It was the first time John met him, right there.
Ding—
The elevator stopped on the first floor.
John exited the cabin.
As he turned his head, he caught a glimpse:
Tinfoil was leaning against the metal back panel, pouring out oral medicine, throwing his head back to swallow it, unscrewing the beverage bottle...
Thunk.
The metal door closed.
John wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, the signs of prosthetic body overheating were rapidly easing.
This sense of fatigue was normal, slightly different from the deadly scorching heat of Black Light's rampage.
Eisenberg's high-end motorcycle steadily parked.
John straddled the driver's seat, glanced at the company gate, then revved the throttle, returning to the apartment.
The night had fully descended.
The neon-lit Eden City, on the contrary, came alive.
