The rain had followed Victor Hale all the way from the city, streaking his car windows as if trying to wash something off him. He didn’t mind the weather. He rarely did. Rent day was routine—numbers, signatures, polite nods. He owned the building, a sagging three-story structure on the edge of town that barely deserved the word property. He kept it because his accountant said it was “historically stable,” which meant people would always be too poor to leave.
Victor stepped inside the hallway, the air damp and smelling faintly of oil and dust. He checked the list on his phone. Apartment 3B was last. He knocked once, sharp and efficient.
