplexing. Claire’s heels echoed louder, betraying her discomfort, as we settled into the car. She inserted the key into the ignition, poised to start the vehicle, and turned to look at me.

So, we’re going to Montpellier? Heather asked me.

Do you see any better option? It’s strange, this sudden heart attack, no?

Yeah. Surprisingly coming tonight. Someone must have given her something, that’s for sure.

Yeah, that’s what I also believe. What a son of a bitch.

Okay. Listen, let’s go back home. I’m gonna drive you to Ivry, and tomorrow, we’ll go to Montpellier. I asked my team to come to Paris, they must be on the train now. Tomorrow, at six o’clock, I’m gonna come to pick you up and we’re all gonna go to Montpellier.

All right.

Yet, as soon as I spoke those words, Claire, seated behind us, abruptly placed her hand on my left shoulder. Glancing at her through the small mirror on the windshield, I saw panic etched on her face. It seemed the medication administered to her at Stalingrad was losing its effect. Her breathing quickened, and as her hand grazed my shoulder, it became clear she wasn’t seeking my attention but rather a sense of security in her growing unease.

I’m coming with you, baby, she immediately said. There’s no chance you’re gonna be on your own in Montpellier.

Claire, you can’t… You must stay here, I pondered her request. 

Like I said, Charlotte, there is no chance whatsoever that you’re going to Montpellier alone, Charlotte. I need you, and… fuck no. I won’t let you face this mess on your own again, now, I’m here. Remember what you told me? We’re in this together.

I don’t think it’s wise, Claire, Heather added. It’s not gonna be for enjoying the sun that we’re going there, you know?  

I don’t care. I need to be with my girl.

Okay then. Then get ready for a short night. Tomorrow, six o’clock, we’re going.

Heather swiftly ignited the engine, signalling our departure. We were headed to Claire’s house for a brief respite, as we planned to rise at the crack of dawn, around four o’clock, to reach Gare de Lyon for our journey to Montpellier. My suitcase was already packed, a small mercy in the chaos. Claire, deciding to accompany us, needed to prepare hers. Heather, or, my new boss, explained to us that we’d be taking the train because carrying weapons on a plane wasn’t feasible, and we’d be joined by her team, whom she was to collect from Gare du Nord. They had just arrived from London via Eurostar. When I inquired if they were the same team I had encountered previously, she confirmed it. I was to properly meet them tomorrow at four. She shared that in the past two weeks, during their surveillance of Claire and me, they had made this journey almost five times a week.

Our drive back to Ivry was shrouded in a heavy, oppressive silence. We traversed the quiet Parisian streets, usually bustling but now eerily deserted as if the city had transformed into a spectral town. The journey was silent, a melancholic passage along the romantically lit banks of the Seine in the beautiful, sorrowful French capital. Claire and I sat together in the back, her hand clasping mine, as we passed the luminous Eiffel Tower, standing tall and majestic. The city seemed to have paused, marking my transition from the place of my flourishing to my birthplace. The shock of the night’s events left a strange aftertaste, and my thoughts were heavy. Yet, one certainty prevailed: our unity was stronger than ever. This ride, enhanced by our joined hands and shared gazes at the streets, was both beautiful and harrowing. Heather navigated along the Seine, passing Paris’s iconic landmarks in what felt like a poignant goodbye. From the Eiffel Tower to the National Assembly, cruising by the Louvre Museum and Ile de la Cite, glimpsing the Conciergerie and Notre-Dame-de-Paris, we eventually skirted past Gare de Lyon, the very station from which Clarisse had embarked on her ill-fated journey to Montpellier. Paris, never had I imagined it under such circumstances. But our struggle was far from over; in fact, it was just beginning. Reflecting on it, this was more a stalemate than a victory for either my adversary or me. Each of us had secured what we needed, though his boasts of triumph seemed hollow.

Around thirty minutes later, we reached home. A brief exchange with Heather revealed she had received a message from a colleague who accompanied my mother in the ambulance. Thankfully, my mother had been admitted to A&E and was now stable. The doctors were optimistic about her recovery; her blood loss wasn’t too extensive, and her wounds were less severe than initially feared. However, the heightened threat looming over us was evident as we arrived, with two large black cars and six police officers stationed in front of her house. The joy of having a sociopath wanting to kill you, you know. After Heather departed, we re-entered the home we had left hours before, finding it seemingly suspended in time, adding a tragic, sombre layer to the hour.

