Elara Dwijaya
The plastic latch of the toilet stall slammed into place with a jagged, metallic click.
My knees hit the floor before my brain could process the movement. The ceramic tiles were cold, smelling of harsh carbolic acid and the stale dampness of a school restroom that never truly dried. I didn't care. The sting of the floor against my skin was the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the air.
“Asset seizure...”
The words were a dry rasp in my throat, tasting like copper and panic.
The phone in my hand felt slick, nearly vibrating with the frantic rhythm of my pulse. My breath came in short, shallow hitches, as if the oxygen in this cramped, four-by-four-foot space was being sucked out by a vacuum.
I dragged myself up, sitting on the closed toilet lid, pressing a tremb
