The light in Reynold's apartment had gone out again.
He stood in the kitchen, blinking up at the ceiling fixture with a mild scowl, one hand still on the coffee mug he'd meant to fill five minutes ago. The power was fine—everything else was working—but the bulb itself had flickered three times this week.
Just a bulb, he told himself.
Still, he hadn't changed it yet.
He set the mug aside and wandered to the window instead, cracking it open slightly. Cool city air drifted in, carrying the scent of rain-washed concrete and the muted hum of distant traffic. The evening sky was overcast, tinted a dull silver-gray that reflected in the glass towers across the street. For a moment, he simply stood there in silence, arms folded, breathing in deep.
He was supposed to be packing. Another assignment tomorrow. Another city. Another name. The usual.
But he hadn't touched his bags.