The atmosphere felt akin to a scene from an apocalyptic film: darkness pervaded, with shadows and silhouettes casting an ominous pall in the half-light. It was as though all life had ceased, and we were abruptly thrust into a new, foreboding chapter, our once joyful home now viewed through a haunting lens. It was a new day, a new reality we had to confront. The shock of the events rendered us speechless; such a situation was unprecedented for us. We were simply incapable of speech, overwhelmed by the intense emotions engulfing us. As we entered, Claire didn’t bother with the lights. She silently shed her clattering shoes and coat, and I mimicked her actions. The officers maintained a respectful distance outside, ensuring our privacy. Once divested of her outerwear, Claire stood motionless in the centre of her living room, surveying it with a newfound, ghostly perspective.

Honey… I’m gonna have a shower, I’ll be right back… I softly said, almost whispered.

Turning towards me, Claire’s expression was one of profound distress. Her normally beautiful face was marred by makeup that had streaked down her cheeks. She nodded at me, and it appeared as a simple gesture now laden with thousands, of unspoken emotion. At that moment, I could see she was struggling valiantly to restrain her tears.

Okay. I’m coming, she moved her lips.

As I ascended the stairs, Claire remained downstairs, settling herself at the table. Her demeanour was unlike anything I had witnessed before. It was a clear sign of her being thoroughly engulfed by the night’s harrowing events. Perhaps, in sitting down, she was attempting to start processing the multitude of experiences she had endured. Whether the sedatives were still at work was unclear, but her near-tearful state indicated a need to release the pent-up emotions. Knowing Claire as I do, I doubted she would find a quick solace. She isn’t the tough one to dismiss troubles with a nonchalant no shit given attitude. Her emotional depth ran deeper. Indeed, the night’s occurrences were extraordinary, and had I been as emotionally attuned as her, I likely would have crumbled under the weight of it all. So, I couldn’t find it within me to blame her. Each of us handles trauma in our way.

Reaching the bathroom, I flicked on the light and was immediately reminded that Claire had been here earlier: her makeup case lay open, her lipstick uncapped beside the sink. The hurried disarray spoke of the urgency we had faced. Discarded clothes from earlier in the day lay strewn haphazardly on the floor, creating an almost alien, lunar landscape. I was feeling like, this was coming from weeks earlier, if not months or years earlier. A world ago. Pushing aside these visual reminders of the day’s close brushes with death, I began to remove my clothes. My shirt, ruined and stiff with dried blood, was destined for the bin. As I undressed, my clothes joined hers in a careless heap on the floor. Leaning over the sink, and catching my reflection in the mirror, the dishevelled state of my hair was the least of my concerns. The blood smears on my face resembled warpaint, a stark reminder of the battle we had endured. If I had been wearing makeup, it would have added a dramatic effect to the already grim scene. Blood had also entangled itself in my hair.

Stepping into the bathtub, I turned on the water and grasped the shower head, letting the hot stream cascade over me. A comfort I had enjoyed in the past but that turned into a prime necessity. Yet, as I looked down, the initially clear water swiftly began to stain red, shifting from pale to dark as it washed away the blood. My thoughts were consumed by my mother, my sister and everything that happened. It was all too overwhelming, to force me to reconsider everything.

Reflecting on the tumultuous events of the evening, I felt a sense of resolve that I had done all within my power. From our departure to confront Joris at Stalingrad, to the harrowing discovery of my mother in Neuilly, each step seemed the only viable option at the time. The echoing blast of my door being forced open still rang in my ears. If only I had suspected that he would resort to such extremes, but we can’t change past events. His eavesdropping on my conversations had given him an upper hand; he knew every move we made, and I was far from suspecting it, something as sophisticated as this. Tonight’s events unfolded as they did because he orchestrated them, granting me the illusion of control, as Joris had hinted. The arrest of Joris was a minor hindrance in his grand scheme. He had even anticipated my sister’s trip to Montpellier. Our phone conversation revealed his perception of this as a game, and I, unwittingly, had become his opponent in this destructive charade. After turning the problem over in my mind, I concluded that I had navigated the situation as best as I could. I did everything in my power to counter his attack, but, he had the power of information I failed to have.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the bathroom door softly opening. The steam from the hot water swirled around, and through it, I recognised Claire by her quiet sobs and distinctive gait. As I drew back the shower curtain, her appearance was heartrending: mascara streaked down her reddened, tear-stained cheeks. She moved with a slow, almost ethereal grace. Turning off the shower, I heard her faint voice break through her sobs, asking, Can I come in? Wordlessly, I nodded and extended my hand. This moment, I knew, would be etched in my memory indelibly.

Claire stepped into the bathtub and closed the door behind her, her tears flowing unrestrainedly, more intensely than ever before. I let the shower head fall and wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. It was a moment of raw emotional release, a culmination of the night’s unbearable pressure. I could feel her face buried in my shoulder; her body wracked with sobs. Recognising the necessity of this cathartic outpouring, I simply held her cry without even disturbing her, offering silent comfort for what felt like an eternity. At least, the good thing is that, now, she’s safe from this madness. This night had exacted a heavy toll on her, one that would likely take months to overcome. She needed this release, so I just let her cry, supporting her in shared silence. Looking ahead, with the investigation now proceeding without the looming threat of Joris, Claire faced the daunting task of recounting the events for his trial. Whatever he had been using to pressure her, it was clear that her testimony wouldn’t be easy. She would have to confront him again in court, a prospect delayed by the slow wheels of justice, possibly taking years to come to fruition. Unfortunately, that’s a necessary step she has to take.

