Gezza killed the engine outside Marie's building. The Benz ticked hot in the dusk, metal cooling like a spent shell.
The Playbook burned against his thigh inside the bag.
Third taste. Third toll.
He stepped out. The porch light snapped on too fast, like it recognized his shadow.
Elevator doors slid shut behind him. He tapped his foot, rapid-fire, the cage zipping upward. What the hell was that? His hand raked through greasy hair, down his face, sweat crusted under his nails. The LED climbed: 2… 3… 4. Ding.
He spilled out before the doors finished opening. Door 3B loomed. He pounded—three hard knocks echoing down the empty hall.
"Come on," he muttered, fist raised again.
"I'm coming!" Marie's voice, muffled, irritated.
He froze, palm flat against the wood, forehead pressed to the cool surface. Eyes dropped to the scuffed floor, then to the bag slung heavy on his shoulder. The Playbook pulsed once warm, alive, hungry..
