The movement was quick, nervous—as if he already knew he’d made a mistake.
“Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble,” he started. “Just need to talk about the rent. It’s late again, and I got—”
“You’re a problem,” Voss said flatly.
The landlord stiffened. “Not trying to be, sir. Just—trying to keep things squared away.”
A beat.
The fan rattled against the window, louder now in the pause.
Then, calm as ever—
“Rook. Handle it.”
Rook didn’t move right away.
His gaze flicked once to the side table.
A white envelope sat there.
Thick.
Untouched.
It stood out against the mess, too clean, too deliberate, out in the open.
He took a deep breath and grabbed the envelope.
When his boss said handle it, he meant handle it.
“Yes, sir.”
Rook ushered the landlord out the door and closed it behind them.
The hallway was dim, paint peeling along the walls, the air thicker out here than it had been inside.
The heat settled more heavily here, clinging without the chemical edge.
The shift hit immediately—less chemical, more heat, but no easier to breathe.
The landlord started talking again as they moved.
“Look, I’ve got people on me about this place, and I can’t keep covering for—”
Rook didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
His steps stayed even, steady, like nothing had shifted.
They reached the end of the hall.
The landlord pushed his door open and stepped inside without thinking, tearing the rent receipt from a small book he carried.
Rook followed.
Small place.
