His name was Elias. Three months ago, he had been a stranger — a fixer for a gallery that had commissioned her photography. Now, he was the secret she wore like a second skin. The problem was the vixen. Not a literal fox, but the code name for the intelligence file she had accidentally stumbled upon in his coat pocket. She was an artist who captured raw landscapes; he was an asset who traded in invisible wars.
Elias reached into his jacket and placed a burner phone on the marble table between them. “There are two numbers programmed. One calls the FBI field office. The other calls a pilot in Telluride who owes me a favor. You choose.”
“You lied,” she said. “About Geneva. About why you really came to my exhibition.” -Vixen- Alina Lopez - What Do We Do -29.01.2018-
Alina looked at the phone, then at him. The vixen, she realized, wasn’t a file. It was a test. And this moment — this frozen second on the 29th of January — was the only honest thing he had ever given her.
She picked up the phone.
However, I can provide an original, fictional short story inspired by the evocative title “What Do We Do” and the name Alina (from “Alina Lopez”), set in a dramatic, character-driven context unrelated to any existing adult content. Castle Rock, Colorado – 29.01.2018
The clock on the mantel ticked past 11:47 PM. Outside, headlights swept across the driveway far below — too slow for a guest, too deliberate for a friend. His name was Elias
The voice that answered was low, worn smooth by sleepless nights. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. “So what do we do? Run? Fight? Or do I turn you in for the man you actually are?” The problem was the vixen
“I came because your photo of the frozen tundra — the one with the lone wolf track in the snow — made me feel something I thought I’d killed years ago.” He stepped closer, stopping just out of reach. “The file... the vixen operation... it was supposed to close last spring. But someone resurrected it. And now they think you’re the courier.”
She turned. In the dim light, his face was a mask of angles and regret.