<span style="font-weight: bold">Gabriel Cross</span><br/><br/>The woman had slipped unbidden into the seat across from me exactly one week ago. She was beautiful, granted, but I was still annoyed with her presumptuous interruption of my dinner. â€œIâ€™m not really in need of a prostitute,â€ I had told her. She didnâ€™t actually have the look of a hooker, but I expected her to be offended enough to leave anyway. Instead, she just smiled, hailed a waiter and ordered a glass of red wine. An<span style="font-style: italic">expensive</span>glass of red wine. I was about to drag her away by a handful of that pretty red hair of hers when she spoke.<br/><br/>â€œIâ€™ve heard that youâ€™re the gentleman to see if youâ€™re looking for some information.â€<br/><br/>â€œThat would depend on what kind of information you want, and why you you want it.â€ I replied, irritation dimming to boredom. She hadnâ€™t looked like she had anything interesting to offer; I thought she probably wanted me to trail a cheating boyfriend or something. That shit was dull as hell.<br/><br/>She smiled smoothly as the waiter arrived with her wine. She swirled it, letting the aroma travel to her nose, then sipped it delicately.  â€œI donâ€™t particularly want the information.â€ she said. â€œBut my employers would like you to follow Piere Dumont.â€<br/><br/>That had captured my attention. Iâ€™d heard some unappetizing rumours about the politician. â€œOh? And who are you employers?â€<br/><br/>â€œMost know them as just Julius and Kaiser.â€<br/><br/>Now<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>was interesting. Those two were in the upper crust of one of the biggest coke operations in the city. â€œWhy do they want to know about Dumont?â€ I asked.<br/><br/>â€œI donâ€™t have any idea, darling. But they will pay you handsomely.â€ She placed a thick envelope on the table, which I reached for and opened, revealing several tens of thousands of dollars in cash. â€œThatâ€™s a quarter of the total. Youâ€™ll be paid the rest when you can tell them all there is to know about Mr. Dumont.â€<br/><br/>She stood as I slipped the money into my coat, officially accepting the job. She grinned in satisfaction. â€œIâ€™ll be in touch,â€ she said, then sauntered away, leaving her wine glass more than half full.<br/><br/>Iâ€™ve been following Dumont since.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Amber Littman</span><br/><br/>The Pulse Nightclub is filled with the crÃ¨me-de-la-crÃ¨me of New Yorkers: stars and millionaires all, each gyrating along to the deafening music with drinks in hands. The pounding beat is clear even in the back alley beside the club where I now stand, taking deep drags from my cigarette. I cross my arms over my chest, warding against the chilly air, my exasperation growing. I know Iâ€™ll have no trouble getting back into the club - Iâ€™m Asher Littmanâ€™s daughter for Godâ€™s sakes - but I donâ€™t like to be kept waiting, even by my customers. I donâ€™t know why theyâ€™d requested to meet in this filthy alley way anyways.<br/><br/>I take a final drag of my cigarette, and decide to abandon this junkie, whoâ€™s obviously too out of it to pick up his own drugs. I start towards clubâ€™s entrance just as a burly man turns the corner and comes towards me. Even in the dim light he doesnâ€™t look like the people I normally provide for, but I hesitate just in case. Sure enough, he stops in front of me. I sigh, just about to tell him just how much I appreciated waiting for twenty goddamn minutes, when he suddenly swings his arm around and cracks me on the head. I fall to the ground, white hot pain searing through my skull, and for a moment Iâ€™m staring up at him. Hazily, I notice the distinctive tattoos of one of the cityâ€™s most prevalent and vicious gangs littering the manâ€™s face, then everything goes dark.