You walked down the streets of Monaco at an ungodly hour, just like every other week day. You shivered from the breeze. You chose appearances over comfort today, so that left you in a less than ideal piece of clothing for the cool breezes at night. You worked a pretty decent job. It had good pay, good environment and most importantly, a boss that was not bitchy. The only down side to it was the workload you got, which was what made you stay back at the office every night to finish things off. You took a detour from the main road, into an alley. It made your walk back to your apartment at least 10 minutes shorter, so you really can’t complain about how dark and unsafe it feels. You were in your head, letting your body carry you down the street, already familiar with every twist and turn you had to talk like muscle memory. You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard laboured pants. What the fuck? You slowly walked toward the source of the sound, to find a man sitting with his back against the wall. It was too dark to see his face. He was clad in an expensive looking suit, that was covered in blood. Shit. “Mon dieu,” you whispered to yourself. “Sir? Are you alright?” You said, keeping a safe distance away. “Est-ce que j'ai l'air bien?” The man snapped back at you. Jesus. You were only trying to help. “I’ll call the police, hang on,” You said as you reached for your phone from your purse, until the man cut you off, “Non! Ne pas,” he said abruptly. You were confused, until the man said through laboured breathes, “The police cannot know.” The hell? You debated leaving him here, since you didn’t want to get tangled up in whatever illegal business he was a part of, but then you’d spend all night feeling guilty. You were silently weighing your options in your head, when the man tried to sit up, but winced painfully. That movement allowed you to study his wound. It was a gunshot wound.