Survival of the Weakest

Part I - Rising Moon

 "Americano without sugar, now." 

Annabel's commanding tone rumbled like thunder through the office, setting half-asleep workers in motion. She sat in a perfectly ironed black suit, polished high-heels and her styled blond hair fell on broad, jacket-cut shoulders; Her fingers with a fresh manicure were flying over the keyboard of a working MacBook.

This was a usual everyday appearance of Annabel Angelsborrow, and she would not expect anything less from herself. How many titles has she already managed to earn in her short career: A German Tigress, the owner of the fastest growing fashion atelier in the world, the most desired CEO... There were so many of them that if you hung each of them in a frame, they would not fit on all four walls of her spacious office.

"Madam..." the slim figure of a young, puny man hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched under the pressure of the hawkish gaze of the boss. 

"Don't waste my time. Put the documents on the table and march to clean up your desk. You're fired." 

"Please reconsider your decision!.." Annabel let out a heavy sigh, taking off her glasses with a thin golden frame and tiredly rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

"I'm not going to repeat it twice. Disappear." 

"But I, but I... I'm on the trail of the Souvivor, Mistress! Please, listen!" 

"Security!" 

"But wait!" The employee rushed to the boss's desk and tried to open one of his folders with shaking hands, but then the guards caught up with him and roughly wrapped his hands behind his back, taking him out of the office. His scream, like the scratching on blackboard, hurt Annabel's refined ears, and the lady winced from a slight but intrusive headache.

"Your Americano, madam." 

"Perish from my sight." Her subordinates were used to Annabel's sharp tongue, they just had to. The unfortunate intern quickly disappeared from the boss's sight, and an ideal silence for work hung in the office. And it lasted a surprisingly long time. An obscenely long time. It was the time in which her intrusive thoughts rambled about that strange dream she had a day before, and it was hard to remain focused.

"I think you should treat your workers with respect from time to time, you know." Annabel was startled by the unexpectedly loud, rough male baritone. Looking up from her work computer, she immediately changed her expression from frightened to detached. 

"Constantin. We arranged our meeting at five." the boss answered the uninvited guest dryly, looking at the screen again while watching out of the corner of her eye how a tall man approached Anabel and leaned on the edge of her desktop. 

"I know, darling, but there was a sudden change of plans of mine." Anabel could hear the smile in his tone, and she tensed without showing it. 

"Cut it short then, please." 

"It's about the whereabouts of the last Souvivor." 

"Prambem." - which meant something like a formal "dammit" or "don't tease my nerves" - "I'm managing the finances of our Council, if you forgot. Souvivors are none of my business." 

"I'm afraid to say it, Ann, but now they are of your business."

 "... I beg your pardon?" 

"I thought you'd already got the news." 

"About Stephanie's death last night? Yes,-" she gave a side eye to Constantine, a dark-tanned man with an army cut. "-but I don't understand why you want to shift her dirty work onto me. I'm sure there are plenty of candidates eager to take her place."