David parked the black 540i on a quiet side street off 10th, a few blocks from the little café where he was meeting Marcus Reed. The car's tinted windows reflected the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees lining the sidewalk. No rush. No morning metrics ritual. Just the city doing its thing — people walking dogs, couples arguing over brunch plans, a street musician strumming an old guitar a block away.
Rebecca had stayed at the condo, saying she wanted to unpack a few more boxes and "feel the space without anyone watching." Before he left, she'd kissed him at the door and whispered, "Don't let Marcus talk you into anything stupid. He's the type who thinks he's the smartest guy in every room."
