The restaurant was nearly empty when Clare went back inside—chairs stacked, lights dimmed, the warmth of dinner replaced by a hollow quiet that made her footsteps echo. She had barely reached the host stand when the manager stepped in front of her, face tight. “Ma’am,” he said, already guiding her away, “I need you to come with me.”
He didn’t touch her, but she swayed anyway, her thoughts lagging behind the moment. In a narrow office, he lifted her bag from the desk. “This is yours?” Clare nodded, pulse racing. He reached inside and pulled out a small, unmarked sachet. White powder. Fine. Wrong. “Do you know what this is?” he asked softly.
The room tilted. She tried to answer, but her tongue wouldn’t move. The lights felt too bright. Her limbs too heavy. The sachet lay between them like an accusation as her balance failed. She heard her name, a door opening somewhere close—and with a sudden, chilling certainty, Clare realized whatever this was, it had already started.