“Have you seen the letter? Marco asked me.

“I am seeing it for the past three hours.” Reasha replied.

“Great, what do you know?” He was smoking again.

“This is an eight page story.

First page is written to you.

Next two pages is written to me.

Fourth page onwards is the poetry stretching to the eighth page.

I have read my part thrice. I haven’t reached the poetry in depth frankly.”

“Great. But what do you see?”

“Ammm….nine names, nine names of countries, with cities. A para each for each place.”

“Great.”

Marco left me alone. I sipped my cold coffee which Martin brought me.

Martin and Rocky were given a nice room and they planned to sleep the whole day.

“My mobile is on. Anytime you need us, let me know. There is not much you can do with captivity which does not punish you.” He whispered into my ears before leaving.

*************. *******************. *******************

“Why don’t you read it again? To be very honest I don’t have much time.” Marco exhaled a ring of smoke.

“Who is the Boss if not you? After a smooth ride, a detour to show her a creation, she expected least of all an answer which portrays Marco as a victim.

“Many bosses. This is far more complicated than you think. I am sorry I had to drag you into this, I had no other choice. The day you found me, from then I have only six months. My daughter is with them. She works in a facility which is owned by these people and she does not know that. If I fail she would not be found again.”

“What?” Reasha did not know what to think. It seemed again a total upsurge.

“Trust me. I can only talk to you aloud in this room. But on the outside I do not know who is who?” Marco was smoking another cigarette, he was done with the first.

“How do you know this facility is safe?” I looked around, a small room with a coffee vending machine, a table full of cookies and three chairs and a single table, all white, flaming white. Reasha sat on one, Marco sat on the other chair and one chair was left blank.

“Xi and her guy, are the only one who are aware of it’s presence. It is actually a toppled position and people store garbage below it. They think the terrace was extended to the roof for ease.” He threw the ash on the floor, he looked tensed. No longer laughing, no longer forming poetry, no longer the carefree man, but a more somber, detached individual.