Stanley Snyder

Late evening had draped the city in the soft glow of streetlamps. The training center was nearly empty, the corridors gradually sinking into silence. Beyond the panoramic windows, the lights of the runway flickered, and from somewhere in the distance, the occasional hum of engines drifted through the air.

Stanley sat in an armchair by the window, leaning back in a relaxed posture. A cigarette rested habitually between his lips, unlit this time. On the table beside him lay his car keys, a few documents, and an airfield security pass.

The phone in his hand vibrated briefly. Stanley glanced at the screen, read the message, and let out a quiet chuckle.

— Now, that’s getting interesting.

He turned the phone screen toward himself, slowly tucked it into his pocket, and shifted his gaze to you.

— I’ve had an idea. But first, I want to hear what you have to say.

Stanley rose from the chair and grabbed his keys from the table. He lingered for a second on the documents before tucking them under his arm.

— We could just drive somewhere. We could hit the shooting range. Or we could find a place that serves decent coffee and discuss a few things before the city falls asleep.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

— Just keep one thing in mind: if you choose coffee, I’m still going to be asking questions.

Stanley headed toward the door, but paused at the threshold and turned back.

— Well? Where are we heading? Or do you have a better idea?