Her mental well-being is now my foremost concern. With her eighteenth birthday imminent and the burden of multiple traumas, I fear that she might spiral into a profound depression. Already resorting to medication to manage her stress and stave off depressive symptoms, I believe that there’s more beneath the surface of this turmoil. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist for the past month, which began when her behaviour became noticeably odd. What leads me to suspect deeper issues is her inability to deceive convincingly. While she can be a charming actress, she’s a transparent liar, so often contradicting herself. What remains a mystery to me is how she managed to keep such a significant secret for three months. My unproven theory is that she might be grappling with multiple personalities. The Claire I held in my arms just now seemed a world apart from the Claire I knew, even in happier times, like at the coffee shop on my birthday.

As she wept in my arms, I chose to remain silent, offering comfort only through the gentle touch of her hair, allowing her the space to express her anguish. She was shattered into a thousand pieces, and I just felt partly responsible for her plight. Reflecting on our breakup, I realised I had missed her silent pleas for help, too consumed by the finality of our split to see the signs. I had failed her when she needed me most, and for that, I owed her a profound apology. When her crying subsided, we both emerged from the bathtub, cold and exposed. I asked if I could borrow some clothes for the night, realising I had left my suitcase in Heather’s car. She suggested that I should look into her wardrobe. As she sat shivering on the edge of the bathtub, still in her damp clothes, a look of helplessness crossed her face. I reached for a towel and began to dry myself off, contemplating the depth of her suffering and the long road to recovery that lay ahead.

Are you gonna be okay?

Yes, yes, I have to… Just go to my wardrobe, take whatever you need, and we’ll go to sleep, she was still whispering.

You should have a shower too.

I will. I’m coming. Just… yeah. I won’t be long! I’ll prepare my suitcase after.

I love you, baby, I looked at her as I was making my way out of the bathroom.

Oh, I love you too, my baby. You have no idea how much I love you!

That evening was undeniably gruelling, yet somehow, we emerged from the metaphorical tunnel, victorious for our interests, as a couple. While the results weren’t entirely what we expected, a significant part of the ordeal was now behind us. Dealing with the aftermath was a task I felt equipped to handle on my own, but the emotional intensity of the night necessitated a period of reflection and processing. It would take time, especially for her, and time was a luxury we barely seemed to have, but necessary all the same.

Upon drying off, I ventured into her bedroom, a space that felt alien, as if I had last been there in another era. I opened the door to find a room transformed, not by movement but by absence. The familiar trappings, like her painting easel and canvases, were gone. The room, engulfed in shadows, held an air of profound change. One detail struck me as peculiar: the absence of her bed frame. Since my return this weekend, we’d been sleeping on a mattress on the floor. It was perhaps an insignificant detail, yet it said a lot about the room’s oppressive atmosphere of despair. The room was stripped to its essentials, with just the wardrobe, a sealed rubbish bag beside it, and the bare mattress with a poorly fitted pale blue sheet. Beside her side of the mattress lay her medicine. As I sat down, the magnitude of the changes hit me. It felt as if we were floating in space, adrift from the normal flow of life, following a cataclysmic event of unimaginable scale. Yeah, if I didn’t break up with her three months ago, perhaps all that could have been avoided. But, like I said, we can only reflect on the past, but we can’t erase or correct it.

The house was enveloped in an eerie silence, so profound that even the distant traffic noise seemed absent or coming from a world that was still spinning, but without us. Claire was in the bathroom, likely still in the shower, her sobs being the only sound piercing the silence. This silence, coupled with the view of the city skyline through her window, sent a chill through me. What the hell just happened? From what all that mess was coming from? It was completely surrealistic. The starless night, typical of a large European capital, only deepened my sense of disquiet. Lost in thought, I opened the wardrobe, retrieved some of my underwear left there, and chose one of her long night dresses. My heart was strangely heavy, tinged with anxiety, and it was in this mood that I moved slowly towards the bed. Despite the alarm set by Claire, Heather had offered to wake us. The chaos and tumult of the night had finally subsided into this uneasy calm as I slid under the bed sheets, embracing the silence and contemplating the formidable challenges that lay ahead.

