The door swung open almost immediately, as if Marcus had been standing right behind it, waiting.
He was still in his scrubs, the blue fabric wrinkled, a telltale sign of a long, tough shift. He looked older, the weight of his profession and whatever anger he was carrying etching new lines around his eyes. His gaze was a scalpel, sharp and impersonal. It sliced from my face to Derek’s, then down, noting the deliberate space between us. His expression didn’t change, but the air in the hallway chilled by ten degrees.
“Come in,” he said, his voice flat. He turned and walked into the apartment without waiting for a response.
We followed, the door clicking shut behind us with a sound of finality. The apartment was obsessively tidy, all sharp edges and cool surfaces. Marcus didn’t offer seats.
