Niccolo
I stare at the prototype in my hand. It's rough, but it's not horrible. It needs major work, and later I'll take apart, see what can be tweaked, improved.
It's three in the morning as I wait for my associate to explain what the hell is my f*****g hand.
He comes out if the shadows. Those Yakuza.
“Niccoló Vitale,” He says.
I grin. “John,” I drawl. “What the hell is this?”
He sgrygs. “Where I come from, we call it bait. I have a little gift for you.”
A gift? Probably the gift of death.
“Really? I don't guess I can politely decline?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don't think she'll take too well to that.”
She?
He runs away, making me growl.
“This is my test?"
I freeze. It's her. I turn around slowly, rigidly.
“Manon?”
She stands proudly, a crop top and some short shorts on.
