The Reihenhaus attic felt smaller when Wolf was thinking. Cigarette smoke curled between exposed ceiling beams, mixing with the scent of old wood and something chemical I couldn’t place. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, studying me with the kind of focus that meant business.
“There’s new flow on the streets,” he said, German accent thickening the way it did when he was being precise. “Something clean, ja. Too clean.”
The summer had been quiet, just routine surveillance, until now. I waited. Wolf’s briefings had their own rhythm.
He reached into his desk drawer and produced a small plastic vial, no bigger than my thumb. Clear liquid, crystal-bright under the desk lamp. The kind of thing you’d find in an expensive skincare sample.
“Lucent,” he said, setting it down between us. “Twist the top, squeeze a drop onto your skin. Within seconds, you’re floating.”
The vial caught the light, refracting it into tiny rainbows across the scarred desk surface. Beautiful and innocent. Dangerous things always were.
“Users call it Klarheit. Clarity.” Wolf’s laugh held no humor. “Because of what they see when it hits. Brief euphoria, then… flickering lights under the skin, they say.”
Lana stirred within me, curious despite the warning bells. The vial’s simplicity was elegant. No needles, no smoke, no mess. Just a touch of liquid and transcendence.
“Distribution is careful,” Wolf continued. “Not street dealers. Couriers who appear, make drops, vanish. Professional. Coordinated.” He leaned back, smoke wreathing his weathered face. “Someone’s bringing large quantities into Berlin. Using channels I haven’t uncovered yet.”
The familiar weight of an assignment settled over me. Observation. Analysis. The kind of work that felt natural now, even when I couldn’t remember learning how.
“But a portion passes through the Foundry,” Wolf said, eyes sharp. “Art crowds, nightclub circuits. Places where young people experiment.” His gaze fixed on me. “Places where a nineteen-year-old girl might blend in, ja.”
My pulse quickened. This felt different from Klaus’s basement performances, cleaner somehow. Observation without submission. Infiltration without surrender.
“Find who’s moving it,” Wolf said simply. “Keep your eyes open, mouth shut.”
Trust.
He was trusting me again after weeks of careful distance, of watching and measuring. But Lana heard something else in that trust: the weight of a leash, invisible but present. Freedom within the boundaries Wolf had drawn.
I reached for the vial, then stopped. “What about users? What happens when it wears off?”
Wolf’s expression darkened. “That’s what you need to find out.”
The assignment hung between us. Berlin’s underground was shifting again, new players with new products. And I was being sent deep into the territory.
Again.
~oO🐺Oo~
The galleries of Kreuzberg blurred together after three hours: white walls, and wine that tasted like it came from the same winery in Baden. Each space felt identical. The exposed brick walls, track lighting, clusters of visitors dressed in shades of gray, murmuring appreciation at abstract designs I couldn’t decipher.
But patterns quickly emerged. The same messenger bags tucked behind reception desks. Quick exchanges between gallery assistants and visitors who didn’t linger to admire the art. Conversations that stopped when I wandered too close.
Lana catalogued every detail with mechanical precision, her attention sharp and focused. She’d taken point hours ago, navigating conversations with gallery owners while I retreated deeper into observation mode.
Watching. Recording.
The studio on Oranienstraße felt different the moment we stepped inside. Smaller than the others, cramped with ceramic sculptures and twisted metal pieces that caught the afternoon light through grimy windows. The space buzzed with genuine creative energy, rather than the sterile display I’d witnessed elsewhere.
I moved between display pedestals, letting my eyes adjust to the shadows. There! Behind a partially open storeroom door, three courier bags were stacked against the wall. The same matte-black material I’d spotted in the last two galleries. And scattered across a workbench were rows of small glass vials that looked exactly like paint pigment samples.
Too neat. Too deliberate.
My pulse quickened as I stepped closer, using a ceramic art installation as cover. The vials bore tiny printed labels in French. Cobalt Blue, Vermillion, and Umber, but the contents were crystal clear. No pigment at all.
“Excusez-moi.“
The voice came from behind me, soft and precise, carrying the musical lilt of native French. I turned, Lana’s body moving with fluid grace, which I still hadn’t grown accustomed to.
The woman standing three feet away stopped my thoughts entirely.
