Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
The front desk man is a spy for a famous French chef, hoping to stealing the pastry recipes of the shop down the street. And the lovely shop girl who just delivered a box of-- what is most certainly-- pastries is his secret accomplice. The note she passed him while blushing has a recipe for the perfect croissant.
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The front desk man is a spy for a famous French chef, hoping to stealing the pastry recipes of the shop down the street. And the lovely shop girl who just delivered a box of-- what is most certainly-- pastries is his secret accomplice. The note she passed him while blushing has a recipe for the perfect croissant.
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