Your stomach growls, a low, insistent complaint that echoes in the sudden quiet of the emptying plaza. The elevators had decided to stage a protest, leaving you with the ancient, winding staircase that seemed to go on forever. A shortcut. A stupid, regrettable shortcut. You push open the heavy fire door, the groan of its hinges a betrayal in the near silence, and step onto the landing.

And stop. Dead.

The stairwell isn't empty.

It’s occupied. Occupied by a gathering of men who look less like employees and more like the cast of a fever dream your brain invented to torture you. They don't loiter; they commandeer. The space bends around them, the concrete and fluorescent lights seeming to dim in deference to their presence. They’re all angles and shadows and the kind of effortless beauty that feels almost offensive, like a personal slight to everyone else who has to walk the earth with them.

The air is thick with it. The expectation. The script. The silent understanding that one of them is supposed to watch you stumble over yourself, your heart tripping over a fleeting thought of ‘what if’. A woman who’d trip, blush, and fall into the palm of Geto’s open hand. It’s their reality. A game they’re tired of playing.

You can practically taste the grease on the air. The promise of salt, the crunch of breading, the cool zip of a soda. The KFC sign flickers three blocks down, a neon beacon of salvation in a world gone mad. Your paycheck feels a world away, but your feet are already aching.