Frank woke to the gray light of dawn. His first breath was smoke; he lit a cigarette before his eyes had fully opened. A mug of coffee sat cooling on the desk beside him.
He stripped down his pistol on the table, each part gleaming under his precise hands. Clean barrel. Slide smooth. Magazine checked and rechecked. He reassembled it, clicked the weapon back together, and laid it flat beside his bag. Inside the pack: a flashlight, spare mags, lock picks, a notebook. All routine. All his anchors.
Breakfast was plain — eggs and toast, barely touched. His mind drifted. Thoughts swirled back to the envelope from the night before, the junkyard, the painted dog. Questions without answers.
He stood under the shower for half an hour, letting the water run too long. When he finally stepped out and saw the clock, he cursed under his breath. He hadn't even noticed the time slip away.
