Excerpt
Some people say time slows down in moments of danger—that your mind processes everything in slow motion. But for her, there was no pause. No clarity. No mercy.
One final surprise, and that was it. There was no time to react. It felt like being hurled into a blender set to high—violence without warning, direction, or control. Her body flailed like a rag doll tossed aside by a bored child.
The pain of the impact was so immense that by the time she hit the ground, she barely registered it. Her brain tried to make sense of the chaos for a brief second—but failed.
Somewhere in the distance, Sting’s voice echoed through the pain: “I dream of rain, I dream of gardens in the desert sand…” A surreal lullaby to her unraveling reality.
Her body flew several meters, landing awkwardly on the slick asphalt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood trickled across the wet street, forming tiny crimson rivers that merged with the October rain. And then—darkness. Blissful, numbing darkness.
An hour and a half earlier…
What a gorgeous fragrance, she thought, savoring the rich aroma of her coffee as she took a slow, luxurious sip. The waitress had brought it just a minute ago. Her next hearing was coming up fast, but she needed this moment of calm—some clarity to clear her cluttered mind. Lately, concentration had been slipping through her fingers like water.
She glanced at her phone—less than ten minutes until the trial. With a sigh, she hurried to finish her coffee and grabbed her “mobile office,” as she fondly called her large, overstuffed work bag.
The entrance to the courthouse was jammed with disgruntled citizens waiting in line. She maneuvered through them with brief, apologetic smiles and slipped past the security checkpoint.
Within five minutes, she stood outside the courtroom door, waiting to be called in. She felt drained and couldn’t wait to finish her tasks for the day and head home. The Sofia District Court was bustling, as always.
Strangers passed by, many casting admiring glances at the tall, elegant woman standing confidently in the hallway. She looked polished in her sleek graphite-toned suit and matching high-heeled shoes.
Her dark hair was tied into a stylish bun, revealing the refined features of her face—intelligent black eyes, a straight nose, and a chin marked with a soft dimple that added charm to her otherwise strict appearance. Simple jewelry adorned her, and the absence of makeup only emphasized her natural beauty.
The courtroom door opened. The previous parties left, red-faced and agitated. She stepped forward at the clerk’s signal and walked in with practiced ease.
The judge glanced up—briefly, coolly.
“For the plaintiff in today’s session: lawyer Kirilov, with power of attorney,” the judge droned, her voice tired. “And who is representing the defendant?”
“Alexandra Borisova, Attorney-at-Law,” she replied, using her full legal name as expected in court, her tone crisp and neutral. She handed over the signed document.
Outside the courtroom, though, she was rarely called by that name.
As a child, she’d hated the nicknames—Alex felt like a foreign import, and Sashka sounded like a punchline. In law school, someone once joked and called her “Lexi”—a clever play on lex, the Latin word for law.
It stuck.
She liked it. It was sharp. Distinct. She grew into it.
The hearing was brief. No drama. No wasted words. Just facts, counterarguments, and resolution. The kind of session she preferred.
But as she left the courtroom, a strange pressure pulsed behind her eyes. A creeping dizziness she’d grown too familiar with lately. It had started weeks ago. Despite her disciplined schedule and tightly structured days, control had begun slipping through her grasp.
She felt like a small boat lost in a violent storm. Her mind wandered, her focus faded, and even the warmth of home had disappeared. Her sleep was broken, and most mornings she woke up feeling worse than the night before.
And then came the dreams.
