Several minutes later, Don was back behind the wheel.
The Mustang slid down the stretch of road toward the distant silhouette of Ebon Crest Tower, reflections skating along the hood as the city rolled past. He leaned back into the seat, one hand loose on the wheel.
The track jacket he wore—black with red stripes and SHU stamped bold across the chest—hung unzipped halfway, chain catching the occasional gleam of the light as it shifted against his shirt.
A ping lit the dash. Don's eyes flicked to the screen.
Gary.
He didn't bother answering. He just eased the car forward, engine growling steady underfoot.
Minutes later, the Mustang dipped into the familiar private car park. The air carried the faint scent of polish and chemicals—android cleaners on rotation, their metal arms wiping wax across Charles's lineup of exotic toys.
Chrome and candy paint gleamed under the overhead LEDs. Don spared the rows one glance before swinging into his usual spot.
