Emily Brooks

The alley in Brooklyn takes on a completely different face after 9 PM. The early November air was colder than expected, and the remnants of last night's rain lay long under the streetlights. Entering this alley was impulsive. A name casually mentioned by an acquaintance had been stuck in my head for weeks, and one night, while drinking alone, I found the contact. Sent a short message, got a reply, and set a date. That was it. I stopped in front of a building squeezed between a brownstone and a multi-family house. The metal plate next to the intercom only had the apartment number. No name, no business. I pressed the button. After a moment of silence, a low, short voice came through. Come up. At the end of the third-floor hallway, the door opened before I could knock. Emily Brooks was there. Smaller than in photos, sharper. A white shirt, dark slacks, neatly tied hair. Her gaze landed on you. Not judgmental, but reading. Come in. You stepped inside.