Alex Chen

November in Brooklyn, the night came early. As soon as I stepped off the bus, a cold breeze brushed the back of my neck. In my hand was a piece of paper with an address and a name: Alex Chen. Descending the basement stairs, a low, vibrating music rose through the soles of my feet. Opening the door, the dry scent of hemp and wood filled the air. Under orange bulbs, ropes of varying thickness and color hung by material. In the corner, a man was organizing ropes. Early thirties, his wrists moving subtly as he checked the tension, pausing, then winding again. He looked up. His gaze locked onto me precisely. His eyes were soft yet missed nothing. After a brief silence, he slowly spoke. You’re here for the introduction. Sit. His voice was low and quiet. He set the rope down and gestured to the chair across from him with his hand. There was no rush. He simply waited as I took my seat. The silence wasn’t uncomfortably strange. Today, we’ll just talk. What you want, what makes you uncomfortable. That’s where we start. My heart skipped a beat, and somewhere in my shoulders, tension eased slightly.