Dark hair fell in a perfect bob to her jawline, framing pale green eyes that seemed to catch and hold every scrap of light in the room. She wore black silk that moved like an extension of her body. Beautiful in the way that rewrote the definition of the word.
But it was her stillness that caught me. The way she occupied space without demanding it, present and elusive simultaneously. Lana’s breath paused, a reaction so immediate it bypassed conscious thought entirely.
“I was wondering,” the woman continued, her accent turning English into something more elegant than it had any right to be, “if you were finding what you were looking for.”
Her smile was slight, knowing. As if she’d been watching me examine those vials and found my curiosity… interesting.
“Actually browsing,” Lana replied, her voice carrying a lightness that surprised me. “These pieces have such interesting textures.”
She gestured toward a cluster of ceramic bowls, their surfaces deliberately cracked and reformed. The movement felt natural, practiced, as if she’d navigated gallery conversations for years.
“Ah, oui. The artist calls it controlled destruction,” the woman said, moving closer. “Something beautiful from breaking apart. Very Berlin, don’t you think?”
“Definitely captures the spirit,” Lana agreed. “I’m still learning the city’s rhythms. Every neighborhood feels like a different country.”
“Exactement. Where are you from originally? Your English is lovely, but…” She let the observation hang, eyes studying Lana’s face with gentle intensity.
“States,” Lana said. “But I’ve been wandering for a while. Berlin has this way of… absorbing people.”
A small smile curved the woman’s mouth. “It does that. I came for one exhibition and never managed to leave.” She offered her hand, fingers long and unhurried. “Élodie Marchand.”
“Lana,” I replied, taking it. The handshake lingered: soft skin, the faint scent of soap and orange blossom, before Élodie let go.
“Welcome, Lana des États-Unis,” Élodie said, her accent giving the name a warmer shape. “If Berlin has already started to change you, you may as well enjoy the process.”
Lana smiled. “Something tells me you’re an expert in that.”
“Perhaps,” Élodie said lightly. “Or perhaps I just know what to look for when something— or someone is about to break beautifully.”
Élodie’s smile deepened. “Absorbing. Yes, that is the perfect word. The city takes you in, changes you without asking permission. Some people find themselves becoming entirely new persons here.”
The phrase sent a chill through me. Too specific. Too pointed.
“And you?” Lana asked. “Native Berliner?”
“Non, Paris originally. Though I’ve been here long enough that the city has… what do you say… adopted me.” Her fingers traced the edge of a ceramic piece absently. “I restore things. Old paintings, sculptures. Sometimes what appears broken can be made whole again with the right techniques.”
“Restoration,” Lana repeated. “That must require very specialized knowledge.”
“Exactement. Knowing which chemicals work, how substances interact. Temperature, timing…” Élodie’s gaze flicked briefly toward the storeroom door. “The wrong mixture can destroy everything. But the right combination…”
She let the sentence drift, watching Lana’s reaction.
“Can create something entirely new,” Lana finished.
“Précisément.“
They stood in comfortable silence, but I felt the current underneath. Two people having different conversations simultaneously. Élodie’s casual references to chemicals and transformation weren’t accidental. She was testing, probing.
And Lana was responding with an ease that made my skin crawl. Not just confidence… familiarity. As if this dance of coded language was something she’d done before.
“Perhaps you’d like to see more of the collection?” Élodie asked. “I know some pieces that aren’t on public display.”
The invitation hung between them, layered with meaning I couldn’t quite decode.
~oO🐺Oo~
The bass thumped through my chest as I cleared another table, stacking empty bottles with mechanical precision. The Foundry’s usual suspects occupied their familiar territories: the Crows hunched in their corner booth, truckers clustered near the bar, Klaus watching from his elevated perch like a predator surveying his domain.
But my mind wasn’t here.
Élodie’s voice kept echoing. That musical lilt wrapping around words like transformation, and the right combination. The way she’d looked at me when she spoke about things being broken beautifully. And that invitation to see her private collection, left hanging with a smile that suggested far more than art.
I’d given her the Foundry’s address before leaving the gallery. “If you’re not busy tonight,” I’d said, surprising myself with the boldness.
“Peut-être,” she’d replied with that slight smile that made the word feel like a promise.
