"Twelve minutes."
Damien stared at the face of his Rolex.
He stood at the butcher counter, the sterile, ambient hum of Elysium's refrigeration units buzzing in his ears. Dennis, the butcher, proudly held out a package wrapped in pristine butcher paper containing the A5 Wagyu ribeye.
Damien didn't take it.
Aria had said she needed to use the restroom twelve minutes ago.
Damien pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed her number.
It rang once. Twice. Then, the automated voice kicked in. Your call has been forwarded to voicemail...
The domestic, playful bubble they had been floating in for the past hour shattered into razor-sharp shards. A cold, leaden weight dropped into the pit of Damien's stomach.
He abandoned the shopping cart, leaving it in the middle of the aisle.
He moved with a long, predatory stride toward the front of the store, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders vanishing, replaced by the rigid, terrifying posture of a man walking into a war zone.
"Damien!"
