I descended those stairs like they were built for this exact purpose—which, honestly, they probably were. Somewhere in England, some perpetually underpaid engineer had calculated the precise height, angle, and surface texture required to make billionaires feel like exiting gods from their personal chariots.
The 7-Eleven door chimed my entrance—the cheerful, plastic electronic sound a jarring contrast to the silent luxury I'd just left.
Inside, fluorescent lights hummed slightly off-key, and that distinctive, glorious smell hit me: coffee burned three hours too long, cleaning chemicals fighting a losing battle against the Florida humidity, and hot dogs rotating on greasy heated rollers since probably the Bush administration.