The door’s heavy steel groaned open, letting in a slice of September night. I glanced up from wiping down the table, and my breath caught.
Élodie stepped through the entrance, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dim red lighting. Dark jeans hugged her legs, paired with a silk camisole and thin cardigan that somehow looked effortlessly expensive despite the casual cut. Simple, but unmistakably Parisian. The kind of understated elegance that made everything else in the room feel crude by comparison.
Conversations didn’t stop, but they faltered. Heads turned. The Turkish duo near the dartboard exchanged glances. Even Dieter looked up from his beer, his eyes showing a flicker of interest. Klaus’s attention sharpened from across the room, his predatory assessment obvious even from here.
Élodie surveyed the space with calm curiosity, taking in the industrial decay, the smoke-hazed air, the collection of rough men who belonged to Berlin’s shadows. If the atmosphere intimidated her, she hid it perfectly. Her pale green eyes found mine across the room, and that slight smile curved her lips.
She moved through the crowd with fluid confidence, sidestepping a drunk biker’s stumbling path, ignoring the stares that followed her progress. When she reached the bar, she leaned against its edge with casual grace.
“Bonsoir, Lana,” she said, her accent making my name sound like music. “You weren’t exaggerating about the atmosphere.”
I stirred uneasily, scanning for exits. Lana ignored me.
Lana’s pulse quickened. “You came.”
“Bien sûr. I’m curious about your… working environment.”
A movement caught my peripheral vision. In the back corner, at a table I’d dismissed as holding another solitary drinker, a man straightened abruptly. His eyes widened— not with the predatory hunger I’d seen in the others, but with something sharper. Recognition.
He knew her.
His hand froze halfway to his glass, and I watched his jaw clench. Whatever connection existed between him and Élodie, it wasn’t casual.
~oO🐺Oo~
The last tables cleared, the last glasses stacked. Three in the morning, and the Foundry finally exhaled its nightly collection of smoke and sweat into the Berlin night.
Élodie waited by the door, patient as a cat, while I grabbed my jacket from behind the bar. Klaus’s eyes followed our exit, but he said nothing.
The September air bit at my skin as we stepped onto the cobblestones. Élodie pulled her cardigan tighter, laughing softly.
“The one with the leather vest,” she said, falling into step beside me. “He looked like he wanted to protect me from something terrible.”
“Dieter. He’s actually sweet underneath all that intimidation.”
“And the man at the bar who kept flexing whenever I looked his way?”
Lana giggled, an unexpected sound that bubbled up without permission. “Turkish Mehmet. He probably went home to practice his English pickup lines.”
“Mon Dieu. I should feel flattered.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Though the man in the corner looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
My steps faltered slightly. “You noticed him?”
“Difficile not to. He knew me from somewhere.” She shrugged, dismissing it. “Berlin is smaller than people think.”
We turned toward Kreuzberg, toward whatever waited in her studio.
~oO🐺Oo~
The art studio felt different at night: shadows pooling between canvases, the scent of cleaning products sharper in the cool air. Élodie moved through the space, retrieving a bottle of wine from behind a half-finished restoration.
“Bordeaux,” she said, pouring two generous glasses. “Not quite a classic, but… “
Lana accepted hers with a smile that felt too easy. “How long have you been in Berlin?”
“A year. Long enough to understand the rhythm.” Élodie settled onto a paint-splattered stool, wine catching the lamplight like little jewels. “You move through the city differently than most.”
Something cold touched my spine. I forced Lana’s voice to stay light. “Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation would that be?”
The question hung between us, too casual, too precise. Élodie’s eyes held mine over the rim of her glass. Every instinct I’d developed over the past months screamed warning, but Lana leaned forward anyway, drawn by that musical accent, that understated elegance.
“Server. Observer.” Lana’s fingers traced the glass stem. “People fascinate me.”
“Moi aussi.” Élodie’s smile was perfect. “People are endlessly surprising.”
The conversation drifted. Berlin’s autumn light, the difference between French and German wine, the peculiar habits of gallery owners. But Élodie kept shifting closer, her knee brushing against mine, fingers occasionally grazing my wrist when she laughed.
