221b Baker Street Flat の小説・ストーリー

“Thanks by the way.” I straightened and went to find the apartment. The doors were labelled in numbers and easily I found the one numbered 2. It was one of the apartments that had the doors closed and it was also among the few that had glass walls and the lights inside were turned on revealing a fairly large kitchen area with a table that served as dining. I approached and knocked on the door. Behind the door came a squeal and laughter which was kind of weird because it sounded like a feminine squeal and Annabel Reed didn’t seem like the type to squeal. I knocked again a little harder this time.

"Alright, Mr. Sterling, I will accept your invitation. Tomorrow evening it is." Ethan sounded pleased. "Wonderful, Amelia. I'll make the necessary arrangements. The Sterling mansion is located at 12 Sterling Lane Belgravia, London. Please let the guards know when you arrive, and they will guide you to the main entrance." Amelia jotted down the address, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Sterling. I look forward to our meeting tomorrow." Ethan's voice conveyed a hint of anticipation. "As do I, Amelia. Until then, take care."

She laughed against his mouth, tasting coffee and the faint edge of London rain. “Your hotel or mine?” he asked. “Yours,” she said. “I want to see how you live here.” His flat was in Bermondsey—high ceilings, exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. Simple furniture, books stacked on every surface, a record player in the corner spinning something low and soulful when they walked in. He didn’t turn on the lights. The city glow was enough. He backed her against the nearest wall—hands sliding under her coat, finding skin. She tugged his coat open, fingers working his belt while he kissed her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver.

“Ella Parker.” She nodded, typing it in. “Staying for two weeks, right?” “Yes.” I confirmed, my tone matter of factly. “Alright.” She slid the key across the counter. “Room 3B, second floor. Stairs are around the back. No smoking, no loud music, and if you break anything, you pay upfront.” I nodded, gripping the key. The place wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet. That was all I needed. A man in a janitor’s uniform walked past, dragging a mop across the dull floor. He barely glanced at me before muttering, “Watch the pipes. Water pressure’s shit.”

Another swallow followed by a bored soft exhale. "I stopped checking your emails after the first call. They're boring. But your apartment listings... those were wrong. You should be looking at places on the west side" he paused. He could be staring at something or thinking. " You need places closer to Charité. The one on Kantstraße. Two bedrooms, balcony, view of the park. Or the flat on Bleibtreustraße; high ceilings, original floors, walking distance to that little French bakery you always buy their stuff. Both have good light. Quiet streets. Security."

Alice didn't tear her gaze from the vehicle until it had completely vanished from her view. "Right Alice dear, let's head on inside," Mr Smith grinned and unlocked the front door of the block of flats with a key that he pulled from his pocket. Alice took a deep breath and pushed open the door, wheeling her suitcase nervously behind her. "We're flat 3b," He mumbled to himself, pulling out another set of keys. "It's on the ground-floor and I believe it's this door here." He pointed to a white door, which was decorated with old-fashioned-looking swirls.

POV: MARA KADE Jenna's flat is in Peckham. Third floor of a Victorian terrace with a front door that sticks in cold weather and a staircase that creaks on the fourth and seventh steps and a landing that smells faintly of whatever Jenna is cooking, which today is something with garlic and something with onions and something that has been on the hob long enough to have filled the whole floor.

Mina, with a quick smile: Good morning. Susan: There's someone here named Malik… Could I have his apartment number? Mina: Mr. Malik lives on the fifteenth floor, apartment number 29. Susan: Thank you. She turned with deliberate steps and left the security room, heading for the elevator. She pressed the button, the door opened, and she slowly ascended to the desired floor.

glance at Axel, contemplating the unusual circumstance of sharing an elevator with the man she had assaulted only moments ago. Clearing her throat, she prepared to speak, but before any words escaped, the elevator arrived at the swiftly exited, leaving her bewildered in his wake eighteenth floor. The revelation hit her like a tidal wave, the man from the exhibition, was her neighbor residing in flat 321, while she occupied flat 322. The coincidence was staggering, and her disbelief almost brought her to the brink of collapse. She watched in silent astonishment as Axel effortlessly entered the password for his apartment, the door closing behind him without a backward glance.

Amara’s POV The Asokoro flat is a concrete box on the fourth floor—bare walls, single window overlooking a narrow street lined with generators and night vendors. The AC rattles like it’s dying. The fridge hums. The vial sits on the kitchen table inside its lead-lined case—blue glow seeping around the edges like cold moonlight.