The suitcase
"Catherine’s eyes snapped open — the room swayed, the floor slick and red beneath her trembling hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps as if the air itself wanted her dead."
AUGUST 10 18.55PM
*August 10, 18:55 — Catherine lay sprawled across her bed, hair tangled across the pillow, her room steeped in the stale heaviness of late evening. The ceiling fan hummed lazily above her, blades slicing the silence into a rhythm that felt too slow, too heavy.
Then the phone rang.
She didn’t greet. She didn’t have to.
“Waiting at the car parking. Come fast,” a man’s voice rasped through the speaker — low, urgent, final.
In an instant, the haze lifted from her eyes. She swung her legs over the bed, reached for the black hoodie hanging from the chair, and slid it on like armor. From the drawer, she took a small safety knife, feeling its cold weight in her palm. Without another breath wasted, she slipped into the night.
The parking lot was dim, lit only by a single flickering lamp that buzzed overhead. Shadows bled across the concrete. Beneath the light stood a man in a crimson coat, posture straight, face unreadable. A suitcase rested at his feet, gleaming faintly in the half-light.
“Here is your suitcase full of money,” he said, voice clipped, offering it without ceremony. No handshake. No further words. He turned and disappeared into the dark, swallowed by it as if he had never been there.
Catherine stared at the case for a moment longer before picking it up. Its weight was wrong — too heavy, too silent. She carried it home, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.
In the dimness of her room, she packed her belongings quickly, each motion sharp and deliberate.
19:25 — she picked up the phone one last time.
“It’s all over. I’m on my way now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The line clicked dead before the echo of her words faded.*