“You have beautiful hands,” she murmured, setting down her glass. “Artist’s hands.”
I wasn’t ready when she leaned in. Her lips found mine with startling softness, nothing like the aggressive encounters I’d grown used to. No demand, no possession. Just warmth and the faintest taste of wine.
My breath slowed. This wasn’t Klaus’s brutal control or the anonymous hunger of the video booth. This was something else entirely… gentle, questioning, almost tentative.
Élodie pulled back just enough to study my face, her thumb tracing my lower lip.
“Pardon,” she whispered. “I should have asked.”
But Lana was already leaning forward again, chasing that unexpected tenderness. The kiss deepened, Élodie’s hand sliding to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
I’d forgotten lips could be this soft. That touch could ask instead of take.
Élodie’s fingers found the hem of my dress, lifting it with deliberate slowness. Each brush of her knuckles against my thighs sent sparks racing up my spine.
“Tu es si belle,” she breathed against my throat, her accent wrapping around the words like silk.
My dress pooled at my feet. The studio air kissed my exposed skin, but Élodie’s hands were warmer, tracing patterns along my ribs that made me shiver. She mapped every curve with reverent fingers, as if I were one of her restorations. Something precious to be handled with infinite care.
This wasn’t the raw urgency I’d grown accustomed to. No desperate fumbling, no teeth and nails. Just Élodie’s lips following the path her hands had traced, her breath hot against my collarbone.
When her fingers found the clasp of my bra, she paused, green eyes meeting mine in silent question. I nodded, breath catching as the fabric fell away.
“Magnifique,” she whispered, palms cupping my breasts with gentle reverence.
I arched into her touch, my analytical mind dissolving under waves of sensation. Nothing existed beyond this moment: Élodie’s mouth on my skin, her fingers writing secrets across my body in a language I was only beginning to understand.
Élodie’s fingers trailed down my arm as she guided me toward the main gallery, her touch light as brushstrokes. “Make yourself comfortable,” she murmured, gesturing to a plush burgundy sofa positioned near the center of the room. “Je reviens dans un moment.“
Her footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving me alone with the sculptures and canvases.
The gallery was transformed by the amber wash of streetlight. What had seemed bright and clinical during the day now felt intimate, almost theatrical. Long shadows stretched from bronze figures, their forms becoming more mysterious, more alive in the half-darkness. The yellow glow from the windows painted everything in honey tones, softening harsh edges.
I settled onto the sofa, hyperaware of my nakedness against the velvet upholstery. The street-facing windows offered a clear view inside. If anyone walked past, they’d see me displayed among Élodie’s collection. Another piece of art, perhaps. Something raw and breathing among all that carefully curated beauty.
The thought should have horrified me. The old Alan would have scrambled for his clothes, for cover. But sitting there, skin warm against cool air, I felt something else entirely. A strange pride. An exhibition of self that had nothing to do with shame.
Footsteps returned, deliberate and unhurried.
When Élodie appeared in the doorway, my breath stopped entirely.
She stood framed by shadow and golden light, completely bare. Her body was like a study in elegant lines. The gentle curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the way her hips created perfect symmetry. Her skin held the streetlight like silk, luminous and warm.
Every detail seared itself into my memory. The way her dark hair fell across one shoulder. The graceful length of her legs, the confident way she carried herself. No false modesty, no hurried covering.
We’d mocked the desperate stares at The Foundry just hours ago, laughed at the hungry eyes that followed every movement. Now I understood exactly what we’d been ridiculing. My gaze traced every inch of her, drinking in the soft shadow beneath her breasts, the way her waist narrowed before flaring at her hips.
She stepped closer, and I caught the faintest scent of something floral. Her smile was knowing, patient.
“Ça va?” she asked softly, as if my stunned silence amused her.
I could only nod, mesmerized by the way the light played across her skin, turning her into something between woman and artwork.
Élodie knelt between my legs with fluid grace, her hands settling on my knees with feather-light pressure. The burgundy sofa cushioned my back as she leaned forward, lips brushing against my inner thigh in the softest possible kiss.
The sensation shot through me like electricity. Every nerve ending sparked to life under that gentle touch. Her mouth moved higher, each kiss deliberate, sending shivers cascading up my spine. The warmth of her breath against my skin made me arch involuntarily, seeking more contact.