As I lay in bed, I focused on my breathing in a way to try to calm down and process everything, through a deep inhale, followed by a long exhale. Trying to find a moment of tranquillity amid the chaos. Another breath, and just as I was about to close my eyes again, Claire re-entered the bedroom. She moved quietly, her figure draped in a black nightdress, and set the alarm for four in the morning on her phone. Our last night in this city, so renowned for love and romance, was unexpectedly sombre and the clock was inexorably ticking towards dawn.

Despite curling up close to each other under the sheets, the cold was unrelenting, and I found myself waking multiple times throughout the night despite my girlfriend being a natural source of heat. Around midnight, I noticed that Claire had gone downstairs. I heard murmurs of conversation, her voice mingling with her mother’s voice, or at least that’s what I could take from what I heard. The night was dreamless and restless. At two o’clock, she returned to bed, and I instinctively reached for my phone, only to remember it was destroyed at Stalingrad, and that I had none for now. The stark beep of the alarm at four o’clock jerked me awake. Here we go. Again. Another day, another fight, so they say.

The room was cold, and the shutters and curtains were left open. Dosing a bit more, I realised later on that Claire was not beside me, her side of the bed already cold. The bedside lamp flickered on, revealing the dim light of early morning. The thought of checking my non-existent phone struck me again as I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the grogginess. The sound of various voices drifted up from downstairs, including Claire’s, her mother’s, and Heather’s, along with others I didn’t immediately recognise: at least three men and another woman, their tones robust and distinct. Time to go, and face the day. With a sense of curiosity, I tiptoed towards the door, listening intently. The conversations were a blend of French and English, the voices carrying distinct accents. One of the men spoke exclusively in French, while another had a distinctly British accent. The woman’s accent was harder to place, possibly Russian, though it was difficult to be sure from the muffled conversations. Or perhaps, was the French. But she spoke in English. So it didn’t make sense.

Claire’s black suitcase was already packed and closed, a silent demonstration of her efficiency. As I prepared to join the gathering downstairs, the prospect of a much-needed coffee crossed my mind. With the house now filled with Claire’s team, the morning promised to be as eventful as the night had been, marked by a convergence of different languages, accents, and presumably, plans for the day ahead.

Exiting the bedroom, I noticed the bathroom door ajar and the makeup that had been there earlier was now absent, likely packed in Claire’s suitcase. She wouldn’t dream of travelling without it. The freshness of the morning made it clear I hadn’t slept much, probably no more than four hours.

Anyway, descending the creaking wooden stairs, I braced myself for the reactions of those gathered below. Claire’s voice had announced my awakening, and the ensuing silence suggested everyone was now aware of my presence. The idea of being applauded for yesterday’s actions briefly crossed my mind. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the scene unfolded before my eyes: everyone seated around the dining table, engrossed in their morning beverages. Claire was there, dressed in a grey sweater, black jeans, and her black Converse, her hair in disarray, sipping coffee. She turned towards me, her face a mix of despair, anxiety, and a glimmer of hope. Next to her, her mother, still in her hospital attire, clearly exhausted, likely having just returned from a late shift.

The surprise her mother must have felt upon hearing about our evening adventures was evident. Yet, as our eyes met, I saw a bright smile and a look of admiration and perhaps relief. Claire’s I am in love with you gaze was unmistakable. Her mother’s reaction suggested that Claire had indeed shared the details of our tumultuous evening, possibly convincing her of the necessity of Claire joining me in Montpellier. Heather was also present, her smile offering a semblance of reassurance that there was no immediate bad news. The three others, so, two men and a woman I recognised from the car ride home, all looked weary but resolute. It was clear that every minute of this ongoing conflict mattered. It was perhaps a morning breakfast, but I am willing to bet this is also a morning briefing. The extended dining table accommodated everyone comfortably. Claire’s mother, despite her tiredness, seemed to have come to terms with the situation, likely following a discussion about the previous day’s events and the upcoming journey. Heather’s presence indicated that they might have been discussing not only the past events but also the current situation and plans. The acceptance in her mother’s eyes suggested that my actions the previous day had played a role in easing her concerns about Claire’s safety with me.

Seated opposite me was Heather, who had transitioned from my assistant yesterday to my boss today. Her attire was casual yet authoritative: a white sweater and black trousers paired with chunky boots. Her hair was tied up, accentuating her stern demeanour, and reinforcing her role as the leader. Given her experience in the police force, lack of sleep seemed to be a challenge she was well accustomed to. Despite her exhaustion, there was a genuine sense of satisfaction in her expression, possibly stemming from the progress made in the investigation, particularly with Joris in custody. On top of that, Heather, as a trans woman, managed her demanding role with remarkable resilience, though I was still wondering about the toll it took on her health. She presented herself with an understated elegance, and despite her deep voice, her femininity was unmistakable.

