Dragnelle walked the uneven sidewalks of Antananarivo, her cane tapping rhythmically against the cracked pavement, as the city around her throbbed with vibrant life. The air was thick with the mingling scents of ripe tropical fruits and the warm, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread, all tainted by the faint tang of exhaust from the cars navigating the narrow, winding streets. Vendors, their voices loud and persistent, called out their wares to the passersby. The hustle of commerce blended seamlessly with the hum of conversation, creating a chaotic but harmonious symphony of the city's pulse.
Her gaze flicked from one vendor to the next, her sharp eyes scanning the lively market stalls, noting the colorful fabric hanging from canopies, the shiny fish glistening on ice, and the ever-present, bustling masses of locals moving with hurried purpose. But despite the sensory overload around her, Dragnelle's mind remained fixed, laser-focused on the task ahead. Her fingers, hidden within the folds of her coat, absently toyed with the pill bottle in her pocket, her thoughts spinning with the implications of the day's meetings and the steps still needed to complete her intricate plans.
Her destination loomed ahead—a squat, dilapidated building nestled among the more well-kept structures in the area, standing as an outlier in the vibrant energy that surrounded it. The police station was far from what anyone might consider impressive, a rundown relic of bureaucracy. The faded blue paint on the outside barely held its color, while the heavy iron door looked as if it had been slammed one too many times, its hinges protesting every push. Dragnelle didn't bat an eyelash at the sight. She wasn't here to admire architecture, nor was she concerned with the condition of the building. Her purpose was clear, and she'd be in and out with efficiency.
Pushing open the door with a soft creak, she stepped into the dimly lit interior. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and old coffee. The walls were covered in peeling paint, giving the space a sense of quiet decay. The worn desks and disheveled officers moving about the room spoke volumes about the state of the institution. No one here seemed to be in much of a hurry, their tired faces a testament to the daily grind of a station long neglected. Despite the apparent dysfunction, Dragnelle's sharp eyes scanned the room methodically, cataloging every detail in her mind.
A young man at the front desk looked up as she approached, his expression a mix of suspicion and boredom. The flicker of interest in his eyes when he saw her, the way he assessed her—this was not the first time someone had walked through those doors with an agenda. But before he could open his mouth to address her, Dragnelle slid a thick stack of cash across the counter, her fingers brushing lightly against the cold surface. His eyes widened imperceptibly as he saw the money, and without another word, he quickly pocketed the bills, his demeanor shifting from indifference to quiet professionalism.