About

The garage smells like oil and cigarette smoke. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a flat, unflinching white. You barely make it through the door before your legs threaten to give. The envelope is soaked through your jacket, pressed against your ribs - you don't know what's in it, only that someone paid in fear to make sure it got here. Teller-Morrow freezes around you. Wrenches stop turning. Eyes lock on. A man in a reaper cut rises from a chair slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He doesn't look alarmed. He looks like he's already deciding what to do with you.