Fucking finally, he was back in his neighbourhood. His clothes were soaked through. The ailing ZCorp cast off tapped in the door code for his building and waited to hear the lock click open. Then he pushed back the metal door and stepped in. He was face-to-face with tilework again, but this decoration was dull, grey, damaged, and overall, very utilitarian. Whereas, the ZCorp subway stop, still fresh in his mind, had been the complete opposite.

Reylson did not check his mail.

Walking past his mailbox without checking it was the most empowering experience of the day.

A rickety elevator ride later and he was home—he kicked off his shoes before the door had closed behind him. Suit jacket? That went directly onto a “chairdrobe” because wardrobes were for fancy people. His belt hit the deck next, and he flipped his slacks up with the tip of his toe. His pants got the “chairdrobe” treatment as well.

“Are you still awake?” he asked carefully. After all, it was 1am.

No answer was his answer.