14 July 2037
07:45
Westend Club, Westend, Frankfurt, Germany
The morning rain had left the streets slick, but the air inside the Westend Club was fresh and still. Sohel sat in the reception lounge, dressed in a crisp white tennis uniform, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Mitali sat across from him, tapping away on her tablet while keeping a careful eye on the entrance. Leon, silent as ever, stood behind Sohel like a watchful shadow, his black suit sharp against the polished floor.
They had been waiting almost half an hour when an olive-green Volkswagen rolled up to the entrance. The driver stepped out first — a towering Southeast Asian man, six foot five, built like a tank. His frame looked as if it had been carved out of stone, his suit straining against his massive shoulders. He tossed the car keys to an attendant without looking, then moved to the passenger door.
Out stepped Liora Schmidt. She wore a sleek green tracksuit with a black headband, her posture graceful, her movements precise. Even in something so casual, she radiated the kind of presence that came from knowing the world bent around her.
Without a word, she moved straight toward the courts, her driver falling into position near reception. Mitali tracked them with sharp eyes. When Liora disappeared beyond the glass doors, she looked back at Sohel. He gave her the slightest nod.
Mitali rose, smoothed her suit jacket, and walked over to the driver.
Ten minutes later, she returned. "It's done. Liora will play with you."
Sohel arched an eyebrow. "But?"
Mitali smirked. "Her PS — that hulk over there — says Liora loves wager matches. I told him you're a man of your word, the kind who won't blink at paying up if you lose."
Sohel chuckled and set down his coffee. "And how much will losing cost me?"
"Not much," Mitali said dryly. "Just a hundred euros."
"That's all?" He stood, stretching his arms. "Cheap price for rattling the queen."
The driver approached then, his heavy steps quiet for such a large man. Up close, his features looked almost cartoonish: flat square face, small sharp eyes, and brown hair brushed neatly. His expression was neutral, but his eyes carried nothing but emptiness.
"Excuse me," the man said with a faint accent. "I am Lee Tonkin, Ms Schmidt's personal security. You are the one who requested the match?"
Sohel shrugged. "Only if she plays with me."
Lee's lips curved just slightly. "Oh, she will. This way, please."
They walked into the viewing area, the faint squeak of tennis shoes echoing off the glass walls. Beyond the court, Liora stood with her back to them, watching the players on the far side. At the sound of footsteps, she turned.
Her smile was warm, almost disarming, as she extended her hand toward Sohel. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr Clark. Shall we play?"
The changing room sat just off the viewing gallery, curtains swaying faintly with the draught from the air vents. Liora disappeared behind one of them and, a few minutes later, re-emerged transformed. She now wore a fitted green jersey and a crisp white tennis skirt, her black headband unchanged. A sports bag dangled casually from her shoulder, bristling with rackets — like a warrior carrying her weapons to the field.
Without so much as a glance at Sohel, she strode past him, her pace brisk and certain. She didn't need to tell him to follow — she simply expected it.
The artificial turfs stretched out in neat lines, dew still clinging to the nets. A young marshall jogged up to intercept them, breathless with nervous energy.
"Court 4 is empty, Ms Schmidt," he stammered. "If you prefer a grass court, I'd recommend Court 16. The surface there—"
His words faltered under the weight of her stare. For a brief second, her eyes burnt — sharp, lethal, the kind of look that could cut through steel. The aura around her changed, predatory, and the marshall froze. Then, just as quickly, her expression softened back to polite composure.
"No," she said evenly, though her tone was iron. "We'll take Court 2."
The marshall hesitated. "But… that court is already occupied."
The fire returned, hotter this time. Sohel caught it — the brief flicker of murderous intent. It was the kind of look soldiers carried into battlefields, not tennis courts.
"No," she repeated, voice low and cold as frost. "We'll take Court 2."
The marshall swallowed, his composure cracking. "Ah—yes, yes, of course. I'll… I'll move them to Court 4." He scurried off like prey fleeing a predator.
Liora's gaze slid back to Sohel, her smile bright once more, as if the exchange had never happened. "Court 2's turf is excellent. You'll like it."
Sohel shrugged, his tone casual, almost amused. "As you say. It's my first time at this club."
At court 2, Liora took out a box of new balls from her bag. She brought out the six balls and took three for herself and threw the other three to Sohel. Without exchanging a word, she moved toward the far end of the court, claiming it as if it belonged to her, even though Sohel couldn't see any real advantage from that side.
They warmed up in silence. The sound of balls bouncing against the turf echoed in the cavernous space, a steady rhythm broken only by the squeak of their shoes. Sohel's eyes never left her—watching the way she shifted her weight, how she adjusted her grip, how she exhaled sharply before every swing.
That's when he noticed it: every time she attempted a forehand serve, the ball clipped the net. Once, twice, three times. A weakness? Or a carefully staged bluff? Knowing her reputation, Sohel suspected the latter. She was the type to bait an opponent into chasing openings that weren't there.
"Ready," Liora called out, her tone casual but carrying an edge of challenge. Again, she didn't bother to discuss rules or sets with him. This wasn't just tennis—it was control, and she intended to dictate the terms from the very first serve.