Next to Heather sat a tall man with an emerging beard, dressed in a navy blue suit that appeared quite expensive. His relaxed demeanour, without a tie, suggested a high rank within the team, likely Heather’s second-in-command. His features seemed familiar, the same person who had driven the car and whom I had mistakenly called a paedophile. His short hair, brown eyes, and sturdy build gave off an ex-military vibe, adding to his authoritative presence.

Across from Claire was a woman who instantly struck me with her beauty. She exuded an Eastern European aura, fitting the Russian accent I thought I had heard earlier. Around twenty-five to thirty years old, slim and of similar stature to mine, she had an air of confidence about her. Wearing glasses and with an iPad in front of her, she appeared to be the tech expert of the group, possibly a specialist in computing or cyber operations. She looked like a tough cookie embodied in a casual fun girl, suggesting a tough background, possibly Russian or Ukrainian. Her style was severe yet striking, her makeup complementing her short brown hair. The team, it seemed, was composed of individuals excelling in their respective fields: Heather as the leader, that girl as the tech or cyber specialist, and the French man likely responsible for security or tactical planning.

As I approached the table, the final member of Heather’s team caught my attention. This man, seated opposite the tech specialist, regarded me with a more measured gaze. Like his colleague, he was dressed in a suit, but he was notably shorter and of African origins. His demeanour and appearance suggested someone in his forties, exuding the air of a seasoned detective, a professional with years of experience under his belt. This added a new dimension to the team’s diversity, a blend of youth and experience, technical prowess and tactical knowledge. And Heather’s leadership at such a young age, barely 25, stood out even more starkly against this backdrop. Her team was a balanced mix of gender and expertise: the young leader, the tech-savvy geek, the possibly ex-military tactician, aka. The French guy, and the veteran detective. It was a revelation to see such a dynamic and eclectic group working under her command.

Joining this group, even in a consultative capacity, felt surreal. The sarcasm in my thoughts couldn’t be ignored as I faced what would potentially be my new colleagues. I was still reeling from the night’s events and awaiting the outcomes of the investigation, yet here I was, stepping into a role far removed from what I had ever expected. The situation, despite its gravity, carried a certain irony, from the chaos of the night, I was now part of a team that was as diverse and intriguing as it was unexpected.

Oh dear, all my fan club reunited! I don’t sign autographs for free, just so you know!

Hey, love! Claire stands up.

The subdued mood of the room was palpable, yet I’ve always believed in finding reasons to smile amidst adversity, and my sarcasm made them have that little unassumed smile on their lips. As I descended the stairs, I took in the scene: my suitcase from the previous day was still there, and two boxes of iPhone 5s sat on the table. I was sure she’d bring me a replacement phone, I should have bet.

Claire and her mother both offered me warm smiles, her mother being the only one to rise as I reached the bottom of the stairs. Claire approached me with a look that seemed more proud than sorrowful. Despite the uncertainty of our journey and the unknown return date, her immediate emotions appeared to be temporarily overshadowed by a sense of relief or perhaps accomplishment. As she kissed me, whispering here you are! so softly it was almost inaudible to others, I felt a surge of comfort. Her presence, healthy and alive, was infinitely preferable to the harrowing alternative of her being gravely injured or worse. Traumas, unlike physical injuries, may not leave visible scars, but they are something we can overcome together. Still in my arms, Claire’s embrace seemed to bring a sense of closure to the previous night’s chaos. Heather, observing this moment, appeared pleased by the show of unity and strength. Now, there was no more shade to the happiness that was to come. Her gaze then shifted to me, and she spoke:

Well, well, well… Looks like the Mahatma Gandhi in its female version is coming back from the meditation room! she was sarcastic. Or Attila coming back from the battlefield, you choose!

Good morning, sleeping beauty, Claire’s mum continued.

Sleeping beauty, yeah. Such a wonderful title for the promiscuous bitch I strive to be! I remained modest.

Consider yourself the way you want, baby… but you’re both my daughter and my hero today! Claire told me everything!

Well, I did my job. More or less, I shrugged.

Yeah… But you saved my daughter, that’s all I see, and, like I said, whatever you need, just let me know…

Without any surprise, it appeared that my actions from the previous night had already been discussed among the team, evident from the respectful glances directed my way. This acknowledgement of my efforts, while gratifying, was overshadowed by a pressing need I suddenly felt, something I typically wouldn’t indulge in during the mornings, but now it seemed essential, almost an emergency. And the urgency of this need was growing by the moment, reaching a point where I could no longer ignore it. It was time to address it, to vocalise this critical requirement that had become paramount in the wake of the night’s events and the tense atmosphere of the morning.

Well, now that you say this… I smiled. A double espresso would be really lovely and much appreciated!

What about your tea? Claire started teasing me. Are you denying your identity?

Oh, come on, the only British thing I have is my accent and my passport, the rest is all corrupted. I drink tea without milk, and I hate scones and clotted cream, I was digressing.

