Everyone else had been sent home, but Byron remained.
He was the runner, the bullet, and the blade of the small kitchen showroom and warehouse; a place that hadn’t seen visitors for years. Blotches darkened the granite like storm clouds. Chunks of carpet turned, frayed, torn, agonizingly severed from groaning wood floors.
Each time a new order came in, he craved solitude. His breath hitched. A sick sweat tickled his neck.
The croak of the blade dominated his dreams. The formica held tight until the blade bit down and through. A clean, vicious crack that reminded him of bones.