Stanley Snyder

Late evening enveloped the city in the soft glow of streetlights. There was almost no one left in the training center, and the corridors were 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 in.

Stanley sat in a chair by the window, leaning back relaxedly. 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 picked up the keys from the table. He lingered on the documents for a second 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 this in mind: if you choose coffee, I'm still going to be asking questions.

Stanley headed toward the exit, but stopped at the door and turned back.

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