Sure, on my way, darling! Claire’s mum stood up.

Scones and clotted cream? Claire looked at me. What the hell is that?

Yeah, British cuisine. It’s like DB Cooper or the Salem Witch Trials, we know what happened but we still try to find an explanation!

Tea with milk or scones slathered in clotted cream? Blimey, what a palaver. Ghastly, isn’t it?

After requesting my coffee, Claire’s mum, Laure, promptly rose from her seat and made her way to the kitchen. As she passed by, she offered me her place at the table, pausing to envelop me in a warm hug. Whispering a heartfelt thank you, she graced my forehead with a gentle kiss, a maternal gesture that resonated deeply.

I’ve always held Laure in high regard, viewing her as akin to a genuine mother-in-law. Her non-judgemental nature and unwavering trust in me have been constants; she often remarked that I was the best thing to happen to her daughter, just as her daughter was the best thing that ever happened to me. Laure’s simplicity and hard-working ethos have always commanded my admiration. Our bond, strong from the outset, seemed to have grown even more robust after yesterday’s events. With the government finally discussing gay marriage legislation (about time, indeed) I wondered if Laure would be pleased should Claire and I decide to marry. The only hitch in such a scenario would be that marrying me would mean accepting not just me but also my considerable inheritance and real estate. But that’s a bridge to cross when we get there. But I believe that she wouldn’t mind and be happy for us.

Slipping into Laure’s seat as she busied herself in the kitchen, I found myself back in the thick of things. Settling down, Claire, seated beside me, took my hand. A spontaneous kiss followed, a resurgence of our familiar affection. But this brief moment of personal connection was swiftly cut short by Heather. Now, as her employee, it was time to switch gears and focus on the tasks at hand. Business awaited, and my new role under Heather’s direction was about to commence in earnest.

Oh, yeah, Charlotte, you might be wondering, about them…

Yeah… I think I saw them, right? I remained thoughtful and somewhat shy.

This is my team from London. I recalled them this morning in Paris for big investigations and special operations following what happened yesterday and the plan that you successfully managed to foil. Again, well done for yesterday, even though we aren’t quite certain about what came out for Clarisse. But now that we have a strong lead on the investigation, we are all in this together… Also, as we are gonna be travelling by train, I’m gonna need your passport, your NIN as well as your bank details, as my boss sent you the contract and I need your signature.

I’ll look into it, I looked at my new manager now. Well, nice to meet you, guys, I’d rather have met you under different circumstances! I said to the team.

Despite the general tiredness, the mood was still good, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked croissants wafted through the air and made me starve. They all had a certain expression on their faces, though, a mix of relief because thanks to what I did they made the hell of a breakthrough, but another mix of interrogation since I don’t have any police background behind me, no experience in negotiating with someone to release hostages, and it’s the first time that I help someone who got stabbed to survive an assault. I’ve got no training, but I had enough balls to do the job. So, they were quite curious. And for sure, she wasted no time in telling them about the breakthrough I had made in the investigation. I wouldn’t say that I was waited like the messiah but… close. They had been chasing a pimp for weeks, and my contribution had brought them one step closer to making an arrest.

Yet, in front of me, I had professionals, I had people who have experience in dealing with all sorts of morons and criminals, so, it was still a bit intimidating, considering that I had no legitimacy to bring my science. They were hardened professionals, and I was the new kid on the block. However, the warm welcome I had received whilst coming, coupled with their gratitude for my contribution, put me at ease. They made me even more motivated to bring some arsehole down to prison. It’s the first time I even have a job, and it’s quite strange to be asked for my passport and NIN, in France or in general. And me who thought it wouldn’t be useful. Damn, how dumb I was! But at least, I will be signed as a consultant, not as an agent, so things will be different for me. Heather resumed and introduced me:

So, guys, meet your new colleague, Charlotte Kominsky, she is the mastermind that brought you our very first pimp. The hotshot who stumbled upon your lead. She’s our late Christmas gift… She may be blonde, but I’ve never seen such a brain before. She brought you guys Joris and will bring you Kelly too, so we can start catching all those sons of bitches. So, let’s all welcome Kominsky to the team, folks! Kominsky is a master manipulator, but not an evil one, and has an impressive talent for deducting things.

Kominsky? I was astounded. So, this is how you guys call each other? Meh, I believe that I’m gonna get used to it.

I must say that I’m impressed by what you did yesterday, well done in catching that prick! The first tough guy came and said with a concealed, but still very harsh French accent.

Oh, thanks. That’s kind of you. And, sorry, you are, erm?

Oh, sorry, my name is Marc Beauregard, nice to meet you, erm… Charlotte Kominsky? Right? he spontaneously gave me his hand, as he was right next to me.

