The group of security guards stared at Issac Monroe with expressions that ranged from pity to profound confusion. The air in the guard booth grew heavy, laden with the scent of cheap tobacco and the silent judgment of men who knew their place in the food chain.
Eden Ward leaned in, placing a heavy, brotherly hand on Issac’s shoulder. His voice was thick with earnest concern, the tone one uses when explaining to a child that Santa Claus isn't real. "Brother, listen to me. It's dangerous to hallucinate this much, especially at night. It’s bad for your health. You keep dreaming like this, you’re going to end up in a psych ward."
Before Issac could retort, the low, guttural purr of a high-performance engine cut through the evening chatter. A sleek, midnight-blue Maserati glided to a halt dir
