The Fugue in Flee Minor

The abandoned warehouse smelled of dust, stale motor oil, and desperate fear. Outside, the sirens were a tightening noose, wailing closer every second. Deek pressed his back against a rusting stack of industrial pallets, wiping sweat from his brow. Carter crouched low beside him, his eyes wide and tracking the shifting shadows cast by the weak security light filtering through a high, grimy window.

.

.

.

“They’ve boxed us in, Deek,” Carter hissed, his voice trembling. “That perimeter alarm wasn’t silent enough. They know we’re in this sector.”

Deek nodded grimly. The ‘manhunt’ wasn’t for a missing jewel or a minor corporate scandal; it was for the confidential files they had taken—files that implicated half the city’s political elite. They were exposed, exhausted, and running on fumes.

Then there was Daphne.

Daphne sat cross-legged atop an overturned, paint-splattered barrel, seemingly oblivious to the escalating crisis. Her coat was ripped, her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her expensive leather boots were scuffed beyond recognition, yet she maintained an air of strange, unsettling serenity.

“We need to move. Now,” Deek urged, motioning toward a narrow vent shaft high up on the far wall. “It’s our last shot. Carter, give me a boost.”

Carter pushed himself up, but before his hands could find purchase on the metal siding, a sound cut through the tense silence—a sound that was wholly, inexplicably out of place.

Daphne began to hum.

It was a low, clear tone, the start of an improvised, almost ethereal melody. Deek froze, his nerves already shredded, convinced the sound would attract the attention of the officers sweeping the next aisle over.

“Daphne! What are you doing? Shut up!” Deek mouthed, his eyes blazing in a silent demand.

Daphne only smiled, a small, sad curve of her lips that carried no fear. She adjusted her posture on the barrel and then, in a voice that was pure, trained soprano, she began to sing.

The words were not part of any song Deek or Carter recognized. They were a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy, a dramatic lament set to a powerful, soaring tune that echoed off the high ceiling beams.

“…The nets are drawn, the city sleeps, yet every eye is on the prize! The ledger stained, the silence deeps, beneath these unforgiving skies…”

Carter looked at Deek, his confusion morphing into disbelief and then utter, slack-jawed panic. He pointed a trembling finger at Daphne. “She’s… she’s singing! We’re surrounded by the police, and she’s putting on a show!”

Deek felt a furious, desperate surge of adrenaline. Was she having a breakdown? Had the pressure finally cracked her polished, eccentric facade? He lunged toward her, intending to clap a hand over her mouth.

But as he moved, the quality of her voice changed. It wasn’t just loud; it was captivating. The melody was heart-wrenching, the delivery filled with an operatic tragedy that commanded attention.

Suddenly, two shadows fell across the opening of their aisle. A voice barked: “Clear!”

Deek and Carter flattened themselves against the pallets, hearts hammering, certain they had been found. But the officer who rounded the corner stopped dead, his flashlight beam momentarily dancing over Daphne on her barrel, before freezing on her face.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t draw his weapon. He simply stood there, mesmerized by the sheer, audacious spectacle of a beautiful woman singing an aria of despair amidst a crime scene.

“…I gave my truth to save the rest! But truth is lost and justice blind! Now let the wind put me to test, and leave my wicked world behind!” she sang, her voice swelling to a magnificent climax.

The officer lowered his flashlight slightly, just staring.

Deek seized the moment of confusion. He grabbed Carter’s arm, yanked him toward the vent shaft, and with a silent, desperate scramble, pushed him up. The music was their unexpected cover, a baffling, unbelievable distraction.

As Deek pulled himself through the tight opening, he risked a final glance back. The officer hadn’t moved. In fact, another officer had appeared behind him, equally paused, equally stunned. Daphne was finishing her final, fading note, her face serene, victorious.

They escaped into the dusty ventilation system, the last, lingering sound they heard before the silence of the ducts enveloped them, being the faint, confused murmuring of the officers—not the sound of guns or pursuit, but the hesitant, whispered questions of men trying to comprehend the musical chaos they had just witnessed.

Daphne, Deek knew, was either the most genius fugitive or the most spectacularly insane person he had ever met. And he had a terrible feeling that she had done it entirely on purpose.