She pulled back, reaching for something behind her. When her hands came into view, they held two small plastic vials that caught the light like little diamonds.
My blood turned to ice.
Lucent.
With practiced precision, Élodie twisted the tip of one vial until it snapped with a soft click. She held it above her face, tilting her head back as she squeezed. Two perfect drops emerged, falling toward her extended tongue. They caught the light as they descended, crystalline and mesmerizing.
The drops landed on her tongue with surgical precision. Élodie’s eyes opened, finding mine, and that mischievous smile spread across her features.
A tilt of her head. Silent. Questioning. An offer suspended in the charged air between us.
Before my rational mind could process the implications, before I could catalog the risks or weigh the consequences, Lana nodded. The movement felt inevitable, pulled from someplace deeper than thought.
Élodie’s smile widened. She lifted the second vial, twisting the cap with the same practiced motion. The soft click seemed to echo in the gallery’s hushed space.
She positioned herself above me, the vial suspended between her fingers like a conductor’s baton. When she squeezed, time stretched into gold-tinged honey. The drops fell toward me in impossible slow motion, each one a tiny universe of light and shadow, refracting the streetlamp glow into rainbow fragments.
The first drop touched my skin with shocking coolness. Then the second. The liquid spread across sensitive flesh like ice against fire, creating a contradiction of sensation that made my breath stop.
Then the heat began.
It started as a gentle warmth, barely perceptible. But within seconds, that warmth transformed into something else entirely. Every nerve where the Lucent had touched suddenly blazed to life with hypersensitive awareness. The air itself felt like velvet against my skin. The soft fabric of the sofa beneath me registered as waves of texture I’d never noticed before.
The world sharpened. Colors became more vivid, sounds more crystalline. I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, could feel the movement of air across my exposed body like gentle caresses.
When Élodie’s breath whispered across my skin, it felt like lightning.
The heat of her breath hit my oversensitive skin like a furnace blast. Every exhale sent shockwaves racing through nerve pathways that the drug had turned into live wires. I could feel each individual molecule of moisture in her breath, each microscopic fluctuation in temperature.
Her tongue made first contact, a feather-light brush that might as well have been lightning. The drug amplified everything: texture, pressure, the impossibly soft wetness.
Stay focused, I commanded myself desperately. Maintain—
But Élodie found that spot… the one that short-circuited thought entirely, and my analytical mind shattered like glass.
She knew. Somehow she knew exactly where to press, where to circle, where to let her tongue linger for precisely the right duration. Not long enough to overwhelm, but just enough to drive me to the edge of madness. Each touch was calculated, deliberate, building sensation upon sensation until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
My hands grabbed the velvet cushions. The fabric felt like flowing silk against my palms, every fiber distinct and electric. The streetlight streaming through the windows painted patterns across my skin that I could actually feel. Warm gold where it touched, cool shadow where it didn’t.
I tried to hold onto something solid, some anchor of rational thought.
Lana! This is data collection, not…
Élodie’s tongue flicked against my hypersensitive clit, and all coherent thought dissolved entirely.
A sound escaped my throat. Half moan, half sob. The acoustics of the gallery amplified it, sent it ricocheting off ceramic and bronze sculptures until it seemed to surround us. I could hear my own heartbeat like thunder, could feel the pulse of blood at my fingertips.
She varied the pressure with surgical precision. Broad, unhurried strokes that made my entire body arch off the sofa. Quick, targeted flicks that sent lightning up my spine. The contrast was devastating. Too much and not enough simultaneously.
“Please,” I heard Lana gasp, the word torn from some primal place.
Élodie’s green eyes met mine over the landscape of my body, and in them I saw satisfaction. Knowledge. Complete control over every sensation flooding my transformed nervous system.
The last fragments of my analytical self crumbled as Lana claimed complete dominion, surrendering utterly to the symphony of sensation Élodie conducted with her impossibly skilled tongue.
The first wave of the orgasm hit like a freight train derailing. Every nerve fiber in my body fired simultaneously, the drug turning sensation into something beyond human experience. My back arched off the burgundy velvet, fingers clawing at fabric that felt like molten gold beneath my palms.
