The elevator ride up to Floor 98 took approximately forty-seven years.
Or perhaps ninety seconds. Hard to tell when every muscle fiber in his body was staging a coordinated revolt against the very concept of continued existence.
Phei leaned against the glass wall, watching Downtown Paradise shrink beneath him without truly seeing it.
His legs trembled like overcooked noodles. His arms hung at his sides like useless appendages borrowed from a corpse. His core—whatever pitiful remnant remained after those Russian twists—felt as though someone had taken a cheese grater to it and then salted the wounds for good measure.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost—
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open directly into his condo.
He shuffled inside, each step a grudging negotiation between his brain and his mutinous limbs.
Living room. Spiral staircase. Second floor. Third floor.