I like the way he was placing the small erm before mentioning my name, unsure if he should pronounce my name. Anyway, as a gesture of welcome, I did what we are always supposed to do with new colleagues, and stood up to shake his hand, as I also wanted to ensure something. When I took his hand, he grabbed mine quite firmly and was not fleeing. At the same time, I observed and deciphered his facial expression whilst he was stating his name and congratulated me for my performance yesterday. I could sense the fact that he was someone genuine, following orders and that was what made him who he was now. An ex-military, and with a firm hand but a cheap black suit with a blue tie, were there problems with dad or mum out there? The fact that he willingly accepted my handshake was more indicating problems with his father and not his mother to me. Problems with daddy and an absent mummy.

That’s what I got from him, this guy has a deep sense of duty and respect, someone who had respect for what needed to be respected.

Nice to meet you too. I continued after having tried to decipher him. Hum… can I ask, were you an ex-military?

Sergeant-major, yeah, I’ve been stationed in Afghanistan five years ago… How do you know that?

Yeah, well, I told you she was good at what she did, Heather cut it short. Anyway, darling, before you show your skills to everybody, Charlotte, let me introduce you to the other members of my team. Beauregard here is our French consultant, a specialist in organised crimes and schemes like this. Now, this is Mike Wittingham, our ballistic specialist, the second Brit of the team.

Upon shifting my focus to Mike, his expression was marked by a touch of scepticism. It wasn’t that he was necessarily harder to impress, but as a veteran, he’d undoubtedly seen many new faces come and go. His seasoned perspective probably made him more reserved about newcomers, so I decided against employing any deductive tactics with him.

Mike, in his demeanour and appearance, brought to mind Danny Glover’s character in Lethal Weapon: seasoned, near the end of a distinguished career, yet still holding a position of influence. As the senior member of Heather’s team, he seemed to be there to share his wealth of experience, particularly with Heather, who, despite her competence, was still relatively young for her leadership role. He smiled as I turned towards him, his quiet presence suggesting a significant advisory role in operations. At around fifty-five, his long tenure in the police force, likely as an investigator, was apparent in his measured approach and the subtle scepticism with which he greeted me. His attire was less formal than Beauregard’s crisp white shirt and pale blue tie. He wore a dark grey vest over a pale blue shirt, sans tie, exuding the casual confidence of someone with nothing left to prove. His benevolent attitude towards Heather indicated his role as a mentor, the person to whom one would turn for advice. His large scar on the left cheek spoke of a storied past. His approach was more paternal, suggestive of someone who supports and nurtures the new generation, recognising the importance of passing on the baton.

Observing the team dynamics, it was clear that they shared a strong bond, united under Heather’s leadership. While they seemed like a close-knit group, they appeared open to the infusion of new energy and perspectives. This unity and the willingness to embrace change were admirable. After briefly analysing Mike, I started to engage with him, ready to integrate myself into this tightly woven team.

Nice to meet you!

A real pleasure! he swiftly retorted with a pure, strong Londoner accent.

And, to finish, as Heather saw that, there wouldn’t be any long conversation between me and this Mike, our team geek, Vasara Romeka. She’s our IT specialist and is also a field agent, and she is the one who managed to hack through your girlfriend’s phone and have all the info we had now.

As I observed the woman who had previously shared a laugh with Beauregard in the car when Heather came to grab me in front of Claire’s door when we first met, her demeanour seemed distinctly different from the rest. She smiled more openly than the others as she caught my gaze. Unlike the rest, who were dressed in formal or semi-formal attire, she appeared more akin to an undercover cop, similar to Heather, with a casual yet purposeful style. The glasses she wore added to her distinct look.

Claire, sitting beside me, seemed to pick up on my intrigue. There was a hint of jealousy in her reaction, perhaps because she knew that this woman was, to say the least, very much my type. She was slightly older than me, a detail Claire obviously didn’t miss. The woman’s outfit, composed of a white top adorned with Cyrillic script, a black blazer, and a subtle necklace, complemented her striking green eyes and short but not too short hair. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, making me the youngest in the team, a fact that offered me some comfort.

There was something about her that suggested a deep satisfaction with her job, yet a hint of something lacking, perhaps a sense of unfulfilled personal aspiration. Her demeanour indicated an introverted personality, possibly with a sarcastic edge, but without the arrogance I sometimes displayed. Her appearance and aura hinted at a tough background and extensive travel experience. It seemed she was the most recent addition to the team before me, and she exuded a captivating allure, strikingly attractive in a compelling, almost intimidating way.

Piecing together the team’s diverse backgrounds was fascinating. Beauregard was French, Wittingham was British, Heather was Irish, and I had both French and British heritage. This woman, with her Eastern European vibe, likely hailed from Russia, Ukraine, or a similar country, judging by the Cyrillic on her top and her overall appearance. The team was a mosaic of different nationalities and cultures, with me bridging two of these. As I continued to observe her, I began to formulate my approach to engaging with this intriguing and diverse group.