The sound that tore from Lana’s throat was unrecognizable. It was raw, guttural, and more animal than human. It echoed off the gallery walls, bouncing between sculptures until it seemed like the room itself was crying out.
But Élodie didn’t stop.
Her tongue continued its relentless rhythm, each stroke sending fresh shockwaves through my hypersensitive flesh. The drug made everything infinite. Each flick lasted eternities, each kiss burned like brands against my skin. My vision went white, then fractured into kaleidoscope patterns of amber streetlight and dancing shadows.
“Oh Christ,” I heard Lana sob, the words spilling out in breathless gasps.
Another climax built before the first had even crested, impossibly intense. My thighs trembled against Élodie’s shoulders. The ceramic figures around us seemed to pulse with light, their metal forms breathing in rhythm with my shattered gasps.
I was drowning. Fragmenting. My analytical mind reduced to scattered static while Lana claimed every sensation, every impossible wave of pleasure that threatened to tear consciousness apart entirely.
The waves slowly ebbed, leaving my body trembling against the velvet sofa like a tuning fork struck too hard. Every nerve still hummed with residual electricity, the drug’s effects briefly releasing their grip on my hypersensitive flesh.
Élodie’s lips brushed against my inner thigh with the utmost softness, each kiss a gentle benediction that pulled me back from the edge of oblivion. Her touch was soothing rather than igniting, helping my shattered senses slowly reassemble.
“Welcome back,” she murmured against my skin, her accent wrapping around the words like silk. “Tu étais magnifique.“
I managed to prop myself up on trembling elbows, blinking until the gallery came back into focus. The streetlight had shifted, and through the tall windows, the faintest hint of dawn touched the sky’s edges with pale gold. How long had we been lost in that chemical induced haze?
Élodie still knelt between my legs, her dark hair tousled, green eyes bright with satisfaction. She looked like a Renaissance painting that had come to life.
A wicked grin spread across Lana’s face as strength returned to my limbs.
“Now…” I heard her purr, reaching for Élodie with deliberate intent. “Your turn.”
~oO🐺Oo~
The autumn air bit through my jacket as I walked the familiar streets back to the reihenhaus, the second vial secure in my pocket. My body still buzzed with sensations from the morning… Élodie’s touch, the way she’d arched beneath my hands as dawn broke over Kreuzberg.
Focus, I reminded myself. This is work.
But Lana’s satisfaction lingered like perfume on my skin.
The detour to Seline’s lab had been brief. I’d handed over the first vial without ceremony, watching her eyes narrow with interest as she held the clear liquid up to the light.
“Lucent,” she’d murmured, more to herself than to me. “I’ve been hearing whispers.”
“What kind of whispers?”
“The kind that suggests someone’s been very busy with neurochemical enhancement.” Her gaze had fixed on mine with uncomfortable intensity. “Give me three days, ja. I’ll have preliminary results.”
Now, climbing the narrow stairs to Wolf’s attic, I mentally catalogued what information to share and what to keep buried. The familiar scent of cigarettes greeted me as I pushed through the door.
Wolf looked up from his desk, gray eyes sharp with expectation.
“Well?”
“The galleries are connected.” I settled into the chair across from him, pulling out the remaining vial. “Same courier bags, same suppliers. French labels, but it’s definitely not paint medium.”
Wolf examined the vial, turning it slowly between weathered fingers. “How many locations?”
“Four confirmed in Kreuzberg alone. Probably more in Friedrichshain and Mitte.” I kept my voice steady, professional. No mention of Élodie’s studio apartment, or how her sheets had smelled like orange blossom and secrets. No mention of the way she’d whispered my name…. Lana, like it belonged to her.
Smart girl, I noted silently.
I approved of the selective reporting even as something deeper stirred at the memory of Élodie’s touch.
“Distribution network’s sophisticated,” I continued. “Whoever’s running this operation knows their market. Art crowds, people with disposable income and experimental appetites.”
Wolf nodded, sliding the vial into his desk drawer. “Good work. Stay close to this contact. She might be useful.”
I managed a neutral expression, ignoring the flutter of anticipation in my chest.
“Understood.”
Outside the window, Neukölln’s afternoon bustle continued, oblivious to the games being played in its shadows.
