Outside, the street was empty except for the storm. I dragged myself toward the row of metal trash bins near the curb. Lifting the bag felt impossible, my hands numb and slick with rain. When I tried, it slipped from my grip and slammed onto the pavement with a heavy, metallic sound.
The plastic split open.
I froze.
There was no garbage inside.
Instead, through the torn plastic, I saw the edge of a sleek, reinforced briefcase—matte black, the kind designed to protect something valuable.
My breath caught in my throat.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the cold water soaking through the thin fabric of my nightgown. With trembling hands, I tore the bag open completely. The case stared back at me, untouched by the rain. A biometric lock gleamed faintly under the streetlight, but beside it was a key slot—and attached to the handle was a small titanium key.
My fingers shook so badly I nearly dropped it as I inserted the key and turned.
Click.
The case opened.