Chapter 1
It was the tenth day back at work since my vacation ended, and my best friend, Zara Vega, hadn’t shown any sign of life. Even though she had changed quite a bit over the past year and we no longer shared the connection we once had, I couldn’t help but worry.
This year, her usual morning smile when bringing coffee was gone, along with the rays of sunlight that seemed to follow her when she spoke.
Ten days ago, she was explaining me the new plan for her life:
“I want to get out of the system, Scarlett,” she had said at our favorite café, the one we used to go to back in college, with a vague smile and eyes hidden behind smoky sunglasses. Her words were slower and stranger than usual, and at the time, I didn’t fully connect the dots, but it was possible she was under the influence of something, probably drugs.
“I’m going to try… something different.”
“Different? What kind of cases?” I asked, naively curious. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, maybe I should’ve told her to stay at the department where we were.
“An interesting one. You’d be fascinated. But it’s dangerous. When the time is right, I’ll send you everything.”
Since then, I hadn’t heard a thing. It was as if she had never existed, except for the last messages I had sent her—unread—and a few vague memories that now seemed irrelevant.
I lifted my face from the computer where I was reviewing a case, sensing someone passing near my desk. Hoping it was Zara. It wasn’t. It was Amber Green, one of the summer interns.
I stood up instantly and almost ran to open the door, whispering, a little panicked:
"Have you heard anything about Zara?" My hands gripped the door so tightly that it hurt. Amber fixed her green eyes on me, trying to read me. I didn’t even know if I was scared, sad, or angry that she hadn’t told me what she planned to do. It wasn’t like her to disappear for so many days.
"Not yet. But I need a copy of the court ruling and transcripts from the Emily James vs. SC BlackPulse Nightlife SRL case."
I glanced over the files on the computer:
On May 18, 2025, Emily James was the victim of a violent incident at a nightclub operated by SC BlackPulse Nightlife SRL. During a spontaneous altercation among several patrons, Emily was struck with a bottle, suffering a fractured jaw. The incident required costly medical treatment and an extended recovery period during which she could not work.
Emily claimed in court that the club staff had failed to intervene promptly and that legally required safety measures were not followed. Over 250 people were present in the club, but only two security guards were on duty, and the area where the conflict occurred was not under video surveillance. She argued that the club’s management had failed to take reasonable precautions to prevent the incident.
The court ruled that the defendant had not fulfilled her safety obligations and held her civilly liable under Articles 1357 and 1376 of the Civil Code. By the ruling issued on July 14, 2025, the court partially granted the plaintiff’s request, ordering the club to pay approximately €2,000 in material damages (medical costs and lost income), approximately €10,000 in moral damages for physical and psychological suffering, and approximately €640 in court costs. The remaining claims were dismissed as unfounded. The ruling may be appealed within 30 days of notification.
I clicked “print,” knowing I had officially finished work for the day. I handed the pages to Amber and closed the office.
I rushed down the stairs, heading to only one place: Zara’s apartment.
The drive was fast but heavy with thoughts that terrified me. What if something had happened to her? What if I found her lifeless in her own home?
I climbed the three flights of stairs on foot. The elevator was out of order, as usual—ironic in a luxury residential complex with surveillance cameras at every corner and decorative plants that never lived more than two weeks.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
Beige matte wallpaper, golden numbered doors, and warm sensor lights gave a sense of security—but they didn’t fool me. In front of apartment 17, I stopped. I took a deep breath, hoping to sense Zara’s presence. Nothing. No shadow, no voice, not even a trace of perfume.
I knocked. Once. A second time, harder. A third time, with fury.
Silence.
I pulled out the key. I had kept it without telling her. She had given it to me “in case of emergency,” and honestly? I felt in my bones that this was one of those moments. I opened the door slowly, as if I might disturb someone—or something.
The interior was immaculate. Unnaturally immaculate.
The bed was perfectly made, pillows aligned geometrically, the coffee cup washed and placed in its holder. Laptop closed, charger unplugged. It smelled of roses and sandalwood, her favorite perfume, but beneath that scent, there was something… stagnant. As if time itself had stopped.
I stepped into the kitchen and saw it.
A small black notebook, its spine worn and corners bent. I had never seen it before, and believe me—I knew all her journals. I opened it slowly, like opening a wound. On a folded page, her shaky handwriting read:
“BlackPulse — underground — Room #3 — between 2:00 and 4:00. Look for the girl with the rose tattooed on her collarbone.”
My heart sank beneath my sternum. BlackPulse.
The club from the Emily James case. The club where security “didn’t notice” a woman being hit with a bottle. The club where the cameras “weren’t working that night.”
And now… a room that officially didn’t exist?
It didn’t seem like a good idea. Not even remotely acceptable. But after ten days of uncertainty, unanswered questions, and oppressive premonitions, the decision seemed logical: I would go to BlackPulse that night.
But not as myself.
I sat on the edge of the bed for an hour, maybe longer, trying to imagine who I would be… if I weren’t who I am. The lawyer with a decent reputation, with won cases and forced smiles in front of judges. The woman who still kept her underwear drawer neat and set the alarm for 6:30, even on Saturdays.
No, the woman going to BlackPulse that night couldn’t be her.
I looked in the mirror. Hair tied in an apparently careless bun, blood-red lipstick, eyeliner drawn too thick. My office shirt replaced by a black corset, a jacket with broad shoulders, and pants swapped for a short skirt. My heart pounded so hard I wondered if even the doorman at the entrance could hear it.
