---

You step out onto the crowded pavement of London, the sounds of traffic and murmuring crowds fading into the background as your leg throbs from earlier. The recent encounter with Sherlock Holmes still echoes in your mind — strange, infuriating, unfinished.

A phone rings in a nearby shop. Then another. And another.

They all stop just before anyone can answer.

Down the street, a red public phone box begins to ring.

Drawn by instinct or curiosity, you step inside and lift the receiver.

A man's voice — smooth, calm, clinical:

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

You hesitate. "Who is this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera?"

You glance up. "Yeah. I see it."

"Watch."

The camera silently swivels away.

"There's another, on the building opposite."

You turn — and again, the lens turns aside.

"And one more. Top of the building to your right."

The third camera shifts.

"How are you doing this?" you ask, more unsettled now.

"Get into the car."

A black vehicle rolls up beside the booth. The driver steps out, silent, and opens the rear door.

"I would make some sort of threat, but I believe your situation is already... clear."

The line goes dead.

You slide into the car. A woman sits beside you, absorbed in her BlackBerry.

"Hello," you say cautiously.

"Hi." Still not looking up.

"What's your name?"

"Er… Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

"No." A polite smile.

You nod slightly, eyes scanning the streets outside. "I'm Elisa."

"Yes. I know."

You look back at her with a light frown.

"Any point asking where we’re going?"

"None at all, Elisa."

The car moves deeper into the city, past familiar neighborhoods, into something more industrial. Eventually, it stops before a quiet warehouse.

Inside: A man waits — tall, suited, umbrella in hand, expression unreadable.

"Have a seat, Elisa." He gestures with his umbrella.

You don’t move. "You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me. On my phone." You say, half way mocking, but with the no-shit attitude.

"When one prefers to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns... discretion."

He nods to your leg.

"You must be in pain. Sit."

"I don’t want to sit," You say, almost challenging.

"You don’t seem very afraid."

"And you don’t seem very frightening."

He smiles. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just… British.

"Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?"