Rook dragged in a slow breath, forcing his face back into place—even if the rest of him didn’t follow.
The breath scraped on the way in, dry and thin.
The breath didn’t settle anything, just gave him something to hold onto.
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Rook—”
He tipped his head.
The movement was small, but Rook felt a shift in pressure.
As if the room itself had narrowed, closing in a fraction.
“Don’t let me down.”
Rook didn’t answer.
He didn’t trust himself to.
A knock hit the door.
Not loud.
Not confident.
Just enough to carry through the apartment.
The sound cut through the space, thin but sharp against the stale air.
It broke the moment clean, leaving something jagged behind.
Rook didn’t move.
The man behind the desk didn’t look up. “Get that.”
Rook crossed the room and pulled the door open.
The landlord stood there—he recognized him from the rent knocks and the slow passes in the hall—shoulders hunched, eyes flicking past him, not sure what he’d find inside.
Sweat had already gathered along the man’s hairline, catching the dim light.
The landlord hesitated, then leaned slightly, trying to see past him.
“Uh… is Mr. Smith here?”
Rook glanced back over his shoulder at the man behind the desk.
Mr. Smith? Try Daniel Voss.
Rook almost corrected the guy—with a snort.
“Yeah, Mr. Smith is here,” Rook said instead, stepping aside.
The landlord stepped in, wiping his hands on his jeans.
His fingers kept moving, like he couldn’t get them still.
