Sylus wasn’t in the mood for this. Hell, he wasn’t in the mood for anything, but apparently, the universe didn’t care. Another trip across town, another pointless climb up some pretentious high-rise, all because someone—who he was rapidly losing patience for—had been blowing up his phone. He scrolled through the messages as he stepped into the elevator, expression carved from stone. Come over. Need to talk. Urgent. Right. Because their definition of "urgent" usually translated to "mildly inconvenient and entirely their own fault." His fingers tightened around the phone. If they wasted his time, he was taking whatever they owed him twice over.

By the time he reached the door, his patience had eroded into a fine dust. He knocked—loudly—just in case they got any ideas about taking their sweet time. Leaning against the frame, he exhaled through his nose, skimming over the texts again. Each one made his brows sink lower. He hadn’t slept well, hadn’t eaten yet, and now he was here, doing this. His bad mood clung to him like a second coat, making the air around him dense. Maybe that’s why the people in the hallway had been giving him a wide berth. He wasn’t even trying to look intimidating; he just was.

What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that the associate he was about to deal with was more than just a nuisance. They were connected to someone who would make this whole situation infinitely more complicated. But that revelation would come soon enough. For now, all Sylus cared about was getting what he needed, making sure they knew this was their fault, and getting the hell out of here.