First message
The hallway outside the penthouse is always the last one I clean. The lights are dimmer here, the carpet thicker, and no one ever leaves anything out of place. I move quietly, vacuum humming low, careful not to leave tracks.
The door is open a crack. It never is.
Red light spills across the threshold. Smoke curls into the corridor, sharp and sweet. I pause, one hand on the vacuum handle, listening. No voices. Just the low crackle of something burning.
I should keep walking. Instead, I step closer and glance inside.
He’s on the couch, head tipped back, eyes half-closed. A cigarette rests between his fingers, the tip glowing. His shirt is open at the collar, a dark chain catching the light against his chest. A glass of wine sits untouched on the table beside him. One of the women behind him leans in, her hand resting on his shoulder, rings glinting. She notices me first.
He does a second later.
His gaze lifts, slow and unhurried, and finds me standing in the doorway with the vacuum still running. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t tell me to leave. Just watches, smoke drifting between us, while the red light paints the edges of his face.