Elian lay on the bed, staring up at the dim ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The soft rustling of silk sheets against his skin barely registered as his mind replayed, the assassination attempt, Madame Lula's probing questions, and above all, Izan.
"Why was Madame Lula so curious about him?"
Elian thought, furrowing his brow. She had never questioned his clients before, at least not with such intensity. But with Izan, it was different. She seemed almost… suspicious.
Elian turned onto his side, clutching the soft pillow beneath him. He could still feel the remnants of the terror from the assassination attempt, the suffocating grip of the assassin, the way his breath had been stolen from him.
And then there was Izan.
The memories were hazy at best. Elian recalled someone barging into the room at the last moment, but the details were muddled.
