-vixen- Alina Lopez - What Do We Do -29.01.2018- -

“I have a third option,” she said softly, and dialed. End of story.

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.

“What do we do?” she whispered, not turning around.

“You lied,” she said. “About Geneva. About why you really came to my exhibition.” -Vixen- Alina Lopez - What Do We Do -29.01.2018-

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?”

It seems you’re referencing a specific title that includes a performer name, a date, and a studio (“-Vixen-”). I don’t have access to or information about the specific scene or narrative from that production.

She turned. In the dim light, his face was a mask of angles and regret. “I have a third option,” she said softly, and dialed

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.

The snow fell in silent, furious waves against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. Alina stood with her back to the room, her breath fogging the cold glass. Behind her, the fire crackled, casting long, trembling shadows.

“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.” The vixen, she realized, wasn’t a file

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Neither was he.

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.”

She picked up the phone.

The voice that answered was low, worn smooth by sleepless nights. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”