Hansen didn't like the morning. Morning was supposed to be a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to wipe the grit of the previous night's shift off his boots and start over. But today, the sun was just a cold, judgmental eye peeking through the smog.
He stood on the landing outside Amara's apartment, his hand poised to knock for the fourth time. The hallway smelled of stale floor wax and someone's burnt toast. It was a normal, domestic smell that felt like a slap in the face.