Okay, let me guess. Heather is Irish, I know this, Wittingham and Beauregard are respectively British and French, but you… let me guess where you’re from. And don’t say anything!

Yeah, I want to see how good you are at guessing things! Hit me! she started to draw an interesting smile on her face.

Your accent says that you speak Russian, as well as your teeshirt, as you’re speaking English with a fancy accent…

I speak Russian, indeed, yes!

I’d say either Moscow, St-Petersburg, or a city near a lake or a river!

I am not from Russia! And what makes you say that there could be a lake or a river where I am from?

Her body language was revealing, clutching her sleeves and crossing her arms indicated she was feeling cold, despite the room’s warmth. This gesture, combined with her slight lean towards me, conveyed a sense of anticipation or interest, as well as a hint of physical discomfort due to the chill. It appeared she might have underestimated the need for warmer clothing, leaving her slightly uncomfortable in the current setting. Her posture, while a small detail, painted a fuller picture of her demeanour: eager for engagement and interaction, yet perhaps not fully acclimated to the environment, at least in terms of her attire. This non-verbal communication suggested an openness to what I could bring to the team, tempered by a natural human need for physical comfort.

Your necklace with a blue pearl. You look like you are from somewhere very cold, even though you seem to dread the cold considering… Oh, you could be Finnish, but, your accent says otherwise. From Finland, you’d be resisting more to the cold, so it doesn’t make sense!

Not, but you’re close. Finland ain’t very far… I mean, still, a bit.

I don’t know. Only Russia rings a bell to me.

Well. Vilnius, Lithuania.

Ah. Ah ah. Lithuania, of course, I should’ve known. Oddly, I didn’t think of it sooner. It should’ve rung a bell. I sensed she was from a smaller country, which is why her accent threw me off initially, and, well, I was right on that. Lithuania’s history as a former USSR member, coupled with a tiny Russian community, makes more sense now. And thinking about it, my experiences in London have familiarised me with Lithuanians. Interestingly, while the men I met were rather unremarkable, if not very average when it came to the opposite gender, we were on quite strange high standards. I recall my mother’s Lithuanian friend in London, who, by the force of things, works for her now, or at least as far as I know, she manages her business in London, she was in her forties and quite striking, and her daughter, around my age, strangely failed to escape my memory so easily when it came to a certain type of dreams. But, erm, yeah. Anyway. It’s not relevant.

I think I’m a little tired.

Lovely… well, it comes as no surprise to me, for once…

Really? Why?

Well, you look like the type. Anyway.

Yeah, well. Whatever. I ain’t a psychic after all, I’m just specialised in taking people for idiots. That’s my job now.

Okay ladies, now that we have all introduced each other to Kominsky, let’s start with our morning briefing. First of all, how do you feel, Claire and you? Heather restarted, looking at us.

Well, I just feel like someone who fucked up a cop yesterday… I was inspired. I mean, no offence, guys!

It was a tough evening, yeah, definitely, it was hard to sleep, I just had flashbacks all night, Claire interrupted me and added something. Personally, I don’t know, I am just… What he did to her, I mean, to Clarisse, what he did to Charlotte’s mum, it was just insane, and holding me hostage… I don’t know. I keep on having flashbacks of what happened yesterday, and… I don’t know, I’m overwhelmed. I think I need to have a good rest today.

What happened yesterday was harsh, indeed. But, well, now, this son of a whore is just asking to be defeated! I was thoughtful.

I will call a psychologist for the two of you, that’s necessary! Heather pressed.

Oh, I can survive without a shrink just fine, don’t worry about me! I immediately reacted.

Yeah, Kominsky, you look like the type, Vasara immediately teased me with a broad smile.

My love, the time you were peacefully travelling in the train playing with your state-of-the-art iPad, I saved two lives, you know!

She’s always like this, Beauregard added. She’s a bit sarcastic but looks like she found someone to compete against! It’s not mean from her!

I know, I was just teasing, she defended herself.

I know, I replied. I know you were.

Her sarcastic tone caught me off guard. While I didn’t feel like she was being mean to me, her comments still shocked me a little. I started wondering if this was just her personality, or if she was intentionally trying to rattle me. I tried to brush it off, reminding myself that everyone had their way of communicating and that I was still new to the team. Yet, despite my initial surprise, I began to appreciate Romeka’s sense of humour. Her comments were dry and sarcastic but were somehow also intelligent and witty. As we worked together, I found that her remarks challenged me to think outside the box and come up with new solutions to problems.

On the other hand, this was a sign of respect, I assume from her, as she doesn’t look